Page 45 of Filled

“Safeword. Pick one. Something easy you won’t forget.”

I think about it. About Florida. About the bus station at 4 AM. About the article on my phone that brought me here.

“Greyhound.”

“Greyhound. You say that word, and everything stops. Don’t matter if I’m three seconds from coming. Don’t matter if you’re three seconds from coming. Everything stops. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.”

The praise hits a place deep within me.

“Yellow if you need to slow down,” he says. “Red if you can’t get to Greyhound. But baby, I want you to use the word. Practice it.”

“Greyhound.”

“Again.”

“Greyhound.”

“One more.”

“Greyhound.”

“There you go.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Now we go slow. I’m gonna take your clothes off. You tell me to stop, I stop. You change your mind at any point, even when you’re tied up, even when I’m inside you, you say the word, and we’re done. No questions, no negotiating, no second-guessing. You got me?”

“I got you.”

He steps back and just looks at me for a moment. Like he’s memorizing. Like the sight of me, fully dressed and trembling, is something he wants to hold onto.

Then his hands find the hem of my top.

He lifts it slow, gives me time to stop him. When the fabric clears my head, he sets it carefully on a small table. Folded, like it matters that I have something presentable to put on after. The care of that gesture makes my chest ache.

His knuckles trace my collarbone. Down between my breasts. Around my ribcage. He doesn’t rush. He looks at me like I’m the forbidden fruit he’s finally been given permission to taste.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Look at this.”

His fingers find the button of my jeans, and he pops it open, dragging the zipper down. He kneels, Dante Jackson, six feet of muscle wrapped in dark brown skin and patience, on his knees in front of me, and his hands slide down my hips, taking the denim with them.

“Step out.”

I do.

He doesn’t stand right away. He stays there, level with my belly, and presses one soft kiss to the skin above my hipbone. His stubble scratches gently, then again. His hands map the backs of my thighs.

“Beautiful,” he says against my skin. “Goddamn.”

When he stands, he reaches for the clasp of my bra, and his eyes don’t leave mine. It falls. He sets it on the table. My underwear goes the same way, slides down my legs while he kneels again, and when I’m fully bare in the warm light, he just stops. Looks. Drinks me in like water after a long walk.

“Have you ever had someone look at you like this?” he asks.

“No.”

“You’re gonna get used to it.”

He guides me back toward the cross. The wood is cool against my shoulder blades when he turns me, my heels meeting the base. He lifts my right wrist first and buckles the cuff.