Page 57 of Safe Word

And then my phone buzzed.

I jumped, half-gasping, as if caught red-handed. The screen lit under my thigh. I fumbled to grab it, scowling towards the clock – 03:04 am.

Probably one of my brothers texting from the States.

But it wasn’t.

Cain: Go to sleep.

I froze.

Blinked at the screen, heart hammering as something primal curled low in my belly. How did he know I was awake?

Slowly, I glanced at the open document on my laptop.

His profile icon glowed quietly in the corner of the collaborative workspace with a tiny green status mark – online.

My cheeks burned. Had he been watching me type?

I hesitated, unsure whether to close the app or keep writing. But then the cursor jumped – highlighting my latest paragraph.

My phone buzzed to life again.

Cain: Consider making this moment more about her surrender than his technique. There’s power in her trust, not just his control.

Professional. Real. Editorially fucking correct.

Why the fuck was my pulse thrumming this way?

I could feel Ghost in that sentence. Not just Cain.

But it was my boss. Sitting behind his screen at three in the fucking morning, probably in some cold, expensive penthouse with perfect lighting and one too many cans of Red Bull.

Clearly.

I shifted slightly on the couch, staring at the cursor for half a heartbeat before replying, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Me: Noted. I had her see a plug in his drawer. Thought it might add layers.

There was a pause. The little icon showed he was typing. Then not. Then typing again.

I imagined him scowling at his screen, his pristine shirt ironed even after sitting for too long.

And then his text buzzed:

Cain: It’s her first time, keep it realistic. Start with something small. Tapered. Silicone. Easy. He wouldn’t overwhelm her – not if he knows what he’s doing.

My stomach flipped.

‘Holy shit…’ I said aloud. ‘He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.’

Sure, he worded it clinically – like a writer. An editor. But it felt… lived.

Something stirred inside me, and I felt a flush of shame blooming. I couldn’t help feeling as if I was cheating on the man whose real name I hadn’t even known.

More importantly, how the hell did Cain know this off the top of his head without Googling?

I bit my lip. Tried to pretend I wasn’t sweating.