Page 28 of His To Erase
Must be nice.
I exhale and press my fingers into the wood, trying to reset and while I’m at it, I try to shake off the heat crawling up my spine and the awareness still coiled tight between my thighs like a loaded weapon.
This is fine. Totally normal.
A tattooed deviant lurking at the bar like he wants to eat me alive, and I’m… What, exactly?
Flattered?
Irritated?
Soaked?
All three.
Unfortunately.
Apparently, I’m into brooding men who look like they strangle people for sport and flirt like it’s foreplay for murder. Add that to the list of things to talk about in therapy.
I glance back—and he’s still there.
Still watching.
Still carved from shadows and sin.
His arms are folded across his chest, and those dark eyes—God, those eyes—they haven’t left me once. That mouth twitches like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and it’s making me want to agree to really bad things.
I need to walk away and ignore him. Especially considering the type of men lately who come here and stare at me. I mean I know it’s a bar, but I’m not sure what the fuck is going on lately. Whatever, let him stew in whatever smug, cryptic bullshit he’s clearly enjoying.
I grab a glass and pour, going slow on purpose. The liquid slides down the glass like honey, catching the light just right. I know he’s watching. I can feel it.
That stare of his presses into my skin, and it should piss me off. Instead, my pulse stutters.
I keep my face bored and unreadable, even as heat creeps up my neck. I slide the glass across the counter with a flick of my wrist. “Try not to look so impressed.”
He doesn’t touch it or even glance down. He just drags one finger slowly along the rim.
“Should I be?” he murmurs.
My thighs press together before I can stop them, as a slow burn curls low in my stomach, and I swear I feel it spread.
I arch a brow, holding onto sarcasm like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“What, never had a woman pour you a drink before? Or are your standards just that tragically low?”
It comes out smoother than I feel. I’m about two seconds away from combusting under the weight of his stare. But his expression doesn’t shift. If anything, that mouth of his twitches again—like he’s just pacing himself.
“I’ve had drinks poured,” he says, voice calm—almost bored. “Just not by someone who makes me wonder what else those hands could fit around.”
Heat flares immediately and I can feel it go straight to my cheeks.
Asshole.
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. More to hold myself together than to shut him out.
“Do lines like that actually work for you?”
He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, then sets the glass down and leans in just enough for his voice to roughen.
