Page 50 of Brass
“You heard me.” I take a step closer, pulse quickening. “This whole time, you’ve been dictating every aspect of this…whatever this is between us. When we stop, where we go, and how we proceed. Every decision made according to your parameters, your rules.”
“Because those decisions keep us alive.” His voice remains even, controlled, which only fuels my frustration.
“No. Because control is the only way you know how to function.” Another step closer, close enough now that I can seethe faint stubble darkening his jaw. “You’re so afraid of what happens if you let go, even for a second, that you’d rather sleep on floors for a week than admit what’s happening here.”
His expression hardens. “And what exactly do you think is happening here, Celeste?”
“This.” I gesture between us, fingers nearly brushing his chest. “Whatever this is. This—tension. This pull. This thing that makes you look at me like you want to devour me one minute and then retreat behind your walls the next.”
He stands, using his height to loom over me—a tactic that might intimidate someone who hasn’t spent their career confronting people far more threatening than Ryan Ellis.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice drops lower, a warning in its depths.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” I step closer, eliminating the distance he tried to create. “I know that when you wrapped my ribs just now, your hands lingered longer than they needed to. I know that in the shower every night, you touch yourself while thinking about me.”
His eyes widen fractionally—confirmation that my guess about his nightly ritual was correct.
“I know,” I continue, voice dropping to match his, “that you’ve wanted me since that subway platform, and you’ve been fighting it every step of the way.”
“Stop.” The word comes out rough, strained.
“Why? Because I’m right?” I press my finger to his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath the thin cotton. “Because you can’t bear to admit that this isn’t just professional for you anymore?”
With each sentence, I advance, and he retreats—a reversal of our usual dynamic that emboldens me. One step, two, until his back hits the wall beside the bathroom door. Nowhere left to go.
“If this is just a job to you,” I challenge, finger still pressed against his sternum, “then why didn’t you hand me off to someone else? Why are you personally driving me across the country? Why do you look at me like that when you think I don’t notice?”
His breathing has deepened, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. The muscle in his jaw jumps rhythmically as he clenches his teeth.
“You need to stop pushing me, Celeste.” His voice has dropped to that dangerous register that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
“Or what?” I push harder, both literally and figuratively, my finger digging into his chest. “What happens if I don’t stop? If I keep pushing until something breaks? Until you break?”
“You don’t want to find out.” It’s meant as a warning, but it sounds like a promise—one that makes my pulse race.
“Maybe I do.” I tilt my chin up, defiant. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”
Our faces are inches apart now, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. Close enough to see the internal war raging behind those eyes—desire versus discipline, want versus restraint.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, something shifting in his expression. “Back away. Now.”
I don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t yield.
“Make me,” I whisper again, the challenge explicit.
EIGHTEEN
Celeste
Something snaps behind his eyes—controlgiving way to something primal, dangerous. Before I can register the movement, his hands are on my waist, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. The world spins as he turns us, reversing our positions until my back hits the wall, the impact forcing a gasp from my lungs.
His body presses against mine, pinning me in place. One hand moves to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His eyes search mine, looking for hesitation, for doubt.
He finds none.
“You never know when to stop pushing, do you?” The words rumble from his chest, vibrating against mine.
“Not when I want something.” My voice comes out breathier than intended.
