Page 27 of His To Erase
“Let’s see how long you believe it.”
Fuck. Him.
I glare, refusing to acknowledge the way my thighs are pressing tighter together under the bar. Or the fact that his voice could probably be classified as a lethal weapon with the way it goes straight to my currently aching pussy.
I hate him.
I hate the way he talks. I also hate how badly I want to climb across this counter and see if his mouth is as good as it was in my imagination.
But instead I ask, dry as ever, “Do you always try to flirt like this, or am I just lucky?”
He sets the glass down, his fingers dragging along the rim with slow, deliberate strokes. Then he leans in again, this time close enough that I can feel his breath brush the space between us.
“Who said I was flirting?”
My skin prickles, and God, I hate that I’m this wet for a man who hasn’t even touched me. He hasn’t even laid a single fucking finger on me—and still, I’m one breath away from unraveling.
His voice is too smooth. It doesn’t need to rise above a whisper to dominate the air. It’s the kind of sound that wraps around you like silk and steel, equal parts luxury and restraint. A quiet threat, and a promise I’m not sure I’d survive.
This guy hasn’t done anything but sit there, sip whiskey, and look at me like I’m already his. And apparently, my body couldn’t get on board fast enough.
I can feel the slick between my thighs like he’s already been there, wrecked me, and left the memory behind.
And for what? A smirk? A voice that sounds like sin learning how to purr?
Jesus fucking Christ.
I tighten my grip on the edge of the bar, willing my expression into something smug, like I’m not seconds from saying something reckless.
"Then why are you still here?"
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me like he’s already undressed me in his mind and is now deciding what to do with the mess he made when he lifts his glass in a lazy toast—like we’re both in on some unspoken joke—and the smirk returns, cocky and unbothered, like he never left.
“Because I like watching you pretend you don’t want me to be.”
My stomach drops.
Not the fluttery kind. The violent, molten kind. The kind that shoots straight through my core and leaves a dull, aching throb in its wake.
I open my mouth, ready to claw back some ground, throw something sharp and mean—something that’ll make me feel incontrol again, but a hand slaps against the bar before I can speak, dragging me back to reality with all the grace of a brick to the head.
I blink, pivoting toward the new problem of the night. A half-drunk asshole waving his empty glass at me like I’m his personal barmaid.
“Hey, baby, let’s move it along, yeah?”
He rattles the ice like it’s a fucking dog whistle, but I don’t move. Neither does Tattoo Man.
But I feel the shift in him.
His posture doesn’t change, not really. Just a flicker in his eyes—barely a breath—but it’s enough.
I lift my chin breaking the stare first and reach for the bottle with the kind of slow, deliberate calm that doesn’t feel natural.
“You’re gonna need to learn some patience,” I say coolly, pouring the drink just slow enough to piss him off.
My blood is buzzing.
The drunk guy snatches his glass like I owe him something, muttering a barely coherent thanks before stumbling off toward a booth, already forgetting I exist.
