Page 97 of His To Erase
“From hunger,” I lie.
That smirk curls, and it’s devastating.
“Yeah,” he says, too smooth to trust, too dirty not to crave. “I can see that.”
His thumb brushes my chin. One drag—down the column of my throat and I’m done for. I’m also soaked.
“You want me to ruin you?”
My thighs clench like they’ve made their own decisions. My mouth goes dry—ironic, considering how fucking wet I am. I should shut up and eat my food, and maybe try to cling to the last shred of dignity I haven’t already bled out in front of him. But no. That would require impulse control. Or self-preservation. Or sanity. None of which I have at the moment.
“You couldn’t.”
The words slip out—bold and stupid, soaked in denial.
He exhales a low laugh and God—it’s the kind of sound that should come with a fucking warning label. Because holy fuck.
“Sweetheart,” his voice is like velvet, “you’ve got no idea what I could do to you.”
Then—his palms come down beside me on the counter, caging me in. The heat of him wraps around me like a second skin.
“You really think you’re ready for that?” His voice brushes my jaw like a promise I’m not sure I’ll survive. “For me?”
God, yes. And also…absolutely not.I’m not built to survive whateverthatlook means. I can’t move, I can’t even breathe. My heart is racing and I want nothing more than everything he’s offering.
“You couldn’t handle me on your best day,” he whispers.
I don’t even get a chance to form a comeback before he pulls back. Just like that.
“Get up,” he says.
I blink. Still in my lust haze. “What?”
“Counter. Now.”
“Why—”
He doesn’t wait. One arm hooks under my thighs, the other cradles my back—and suddenly I’m airborne.
“Hey—what the fu?—”
He drops me onto the cold marble like I weigh nothing.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he says, already turning away. “Unless you’re gonna let me fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.”
I mutter something that sounds like “fuck you” under my breath, but he’s not listening. He pulls out a sleek black medical kit from the drawer—of course he has one—and sets it beside me like this is just another routine task. Then he pulls out a shot glass and pours some amber liquid into it and shoves it toward me.
“You’re such a dick,” I grumble, keeping my jaw tight. But I don’t take it. I don’t want to drink, let alone take a shot right now.
“And yet you’re still dripping on my counter,” he mutters back, calm as ever—snapping on a pair of black gloves like we’re not both two seconds from spontaneous combustion. Then he slides the shot glass back toward me.
My stomach flips. My body burns. And my ego howls.
He opens the kit, and grabs a curved needle threading it with black surgical silk. Hewouldknow how to stitch skin and make it look hot.
“This is gonna hurt. So you’re going to want that.”
“You think I haven’t felt worse?”
