Page 188 of Safe Word

His fingers brushed my mouth again. I opened for him, letting the taste of myself linger as I sucked the remnants from them.

His tongue tangled in, licking the last of it straight off my lips until his hand fell lower to clasp my jaw and his mouth claimed mine in a kiss that wasn’t lust. Or possession.

It was an exhale.

A soft letting-go of everything.

And he kissed on. Branded me.

Until breath was scarce. Until my knees couldn’t hold me any longer.

Finally, he pulled back, making space between us like it cost him something.

The rasp of the zipper brought us back, followed by the soft, broken sound of his elbows hitting the wall behind him as he moved as far from me as the space allowed.

I straightened my dress. Ran trembling fingers through my hair.

He watched me in silence. I watched him back.

Neither of us looked away as we corrected ourselves – not just clothes, but selves – slipping the masks back on for the world, one rough breath at a time.

Because we knew the truth now: we weren’t strong.

We were weak; frail in the face of lust. Helpless beneath the truth.

And ugly.

But not to each other.

‘There’s no stopping this now, Paula. You don’t understand…’

‘You don’t understand,’ I countered. He bit back the next exhale. I let a beat pass before I let him in on my own secret. ‘Your monster feeds mine. I want your mouth, your cock, your soul…’

He surged forward again, devouring my lips.

‘Take it all…’ he growled. ‘Take it all… take it all…’ he reiterated as he flooded me with kisses.

When the murmurs behind the door rose again, urgency gripped us both.

Palming the towels from behind, I moved one between us, but he yanked it from me. Let the water run from the faucet, soaking the cloth. Then he sank down, eyes fixed between my legs.

He wiped. Cleaned.

One hand guiding the towel, the other moving up and down my leg as if to remind him it was done; we couldn’t stay in here.

I watched his ritual. Gasped when he leaned in and ran his tongue up the inside of my thigh. Once. Twice.

Then moved to the other.

The murmurs behind the door grew louder, the sound of wood scraping against wood, the dispenser clicking.

Slowly, Cain realigned his spine. Inclined his head slightly towards the door, the motion almost imperceptible – a silent command wrapped in discomfort.

I reached for the handle, my palm damp against the metal.

He stepped back, letting me pass.

Turning my back on him felt unnatural.