Page 29 of His To Erase
“Do you feel like walking away right now?”
God, I want to punch him.
I hate that my brain doesn’t fire back with something sharp and clever—just that quiet, immediatenothat lands low in my stomach.
But that’s not an answer I’ll ever say out loud, so I keep my expression neutral.
"You’re awfully cocky for someone who just drinks whiskey and broods over philosophy books."
I let it hang there, just long enough to feel the stretch.
"What’s your deal, anyway? You make a habit of eye-fucking bartenders until they collapse out of sheer confusion—or do your pick up lines usually get them naked?"
His eyes flicker—but there’s not a single crack in his composure.
"Only the ones who pretend they don’t like it."
My panties are nowruined.
I should remind him that I don’t play these games. That men like him—men who move with deliberate confidence, who make you feel like they could ruin you just for fun—are exactly the type I swore I’d never fall for again.
This time when he leans in, it’s close enough that I catch the warmth of his breath against my skin. He’s now close enough that if I moved just a little, I’d be in dangerous territory.
I don’t move, but God help me, do I think about it.
And then—just as I think he might actually fucking touch me—he pulls back. Which irritates me more than it should.
I scowl as he slides a few bills onto the counter. "Keep the change, sweetheart."
My jaw locks. "I told you not to call me that."
His smirk is infuriating, all patience and power.
"And yet," he says, lifting his glass to his lips, "you still answered to it."
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know. But before I can find something sharp enough to throw back at him, he’s already standing, already turning toward the door, already leaving me behind.
I watch him go, pulse hammering, with heat simmering beneath my skin like a slow-building fire.
He never touched me, and yet, I feel wrecked.
And that pisses me off.
Ani
After back-to-back shifts all week—library all morning, bar all night—my body’s a tangled mess of exhaustion, and my muscles ache in ways that only come from being on my feet for too long, dealing with too many people, and pretending I don’t want to strangle half of them.
And yet—I’m still awake.
I’m laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, too wired, too restless, and far too distracted for something like sleep to take me.
I’ve seen him twice this week.
Tattoo Man. Still nameless. Still unreadable.
He’s made himself comfortable in the bar—showing up late, lingering even later, ordering whiskey and watching me like I’m something worth figuring out.
We talk, if you can call it that. Mostly, it’s arguing in the kind of way that makes my pulse do things I pretend not to notice.
