Page 52 of Brass
“Protection,” he rasps against my throat, already reaching for a condom, purchased that first night, when he knew this moment might come.
My nails dig crescents into his shoulders as he rips the foil, rolls the latex over his thick length. No pause. No prelude. Just need. Pure and undeniable.
Then he’s between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing hard against me, demanding entry.
“Look at me when I fuck you,” he commands, voice stripped down to raw authority.
The words crack something open inside me. I obey without hesitation, locking eyes with him as he pushes inside.
The stretch burns—sharp, exquisite, overwhelming—but it’s exactly what I’ve been craving, what I’ve been needing without admitting it. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as he forces himself to go slow, giving me time I don’t want.
“Okay?” The word scrapes out of him, half-groan, half-concern.
“More than okay.” My hips roll, greedy, pulling him deeper.
The sound he makes shreds me—raw, guttural, a man’s control shattering. He surges forward in one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt, filling me so completely my vision whites out. The pressure teeters on the edge of pain, pleasure so sharp it blurs the line between the two.
“God, Celeste.” His forehead crashes against mine, breath ragged, body trembling with restraint. “You feel?—”
“I know.” My whisper is a gasp, a plea, a confession. “I know.”
Then he moves, all restraint gone. His thrusts are hard, driving, perfectly angled to strike deep, to make me cry out. Not gentle. Not punishing. Precision—like every motion is a calculation to break me down, to make me take him deeper, harder.
His hands grip my hips, fingers biting into flesh as if he’s anchoring himself. But the truth is clear: I’m the one who’s anchored him. And with every thrust, every raw sound torn from his throat, I realize he’s not just inside my body. He’s breaking past every defense I’ve ever built.
I match him beat for beat, nails scoring lines down his back that make him hiss with pleasure-pain. The tension that’s beenbuilding for days, for miles, coalesces into something urgent and unstoppable. Every push and pull between us since that subway platform distills into this moment—his body moving inside mine, claiming and surrendering simultaneously.
“Ryan,” I gasp as his rhythm intensifies, driving me higher, closer to the edge. “Please?—”
“Tell me what you need,” he demands, voice rough with exertion.
“More. Harder.”
He complies immediately, one hand sliding beneath my lower back to tilt my hips higher, changing the angle to something devastating. I cry out as he hits a spot deep inside that sends sparks shooting up my spine.
“There,” he growls, recognizing my reaction. “Right there.”
His thrusts become relentless, targeting that spot with unerring precision. The tension builds, coiling tighter with each movement, each brush of his chest against mine, each command he whispers against my skin.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice dropping to that register that seems hardwired to my core. “Now, Celeste.”
My body obeys as if it were made to follow his commands. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, vision blurring at the edges as every muscle contracts around him. I’m distantly aware of crying out his name, of my nails digging into his shoulders, of his rhythm faltering as my release triggers his own.
He groans against my neck, hips jerking as he follows me over the edge. For seconds or minutes or hours, we remain locked together, trembling with aftershocks, breathing in sync as reality slowly reassembles around us.
When he finally moves, it’s with careful attention to my injuries, easing away to dispose of the condom before returning to gather me against his chest. The possessive way his arms wraparound me feels like another kind of claiming—gentler but no less significant.
We lie in silence, heartbeats gradually slowing, skin cooling in the air-conditioned room. His fingers trace idle patterns along my spine, up my arm, through my hair. I do the same—mapping scars with curious fingertips, learning the texture of him now that we’ve finally crossed this boundary.
“That was…” I start, then falter, because words are laughably inadequate for what just happened.
“Not nearly enough,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, still threaded with possession. “By morning, I plan to have you every way a man can.” His hand squeezes my hip, a slow, deliberate press that makes me shiver. “Consider it your punishment for pushing me so damn hard. And sweetheart—” his mouth curves, humor flickering under the hunger, “you’re going to take every bit of it.”
The words ripple through me like a current, part warning, part promise. Heat pools low again, impossible to ignore.
I push up on one elbow to look at him properly. For once, his features are softened, the perpetual vigilance temporarily muted. It transforms him, makes him look younger, almost vulnerable.
“You know this changes everything,” I whisper.
