Page 62 of Safe Word

Clicking furiously at the icon, the thing flipped off then on, but nothing changed.

‘Of course,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘You’re my employer. I like to make sure I’m not accidentally working for the mob. Lord knows I’ve had enough excitement in my life.’

I paused, my attention shifting from the unresponsive network icon to her fingers flying across the keyboard. Her workspace connection hadn’t kicked her out, which only irritated me more. I restarted my computer, tilting back in my chair as the screen went off.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, my tone harsher than intended.

Her comment set off a quiet alarm in the back of my mind – I hadn’t done any background checks on her. That was a rookie move. Had Vinnie?

‘Ah, nothing really,’ she said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘I had a toxic relationship back in the States. Found out too late he was dealing weapons. It… wasn’t pretty.’

‘When was this?’ I asked, toning down my curiosity as I fixed my eyes on the screen that flickered to life again.

‘It’s been about two or three years now,’ she said, her tone casual, but I caught the faint edge of detachment. I knew that sound well – the way someone tried to feign indifference about something that still weighed heavily.

‘He in jail?’ I pressed, glaring at the persistently dead network icon.

‘Yes.’ Her response was succinct, clipped. It was clear that was all she intended to say about it.

‘Drama,’ I added lightly, trying to ease the tension, and was rewarded with a small smile.

‘Is your internet working?’ I diverted, shoving my chair back with an exasperated groan.

She glanced at her screen and nodded, then stood and circled our desks. ‘Stop pouting, D’Angelo,’ she teased, ‘or the day will find new ways to mess with you.’

My gaze snapped up instinctively. I didn’t retort. Just watched. I let her have the last word, which was not something I did lightly.

She crouched down beside her desk, separating a few tangled cables as she inspected the connections. Her calm efficiency melted my irritation, and I couldn’t deny the creeping admiration for how unbothered she seemed, even after casually dropping that grenade about her past.

Suddenly, she sank to her knees, facing away from me – offering a view that should have come with a goddamn warning.

Oh no…

It echoed through me like a psalm. Her jeans were stitched sin – unapologetically tight, daring me to stare.

Which, of course, I did.

If I angled my head just a little, I could already picture the outline of a rope around her waist, arms bound behind her, forehead pressed to the floor. Submission rendered in denim. Art, really – the kind I’d hang on my wall.

Right next to the paddles.

She shifted a little, tugging gently at the network cable, and my eyes followed that seam of her jeans stretching under pressure. My brain went feral before it went surgical – how long would she last if I had her like that, knees bruising, thighs trembling, surrender trickling down her legs in soft, milky-white drops.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting metal – a warning flared from somewhere deep inside me. This was a really bad fucking time to be thinking about this. And the wrong place.

But reason didn’t stop the film roll from unravelling behind my eyes.

Clicking her tongue – oblivious – she fiddled with something under the floorboard, while I sat here doing my best impression of a man still in charge of his dick.

I tried to focus. On my screen, on tomorrow’s convention, on literally anything but the idea of pulling her hair back and whispering things into that soft neck.

No use. That thought already took root.

‘Almost done,’ she muttered, to the cable – or to me. And that low tone dragged over my nerves like a fucking flogger.

What came out of me wasn’t a word. More like a grunt. Borderline unhinged, but if I let my tongue loose…

I caught myself in the reflection of my monitor – jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded, looking like I’d kill for a reason to fuck her into that rug.