Page 42 of Safe Word

My heart sank at the thought of his disapproving gaze, those piercing eyes that could flay me with a single frown.

Frantically, I scrubbed my face and threw on yesterday’s clothes, crumpled and discarded on the armchair, and grabbed my bag. I fired off a quick message to my new boss saying I was on my way. My hair was still damp from my rushed attempt to tame it, but there was no time to care. I didn’t even pause to check the mirror one last time.

The door slammed shut behind me as I bolted into the street, the echo of Ghost’s lingering touch and D’Angelo’s looming expectations drowning out the morning ruckus of the street. I wasn’t ready for today – but ready or not, the day wasn’t going to wait for my brain to catch up.

I all but crashed through the door of the office, breathless and frenzied, my heart hammering in my chest as if trying to escape my ribs. The cool air brushed against my overheated skin. I made an effort to temper my emotions, clutching the strap of my bag as though it could tether me back to reality.

He was there, sitting alone at his desk.

The moment his eyes met mine, my breath skipped. Eight parts Greek god, two parts annoyance – he wore that broody expression like it was tailored to incinerate my common sense.

Why does he always look so fucking perfect?

I was suddenly too aware of my devil-may-care morning look.

D’Angelo reclined in his oversized chair, legs spread with an infuriating casualness as he watched me over the bridge of his perfectly straight nose.

A faint smile played at the corners of his lips, but his brown eyes held very little amusement.

‘Good morning, DeLuca,’ he greeted, his baritone low, rougher than I remembered as if he’d woken up just now. It curled through the room and slid down my neck.

My stomach clenched. Was it exhaustion or irritation that added that growl to his tone? Either way, it was tugging at my darker thoughts.

‘Good morning,’ I managed, clinging to the last threads of my composure as I was still trying to catch my breath from running. My words came out steadier than I felt, but the tension in my chest made every breath seem shallow.

His pristine white shirt was so crisp it was almost dazzling in the halo of the morning, not a single wrinkle marring it. It stretched perfectly across his broad shoulders, hinting at the lean power beneath. The faded jeans he wore clung to his thighs, reminding me all too vividly of the day at the gym when he’d offered me the job.

I choked back a breath, shoving that image from my mind, and hurried to my temporary desk, determined not to let him see me unravel completely.

Am I fucking ovulating or something?

‘Where’s the coffee?’ His question was smooth but sharp, each word cutting through the silence.

What? My forehead furrowed as my decaffeinated mind laboured to make sense of things.

Absently, I set my laptop on the desk and turned it on, avoiding his gaze.

‘Sorry. The line was too long. I gave up in the end,’ I lied, my voice too casual to be convincing.

He didn’t reply, and the quiet stretched like a taut wire between us. His stare pressed down on me until I couldn’t help it – I glanced sideways.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

His eyes locked on mine, unwavering. My pulse skipped, and my mouth went dry under the force of his attention.

Shit, I hadn’t even combed my hair right. I must look like a homeless person.

‘Yes, just stayed up too long.’

‘I saw,’ he said, reclining against the backrest. ‘Good work on the chapter.’

I blinked, startled almost, and a genuine smile curved my lips. ‘Thanks. You didn’t think it was too light?’

His demeanour shifted, a single perfect brow arching. His lips curled into a smirk then, though a calculated one. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, drawing closer until his sculpted arms bunched beneath the damn fabric.

‘Too light?’ His dark, velvety murmur curled around me like a binding rope. ‘Do I think the scene where Damian makes Chloe crawl across the cold marble with her knees bruising while he watches with the leash in his hand… is too light?’ His voice dipped. ‘No.’ He reclined again. ‘It’s perfect. She breaks just enough to want more. That’s what the readers want.’

My tongue felt heavy, throat burning, mind racing to find a response that wouldn’t betray the way his words were pulling me under. I was a grown woman and a romance author myself. I’d written spicier stuff, but those words paired up with his voice just…