Page 91 of His To Erase
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist like he knows what it’s doing to me. Every touch is calculated. Every move he makes is intentional, even if he hasn’t said it out loud.
“Then stop fucking touching me,” I breathe—but my voice betrays me, coming out too breathless.
His eyes darken when they drop to my mouth, and his grip shifts—down my arm, across my waist—dragging the blanket with it. His fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt.
“You want me to stop?” he asks. “Say the word.”
My thighs press together like a reflex I can’t control because there’s no way in hell I’m stopping him. Not now. Not with his hands on me and the world spinning off its axis.
His hand drags lower across my ribs, settling at my hip like a brand, and I hiss. His eyes never leave mine.
“Didn’t think so.”
“Careful,” I whisper, but it comes out like a dare. “If this is some fucked-up attempt to seduce me, you’re gonna have to try harder.”
His smile drops. “This is a warning.”
The air splits like a crack of thunder and my pulse trips. Hard. Great. Nothing like a little light psychological terrorism with your post-trauma healing.
“You’re playing a game you don’t understand, sweetheart,” he says. “You think this is about bruised pride or whatever the fuck happened between your legs back there, but it’s not.”
Oh, so we’re going there.
My spine straightens despite the pain in my shoulder. It’s throbbing, but it’s nothing compared to the heat flaring in my chest at his tone.
“You keep showing up like I’m your problem,” I rasp. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask you to play bodyguard.”
His smirk dies fast. “You didn’t ask for a lot of things,” he mutters. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need them.”
Fuck him.That lands like a punch I didn’t see coming.
“I’m not yours to protect,” I snap, sharper now. But my voice breaks just enough to betray me. He grabs my chin with just enough pressure to remind me who’s in control.
“You keep saying that,” he mutters, each word dragging across my skin like a blade. “And yet, you keep looking at me like this.”
Then his thumb brushes over my mouth, pulling my bottom lip down like he owns it.
“Go on,” he whispers, “keep pretending you don’t want me to finish what I started in that fucking library.”
I breathe him in, trying not to break. Trying not to let my body answer before my mouth does. But it’s too much. He’s too much. And we both know it.
Seconds later, his hand drops away like he suddenly remembered himself, and touching me cost him something.
“Go shower,” he growls, stepping back, suddenly angry. “I’ll fix your bandages when you’re done.”
What the actual fuck is his deal?
He turns his back to me—running a hand through his hair, and his jaw so tight that he looks like he’s fighting something I don’t understand. And for a second, I’m not sure who’s more dangerous. Me—or him.
I’m not doing this shit right now.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and pain slices through my shoulder—but I push past it and plant my feet on the hardwood like I’ve still got a shred of dignity left to protect.
The bathroom is just as obnoxious as the rest of his house—dark tile, clean lines, and a rainfall shower that I absolutely don’t have the energy to be jealous of right now.
Except I am, and I hate that, too.
The mirror mocks me the second I catch my reflection as I try to peel off my shirt. I wince as the fabric brushes the bruises already blooming across my ribs.
