Page 53 of Brass
His eyes meet mine, serious now. “I know.”
“No more pretending there’s nothing between us.”
“No,” he agrees, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “No more pretending.”
“And no more sleeping on the floor,” I add, attempting lightness.
A slow smile spreads across his face—not the ghost I’ve glimpsed before, but something real and warm that reaches his eyes. “Definitely no more sleeping on the floor.”
I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. We should probably talk more—about what this means, about boundaries, about tomorrow and Seattle and everything that comes after. But for now, this quiet understanding feels sufficient.
True to his word, though, our night is far from over. The brief respite is just that—brief. His hands begin to wander again, reawakening desires barely banked.
Time fractures into snapshots.
Against the wall, my back pressed to the cool surface as he lifts me effortlessly, his body holding me captive, his voice a low growl against my ear: “Wrap your legs tighter around me. Pull me in. Don’t let go until I tell you.” His strength makes me weightless, utterly his, every thrust driving me higher.
On my stomach, his weight delicious and overwhelming above me, pinning me down. His palm flattens between my shoulder blades, his command unyielding: “Arch more. Higher. Hold it.” Each order slices through thought, leaving only raw instinct and the relentless rhythm of his body pounding into mine.
In the mirror, my hands braced against the dresser while he takes me from behind, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes catch mine in the reflection, merciless. “Watch. Don’t look away. See what you do to me.”
Each position, each relentless demand exposes new layers of his dominance—and new layers of my surrender. The longer it goes, the more I crave it, the more addictive his control becomes. His commands grow sharper, less forgiving. My body obeys without hesitation, trembling with need every time he says “Good girl” in that voice that leaves no room for disobedience.
Hours blur. By the time I collapse into the sheets, I’m wrecked and trembling, certain I can’t take more.
But then the mattress dips. He sits at the edge of the bed, a silhouette cut in shadow and bathroom light. Powerful. Unrelenting. He glances over his shoulder.
“There’s one more thing I want,” he says. Not a request. A decree.
I drag myself up on one elbow, dazed, raw. “What?”
“Come here.” His palm pats the space between his parted thighs. “On your knees.”
Understanding flares like heat in my veins. My body answers before my mind can resist, carrying me across the floor until I kneel where he wants me.
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip. “Open.”
I obey. His cock fills my mouth, hot and heavy, the command in his grip guiding my rhythm. “Deeper. Take it all.” His voice is strained but steady, control threaded through every word.
Then his gaze sharpens, locking on mine, and his voice lowers to something even more dangerous. “Do you have any idea what this does to me? Seeing you down here, on your knees for me? Knowing you chose this—chose to obey?” His fingers tighten in my hair, not cruel but insistent. “You could fight me. You could refuse. But instead, you surrender. And fuck, Celeste…” His jaw flexes, a groan rough in his throat. “It undoes me. Makes me harder than I’ve ever been. Because this isn’t about power I take—it’s about power you give.”
The words ripple through me more than the physical act itself, more than the relentless push of him against the back of my throat. I’m trembling, undone, addicted to that raw confession. His dominance isn’t just arousal—it’s reverence, possession, a kind of truth I’ve never felt with another man.
“Look at me,” he demands. I drag my gaze up to his, mouth full of him, and the noise he makes is primal. “That’s it. Christ.You have no idea what you look like right now. Beautiful. Ruined. Mine.”
I moan around him, and that sound is what finally snaps his control. His hips drive forward, hand tightening in my hair as he fucks into my mouth. His voice breaks with the force of it—rough, desperate, unrestrained.
When he comes, it’s with my name ripped from his chest, half-groan, half-command, his body shuddering as if I’ve stripped him bare in ways that go beyond flesh.
Afterward, he pulls me into bed, cradling me against his chest with a tenderness that shouldn’t belong to the man who just commanded me like a soldier. His hand strokes my hair, as if I might break, soothing, grounding. The contrast is dizzying, addictive.
I twist in his arms, tilting my head back to look at him. “And the rest?”
His brows lift faintly. “The rest?”
“What you said earlier.” My voice is quiet, but insistent. “About bending me over and?—”
His eyes darken again, the softness vanishing.
