Page 41 of Brass
I hover there, heart jackhammering, straining for any sound beyond the rush of water. Listening. Hoping.
And then I hear it. A groan—low, rough, dragged from his chest before he muffles it against the tile. My breath catches, heat flooding low and sharp. The next sound strips me bare: the wet, steady rhythm of his fist pumping his cock, the slap of skin on skin unmistakable even under the cascade of water.
My knees go weak. Each stroke plays out in my head in agonizing clarity—his hand tight, relentless, working himselffast and hard, water pouring over the breadth of his shoulders as he braces against the wall.
His breathing grows ragged, desperate. Every guttural sound punches straight through me, leaving me trembling, thighs pressing together uselessly. I should turn away, should stop listening, but I can’t. I’m captive to the raw, unguarded need in his voice.
The rhythm quickens, sharper, harder. A choked growl tears out of him, followed by a strangled gasp—my name, broken on his tongue as he comes.
I clap a hand over my mouth, dizzy from the rush of arousal slamming into me. My body is on fire, molten and aching, the sound of my name on his lips seared into me.
This is madness. This man is a stranger. Someone who chose to save my life and has now made it his personal mission to keep me safe, not fulfill the sudden, overwhelming fantasies I’m having. Fantasies I’ve never acknowledged before, never allowed myself to explore.
Tomorrow we’ll be back on the road, back to the tense silence and circular arguments. But right now, in the darkness of this anonymous motel room, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth: whatever is happening between us isn’t just attraction. It’s not just proximity, adrenaline, or the unique circumstances that have brought us together.
It’s something I don’t have a name for yet. Something that scares me more than the men hunting us.
Because Ryan Ellis is right about one thing: I can’t seem to stop pushing his boundaries. And I’m terrified of what might happen when they finally break.
The shower cuts off.
Panic jolts me into motion. I stumble back across the room, diving under the covers just as the bathroom handle turns. My chest heaves, lungs burning, my body still trembling with theecho of his groans, the image of his hand, the way he came—saying my name.
The door swings open. Steam spills into the room, curling into the lamplight. Ryan steps out, towel slung low on his hips, droplets tracking over scarred muscle, down the hard lines of his abdomen. His gaze finds me instantly. I freeze, every inch of me screaming to play dead.
It doesn’t matter. He already knows.
“Next time you want to listen in,” his voice rolls out low, rich with dark amusement, “cover the gap under the door. Unless you want me to know you’re there.”
My stomach drops. Heat sears my face. He takes a step closer, lazy, predatory, water still dripping from his hair.
“I hope you heard,” he continues, unashamed, savoring every word. “Every stroke. Every sound. And I especially hope you heard me say your name when I came.”
The words hit like a physical touch, molten, humiliating, and electrifying all at once. I can’t stop the way my thighs clench under the covers, can’t hide the flush burning down my throat.
His eyes catch the movement, sharpen, and gleam with cruel delight. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Celeste. Pushing me. Listening. Getting yourself all hot and restless while I…” His smirk deepens, wicked, merciless.
The taunt lands like a strike, leaving me squirming under the sheets, my body betraying me with every shallow breath.
He doesn’t soften. Doesn’t pull back. He lets the silence drag, heavy and charged, until my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. Then he drops the blade, voice a low growl that coils heat straight through me:
“That’s your punishment, sweetheart. Lying there wet and wanting, too keyed up to sleep. Knowing I had my release while you ache for yours.”
My breath catches, sharp, shamed, and aroused all at once. He wants me this undone.
“Push me again,” Ryan finishes, voice hard enough to bruise, “and I won’t let you listen. I’ll make you watch, and I’ll make damn sure you feel every second of it.”
FIFTEEN
Ryan
I wakeone minute before my alarm; a habit forged through three combat tours and countless missions. Four thirty-two in the morning, still dark outside. Another night of sleep on another motel floor.
Every muscle in my body protests as I silently uncurl from the rigid position I’ve maintained for the past four hours. Sleeping on hard surfaces isn’t new—I’ve done it in deserts, jungles, and mountain passes—but those deployments didn’t include the additional tension currently making my entire body feel like an overworked steel cable.
My gaze shifts automatically to the bed where Celeste sleeps. The soft pre-dawn light filtering through cheap curtains casts her in shadow and silver. She sleeps curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her newly auburn hair spills across the pillow, shorter layers framing her face in a way that softens its habitual defiance.
She looks vulnerable in sleep. Younger. The sharp edges of that brilliant, stubborn mind temporarily at rest.
