Page 16 of His To Erase
He’s all muscle and menace wrapped in an exhale of total control. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flirt. He just exists like a problem I haven’t solved yet. That should be my first red flag.
A big, neon, flashing red flag.
But instead, my brain short-circuits and my body does that annoying thing where it forgets I’m not supposed to feel anything right now.
I cross my arms. Mostly to keep from folding and partially to remind myself that I’ve been through worse than whatever this walking testosterone ad is selling.
I know I’m staring, but he has perfect hair, that’s dark and messy—thick enough to grip, and careless in the kind of way that says he ran a hand through it once, then let the rest burn.
There’s black ink curling up his arms that coil like smoke, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his fitted black shirt like sin dressed up as art. And it’s the worst kind of ink—the kind that looks personal. The kind that makes you want to ask questions you have no business knowing the answers to.
More ink licks at his knuckles, trailing over his fingers—veins made of violence and precision. It’s all so intricate and brutal. It’s beautiful in the way a loaded gun is beautiful. It shouldn’t be sexy. Yet, it is anyway.
And then there’s his jawline.
Jesus.
It’s a crime scene.
It’s cut from something cruel, ancient and holy, shadowed with just enough scruff to make him look like the reason your mother warned you to never leave the house in short skirts.
All I can think—because of course I can’t stop thinking—is how it would feel between my thighs.
Hot. Rough. And unforgiving.
And yeah, maybe I need therapy. But this? This is definitely not the cure.
My stomach clenches.Jesus Christ, Anianne. Pull it together.
This is not a swooning situation, but the way his smooth, golden skin looks is making me drool. It has nothing to do with sun exposure and everything to do with the kind of genetics that should be illegal.
And then—there are his eyes.
God.
His eyes.
They’re the kind of dark that swallows light and doesn’t apologize. Like a goddamn threat.
His lashes are criminally long, just to add insult to injury. All soft edges wrapped around sharp intention.
He looks like the kind of man who clocks exits, memorizes weaknesses, and has already mentally figured out what people to remove from the equation in case shit goes sideways.
And yet—they settle on me. And stay there.
Like I’m the one he’s already decided is going to ruin his night. Or maybe he’s going to ruin mine. He’s giving off that vibe—the I-could-kill-everyone-in-this-building-and-still-be-home-by-midnight vibe.
The kind of energy that should send me running. And the worst part is, I hate that it works on me. Because it shouldn’t. It should terrify me. But instead, I’m standing here wondering how those hands would feel pressed against my throat. Which is exactly the kind of thought that makes me question every life decision I’ve ever made.
Everything about him screams, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. And yet, here he is. In a fucking library, like he belongs here. He’s without a doubt the most dangerous fucking thing in this entire building.
I shouldn’t be memorizing the details, shouldn’t be imagining what the ink beneath his shirt looks like, where it stops, how far it goes, how much of him is covered in it.
But I am.
And when my gaze flicks back up to his face, those black eyes are waiting. The tilt at the corner of his mouth suggests he caught every second of my mental detour into why-is-this-stranger-the-hottest-walking-danger-sign-I’ve-ever-seen territory.
It’s not quite a smirk, but not quite a glare either. It’s just a quiet, pointed look that says,are you going to answer my question—or just keep staring?
