Page 31 of Brass
Ryan is exactly where I left him, standing by the table, examining what appears to be hair dye and scissors. His head snaps up at my entrance, eyes widening fractionally before his expression shutters into careful neutrality.
But not before I catch the flash of heat that darkens his gaze as it travels from my bare shoulders to my exposed legs and back up again.
“Forgot my clothes,” I explain unnecessarily, hating the slight tremor in my voice.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Just watches with that unnerving focus as I cross to the table, water droplets tracking my path across the carpet. I snatch up the clothes—underwear, bra, leggings, T-shirt—clutching them against my chest like armor.
Something makes me hesitate, causing me to turn back and face him. Perhaps it’s the weight of his gaze. Perhaps it’s simple curiosity.
Whatever the reason, I’m unprepared for what I see.
Ryan has straightened to his full height, all pretense of casualness abandoned. He reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a torso that makes me forget how to breathe.
Muscles upon muscles, sculpted with the precision of a Renaissance statue. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Abs defined enough to count each ridge. But it’s not the perfection that captures my attention—it’s the imperfections. Scars crisscross his skin like a roadmap of violence. A jagged line across his left pectoral. A small, puckered circle that can only be a bullet wound near his right shoulder. Thin, white slashes across his ribs.
His body tells stories of danger, of survival, of the exact kind of life that produces a man who can fight off four attackers without breaking a sweat.
I realize I’m staring, mouth slightly parted, clothes forgotten in my arms.
He moves toward me—no, toward the bathroom—his path taking him so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. His scent envelops me, musky sweat and something distinctly male that makes my stomach tighten.
“My turn,” he says, voice low and rough as he brushes past me.
ELEVEN
Celeste
The brief contactbetween Ryan’s arm and my bare shoulder sends electricity coursing through me. I stand frozen as he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
My fingers dig into the bundle of clothes I’m holding, knuckles white with tension. My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain he must have heard it before he closed the door. The spot where his skin touched mine burns like a brand, sensation radiating outward until my entire body feels flushed.
What the hell just happened?
It’s infuriating how easily he affects me. I’ve spent years building walls around myself—professional walls, emotional walls—training myself to remain coolly analytical no matter what horrors I uncover. It’s what makes me good at my job.
But Ryan Ellis walks by without a shirt, and suddenly I’m as flustered as a college intern on her first assignment. One look from those icy blue eyes dismantles my carefully constructed defenses faster than any threat or bribe ever could.
The worst part? He knows it.
The shower starts running, the sound of water hitting tile filtering through the thin door. I force myself to move, to get dressed before he finishes. The underwear—which I now notice is black lace rather than practical cotton—slides against my skin with unexpected luxury. The matching bra fits perfectly. The leggings are soft, the T-shirt even softer.
Everything fits. Everything feels good against my skin. Everything was chosen with care and attention that professionals don’t usually waste on short-term assignments.
As I’m brushing my hair, a sound from the bathroom catches my attention. A low, masculine groan barely audible over the running water.
I freeze; brush suspended in midair.
It could be pain. Could be him addressing an injury I don’t know about. Could be perfectly innocent.
But it doesn’t sound innocent.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward the bathroom door, drawn by curiosity I can’t justify even to myself. My ear presses against the wood, shame and anticipation warring in my chest.
The water continues to fall, but now I can clearly hear rhythmic movements disturbing its steady pattern. Another groan, deeper this time. The unmistakable sound of wet skin against wet skin, friction creating its own percussion.
He’s … Oh my God.
I should move away. Should give him privacy. Should pretend I don’t know exactly what he’s doing on the other side of this flimsy door.
