Page 72 of His To Erase
He hums, tilting his head like he’s deciding how to answer me.
“Let’s just say I know how to keep people in line. And I’m very good at collecting what I’m owed.”
Something cold skates across my spine. I blame the lighting and the bass vibrating under my boots like a second heartbeat. But deep down, I have a feeling it’s none of those things.
“I’m still waiting for the part where this isn’t a crime drama,” I mutter, half into my drink.
Frank leans in closer, his fingers grazing my knee. “Come on, baby girl. You’re smarter than that,” he says, smooth enough to pour over ice. “You think I’d bring you somewhere like this if I knew you weren’t safe?”
“Is that what this is?” I ask, tilting my head. “A safety demonstration?”
His grin widens. All teeth and no humor. “You haven’t even seen what I’m capable of yet.”
My stomach twists, because some dark, broken part of me wants to know. Just to see if he’s bluffing. Just to see what kind of monster he thinks he is underneath the cologne and cufflinks.
The lights strobe across his face, painting him in flashes of red and blue. He looks carved out of something hard, and I’m about to push again—asking another question I won’t get a real answer to—when he stands and holds out a hand.
“Come on.”
I stare at it. “Why?”
His smile curls at the edges. “Because if you sit here any longer, you’re going to start asking questions I’m not going to answer. Which will ruin our date.”
I stand up, without taking his hand as we make our way down the hall. We stop at a side door near the back—one I didn’t even realize was there, as he types something into a keypad, and the lock releases with a soft click.
“You got a panic room in there too?” I ask, arching a brow.
Frank chuckles as he pushes the door open. “Not yet. But I could be convinced.”
How he managed to make that dirty, I’ll never know.
Every nerve is buzzing, and my pulse is climbing for reasons I don’t want to name. “That supposed to impress me?”
He steps in, crowding me back slowly until my spine hits the wall. His hands don’t touch me, but his breath ghosts across my cheek, close enough to make me shiver.
“I don’t need to impress you, doll,” he murmurs. “You’re still here.”
My jaw clenches. “Because you’re good at playing games.”
His mouth curves. “I don’t play games.”
His hand lifts, and his fingertips brush along my jaw before sliding into my hair and tugging just enough to tip my head back. The move is slow and deliberate, like he’s testing what I’ll let him take.
I should push him off, and say something cutting. But instead—I let him. For what reason I’ll never know.
“You think I don’t know what this is?” I whisper. “You think I haven’t seen men like you before?”
His mouth lowers to my throat, the words a hot promise against my skin. “No, doll. You haven’t.”
His tongue flicks over my pulse point, and I swear my knees almost buckle, but not for the reason you’d think. “Frank?—”
“I’ve been patient,” he says, voice dropping to something darker, more possessive. “Too fucking patient. You wanna pretend you don’t feel it? Fine. But don’t lie to me about what this is. Don’t lie to yourself.”
His hand slides under my jaw again, thumb brushing my lower lip, and I hate that my mouth parts instinctively.
He leans in closer—so close I can’t think—his lips brush mine, with a feather-light touch. He kisses me slowly, like he’s finally staking a claim he thinks he’s earned and when he finally pulls back, he’s breathing like he’s the one who just got wrecked.
“You should go home,” he says roughly. “Before I stop pretending I can be good for you.”
