Page 54 of Brass
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, voice rough and certain. “Definitely. But later. When we know each other better. When you understand what you’d be asking for.” He pauses, his thumb dragging across my bottom lip in a way that makes my breath catch. “Because those weren’t just words, Celeste. Not for me.”
A chill of anticipation races down my spine, equal parts fear and something far more reckless. My mind tells me to back away from the edge, but my body leans toward it, craving the danger in his tone, the promise of something darker.
“You mean…” The words stumble out, low and hesitant. “You’d actually…”
His mouth curves—not a full smile, but a smirk edged with dangerous amusement.
“You think what you’ve seen tonight is the limit of me?” His gaze pins me, relentless. “Sweetheart, I’ve barely touched the surface. If I ever punish you the way I want to…” His eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate. “You won’t mistake it for endless sex. You’ll feel it. Every strike. Every command. And you’ll thank me for it.”
Heat floods through me, my pulse quickening despite the sharp edge in his words. It should scare me. It does. And yet the very thought of surrendering that completely—to him, only him—sends another wave of molten desire crashing through me.
He watches me carefully, reading every flicker across my face. His smirk deepens, satisfied.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a growl, “you want it, don’t you? Even if you can’t admit it yet.”
I bury my face against his chest, trying to hide, but his laughter—low, dark, and knowing—vibrates through me.
As sleep drags me under, the truth hits harder than any climax: it wasn’t just the pleasure. It wasn’t even the connection. It was his voice. That unshakable command that made surrender not weakness, but freedom.
And God help me—I want more. Darker. Deeper. Beyond tonight.
NINETEEN
Celeste
Morning light filtersthrough cheap curtains, painting stripes across the tangled sheets. I wake slowly, aware of unfamiliar weight across my waist, solid warmth against my back. Ryan’s arm holds me securely against him, his breath warm against my neck, his body curved protectively around mine.
For several moments, I simply absorb the sensation of waking in his arms. The intimacy of it feels almost more significant than what preceded it. Sex can be dismissed as physical need, as tension finding release. This—this quiet connection in the vulnerability of sleep—feels like something else entirely.
I shift slightly, careful not to disturb him, but his breathing changes immediately. Always alert, even in sleep.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I turn in his arms to face him, taking in the sight of Ryan Ellis with bedhead and stubble, eyes still heavy-lidded. “Morning.”
His gaze travels over my face, assessing, remembering. Something shifts in his expression, a shadow crossing hisfeatures. My stomach drops—I recognize that look immediately. Regret.
It’s exactly what I feared.
“Let me guess,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice, “you’re about to tell me last night was a mistake. That it was unprofessional, a lapse in judgment that can’t happen again because we need to focus on the mission.”
“Celeste—” His mouth tightens slightly.
“No,” I interrupt, a knot forming in my chest. “I can’t believe this. After everything—after last night—you’re still going to hide behind that wall of professionalism? You’re going to act like what happened was just some tactical error we need to correct?”
“If you would just?—”
“What? Pretend it didn’t happen? Go back to you sleeping on the floor and us ignoring whatever this is between us?” I sit, clutching the sheet to my chest, not out of modesty but to have something to grip besides his throat. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me feel like—like that, and then dismiss it as a complication.”
“Celeste.” His voice cuts through my tirade, the commanding tone I’ve come to recognize stopping me mid-sentence. “Be silent.”
The directive catches me off guard, halting my words more effectively than any argument could.
“If you’d please be silent for a moment,” he continues, eyes darkening as they move from my face to the sheet barely covering my breasts, “I could tell you what I was thinking.”
“Which is?” I manage, still braced for rejection.
In one fluid motion, strong hands grip my waist. “I want you to climb on top of me and ride me hard,” he says, voice dropping to that register that does impossible things to my insides. “I want to watch your tits bounce, feel your legs around mine, and feel your pussy taking my cock first thing in the morning. That’swhat I was thinking about during those thirty seconds you’ve been yelling at me.”
