Page 5 of Safe Word

‘Scarlett,’ he murmured in a tone that reminded me of a slow drag of smoke curling around me. It wasn’t a greeting. It was the first command.

The ‘R’, though – not Italian.

American.

What were the odds?

‘Ghost,’ I whispered back, the word catching on my breath as if it might snare me if spoken louder.

For a moment, silence settled between us. Though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt the weight of his gaze, the way it lingered on my body as if he could see past the dress and the flesh to the fractures inside me.

The slow, measured rise and fall of his chest was almost serene, but I could sense the storm brewing beneath it. Maybe because it matched of my own.

We just looked – for a long time. As if the quiet between us was saying more than either of us dared speak.

‘Is this your first time?’ He broke the spell, his deep whisper vibrating through the space and straight into me. Like a tether, it grounded me in his presence when I was already so close to unravelling.

‘Yes,’ I whispered, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

I’d read the instructions, memorised them. But they didn’t prepare me for this – the intensity of being here, of being seen without truly being seen. There was something about the anonymity of this, of him. It stripped away the fear that usually came with being vulnerable. No name. No history. No face. Just sensation. Just need.

And it all reminded me why I was here – to reclaim my past. My body, my desires. To take them back from the man who had weaponized them against me.

With Ghost, it somehow felt possible. He didn’t feel like a threat; he was temptation in its purest form. A chance to seize what had been stolen.

The thought steadied me, even as the hunger in his voice made me weak.

I wasn’t here for him. I was here for me – the mantra echoed in the back of my head.

‘Then we go slow,’ he murmured. ‘You set the pace. You speak. I listen. Nothing happens that you don’t want.’

He stirred like a ripple beneath still water.

A hand extended, fingers curling just enough to suggest intention. There was no rush – just command, clear and absolute.

My lungs stalled as I stepped closer, my knees trembling slightly, though whether it was from fear or something far more dangerous, I couldn’t tell.

I took his hand, the warmth scorching straight through my skin.

‘My role is to guide and push only as far as you allow,’ he said. ‘Yours… is to feel, respond and speak.’

He let the moment linger as the words settled. For some reason it calmed me. This stranger. This ghost… calmed me.

Fear still lived in me. But I was sick of it – of that twist in my stomach, of flinching at shadows. So I took the risk, and gripped the thread of trust with both hands.

TWO

‘Sit,’ he ordered, a whisper that bled into a growl. The single word ignited a spark that danced through my nerves. My body obeyed, sinking into the cool leather of the chair as if it had been waiting for me all along. It felt both firm and yielding beneath me, a sensation that mirrored the conflict in my veins. And I needed that.

The moment I was down, Ghost was there, a six-foot-five wall of heat and discipline. His fingers hovered over my wrist, brushing against my skin as though seeking permission. The pause was deliberate, as though he were asking a question with only his touch.

When I didn’t pull away, his grip tightened, the request suddenly hardening into demand.

It surprised me that my body didn’t recognise it as force – it was my surrender, willingly given.

He reached for one of the straps, the leather supple in his hands as he wound it around my wrist and pulled it tight.

My heart jolted once, my skin prickling with awareness. The way he worked was mesmerising. Slow, methodical, savouring every second.