Page 115 of Safe Word

She was drugged, I reminded myself. And I wasn’t that kind of monster.

‘Leave,’ she commanded. ‘Please.’

Oh fuck.

Now she was begging. It didn’t matter that she was begging me to leave. The word itself, in combination with the gun, the heat of her body, her lips…

Move, arsehole!

‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ I whispered, completely undone.

For a moment, I let the thought linger, let myself imagine every possible way this could play out.

Then that small fragment of sanity made me think about what a normal man would do in this position. What would one of my characters have done?

They would have been afraid that a drugged woman was holding a cocked gun against their jaw.

I feigned fear, raising my hands and tilting back, the tension easing from my frame as I put distance between us.

‘You’re right,’ I said, my tone soft but threaded with something darker. ‘I should go.’

She lowered the gun, her shoulders relaxing just enough to let the exhaustion show through.

I stood, my gaze tethered to her for a moment longer. She was far from the fragile kitten running from her past. She was a lioness, scarred but unbroken. Who was I to think I had any right to her?

As I walked to the door, the image of her holding that gun… uncompromisingly… It burned in my mind. She was fire and steel, and I was starting to see her for what she truly was.

And I couldn’t help but want her all the more for it.

Reaching for the door handle, I let my fist tense around it, and her soft, unguarded voice caught me, ‘Thank you…’

Stillness took over my limbs.

The words hit harder than she could have even imagined.

Because I had never been able to save anyone in my life. Not my mum. Not myself. And tonight? Had I truly done something like that?

With my tongue clenched between my teeth, I turned the handle, slithered out, and pulled the door shut behind me – her words still echoing like something precious I didn’t know how to hold.

TWENTY-ONE

Resting the back of my head against the coarse wall of the alley, I felt the concrete biting into my scalp like penance.

My phone glowed in my palm, the display showing Cain D’Angelo hovering over my Paula; his shadow slicing across her skin like a thief’s hand.

He was slipping. I could see it. Desire stained him. Weakened him.

It was almost laughable. But I let him taste temptation. Let him believe she was his for a moment. That was how sin worked – it flattered before it damned.

He lingered too long, though. And he was too close. I could feel my pulse in my throat, my breath catching as if the air itself refused to move until he was gone.

The woman kneeling between my legs hummed softly, her perfume cloying in the heat, sweet as rot, her devotion mechanical and hollow. I barely felt her lips slide over my shaft like an empty, ritualistic facsimile of the true worship I craved.

Even lust meant nothing if it wasn’t hers.

I wondered: had Paula’s newfound extracurricular activities made her more proficient in sucking cock? What would her lips feel like around the base of me?

‘Time to go,’ I said in Italian, pressing my hand against the brunette’s forehead until she pulled away. She blinked up at me, confusion flashing across her overly painted face.