Page 134 of His To Erase
I hear his door open, then shut. He just moves—all quiet fury and lethal calm—stalking toward me like I’m the prey stupid enough to come too close to the cage. I back up fast, but not fast enough. My spine hits the hood of the car—and I curse under my breath.
His hand lifts slowly and his fingers brush my jaw, tilting my chin up. “You don’t give the orders,” he murmurs. “But you’re so damn good at begging without even realizing it.”
My body’s betraying me—wet heat pools between my thighs like he dragged it out of me just by breathing in my direction.
“I didn’t beg,” I snap, but my voice is shaking.
He smiles. “Not yet.”
His fingers trail down the column of my throat, pausing right over my pulse. I’m practically panting as his thumb presses justenough to make me want more. My knees nearly buckle, and it’s not from fear—it’s the promise of losing control.
“Go ahead,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”
I can’t. Because I don’t want him to.
His hand slides lower, brushing the edge of my hoodie, daring me to stop him. “Tell me to go back to the car.”
My fingers curl into the fabric at my sides, knowing I should do something. Instead, I arch toward him like a fucking masochist.
His other hand fists in my hair, yanking enough to make me gasp, exposing my throat.
“You won’t say it,” he growls. “Because you want this.”
“I hate you,” I hiss. I also hate that I don’t want him to stop.
“Good.” His voice is dangerous. Addictive.
He leans in, dragging his tongue up the line of my cheek. “Then you’ll really hate what I do to you next.”
His teeth catch the skin beneath my ear and I moan—loud and feral—the sound echoes through the trees like it belongs to someone else. My nervous system is too shot to care right now.
One hand grips my throat, and the other slips under my hoodie, grabbing my waist, and yanking me against him. His thigh pushes between mine, and I grind down without even thinking. His voice rumbles against my skin, deadly and smug.
“You’re going to crawl for it.”
“Over your dead body,” I whisper, already knowing it’s a lie. I’ve thought about it more times than I care to admit.
“Then you’re going to beg.”
His words drip down my spine like sin, curling into the heat already pooling low in my stomach. My hips grind down again shamelessly before I can stop myself—searching for friction. Anything to anchor me in the chaos he created.
He pulls back just enough for the cold night air to hit the space where his thigh just was, and the absence punches throughme like a punishment. I whimper as the heat of him vanishes and my skin misses it—aches for it—before my mind can even catch up.
Apparently the slight shift in my hips is all the permission he needed to tighten his grip around my throat.
“God, look at you,” his voice sounds like gravel. “You can’t even stop yourself.”
My cheeks burn. But another slick wave of heat shoots between my legs. I bare my teeth. “Fuck you.”
His lips brush mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. And somehow, that ruins me more.
“You keep saying that like it’s not already happening,” he breathes.
Then he lets go, and I suck in a shaky breath like it might save me from drowning in him.
“You want it here?” he whispers. “Out in the fucking woods like a filthy little slut?”
My knees go soft, buckling under the weight of everything I’m feeling—shame, want, and the ugly ache of needing someone I’m supposed to hate. But I lock them down, forcing them to stay put.
