Page 40 of Brass
The rational part of me knows he’s right. The rest of me—the part that’s been drowning in his presence for two days—wants to scream. His control is infuriating, unbearable, and worse, it makes me want him more.
“Fine,” I bite out, sharp with resignation. “Take the floor. Martyr yourself on the altar of professionalism.”
A flicker of amusement sparks in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. “My comfort isn’t my priority, Celeste. Your safety is.”
“And sharing a bed compromises my safety, how exactly?” The deliberate flippancy drips from my tone, a taunt I know will get under his skin. I want it to. God help me, I want to see him snap.
And then he does.
Something detonates in his expression. In two strides, he’s on me—towering, radiating fury and want in equal measure.
“For all that is holy, stop fucking pushing me, Celeste.” The words tear from him, raw, guttural, a growl that vibrates through the space between us. His fists clench at his sides, like it’s taking every ounce of discipline not to put them on me. “Sleeping with you compromises my focus—whether it’s just lying beside you or fucking you senseless. Either way, it compromises what I’m trying to do here—keep us both alive.”
The crude language from his disciplined mouth sends a shockwave through me. My stomach twists, my thighs clench, my skin burns. The way he spits out “fucking you senseless” isn’t an idle threat. It’s an admission, thick with frustration and need.
I shouldn’t revel in it. But I do.
“Sorry,” I murmur, breathless, a lie we both hear for what it is. I’m not sorry. Not even close. There’s a dangerous, addictive thrill in unraveling him, in making this iron-willed man fracture for even a second.
His eyes narrow, sharp and knowing. “No, you’re not. That’s the problem.” His chest rises and falls once, twice, as though he’s dragging himself back from the edge by sheer will. “Even now, you’re still pushing me.”
And then it happens. The shift. His features harden, his body straightens, and suddenly the man is gone, replaced by the commander—unyielding, immovable, carved from steel.
“Not another word.” His tone drops, lethal in its finality. That voice, low and commanding, doesn’t allow argument, doesn’t leave room for games. “Get in bed. Go to sleep. Stop. Pushing.”
The words slam into me harder than a touch would. My body thrums with the ache of everything unsaid, with the need he refuses to indulge, with the tension coiling tighter every time I breathe the same air as him. I climb into the bed, pulse racing,skin hot, need unrelieved, and lie in the dark, wide awake—every nerve screaming, every part of me burning for the man stretched out on the floor, fighting his own battle with control.
Even as part of me bristles at being commanded, another part—a darker part I’ve never dared acknowledge—thrums at the pure authority in his voice.
I retreat to the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing somewhere I can wrestle my composure back under control before I do something insane. Like beg him to give up every ounce of restraint he’s clinging to.
When I emerge, Ryan has already built his nest of blankets on the floor. His shirt is gone, tossed aside, and in the dim light, the map of scars across his torso looks brutal, carved. Every mark is a reminder of violence endured, of a man tempered in fire. A man who survives by force of will alone.
I can’t stop staring.
He catches me, eyes meeting mine, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” I manage, throat dry, crossing to the bed before I betray myself further.
He nods once, silent, then moves past me. The scent of him—sweat, steel, and something deeply male—slams into me. My fingers twitch with the reckless urge to reach out, to touch, to see if his skin feels as hot as it looks.
The bathroom door closes. The shower starts.
I lie rigid in the bed, staring at the ceiling, every nerve thrumming with the awareness of him just feet away. Water pounds against tile, each splash a vivid reminder of what he’s doing in there—what he could be doing.
My imagination betrays me, tumbling down a path I shouldn’t even be traveling. Ryan under the spray, muscles shifting beneath scarred skin, head bowed, water sluicing over every hard line of him. My pulse kicks higher, breath shallow,when the fantasy sharpens—one hand braced against the wall, the other stroking himself in ruthless rhythm, jaw clenched to keep silent.
The thought slams into me, molten and reckless. Heat surges between my thighs, shameful and unstoppable. I can’t stay in bed. I can’t stay still. Before I’ve thought it through, I’m sliding out from under the sheets, bare feet whispering across carpet, inching toward the bathroom door.
My mind wanders to dangerous territory. Is he doing what he did last night? Taking himself in hand, finding release to ease the tension I’ve deliberately stoked?
I can almost see it—water cascading down his powerful back, one hand braced against tile, the other working in rhythmic strokes as he fights to keep silent. Is he thinking of me while he does it? Imagining what would happen if his rigid control finally shattered?
The thought sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. I shift restlessly, my body betraying me with its response.
What would it be like if he finally broke? Would it mirror that first night when I tried to leave the hotel room—his body pinning mine against the wall, his breath hot against my ear?
Only this time, he wouldn’t stop. He’d let his hands wander where they wanted. He’d use that commanding voice to make me obey in ways that have nothing to do with security protocols.
