Page 57 of Brass
This kiss is different from last night’s—less frantic, more deliberate. An exploration rather than a conquest. His hands cradle my face with surprising gentleness, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones as his lips move against mine.
I melt into him, sheet forgotten as my arms wind around his neck. The press of skin against skin ignites the same fire as before, but with a slow burn rather than explosive heat.
When he lowers me to the mattress, it’s with careful attention to my injured side. When he settles between my thighs, it’s with deliberate patience rather than urgent need. Every movement is measured and controlled in a way that’s entirely different from his previous restraint.
This isn’t Ryan holding back. This is Ryan, focused entirely on me.
“Look at me,” he commands softly as he enters me, the stretch easier but no less overwhelming than before.
I obey without thought, eyes locking with his as he begins to move. There’s something almost reverential in his gaze, something that makes my chest tighten with emotion I’m not ready to name.
He sets a rhythm that’s torturously slow, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hands capture mine, pinning them above my head, fingers intertwined. The restraint sends an unexpected thrill through me—being held down, controlled, yet completely safe in that control. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
The weight of him above me, the strength in his hands keeping mine immobile, the way he watches my face as he moves within me—it awakens something primal and yearning that I’ve never acknowledged before. I test his grip slightly, not truly trying to break free but wanting to feel the resistance, the firmness of his hold.
“You like being restrained,” he observes, his voice a deep rumble against my ear. Not a question—a statement of fact.
“Yes,” I admit, surprised by how easily the confession comes. “I never knew I would, but God, Ryan—this feels incredible.”
A smile curves his lips, predatory and pleased. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of what you might like.” His grip tightens fractionally, emphasizing his point. “There’s so much more I could show you.”
The promise in his words makes me arch beneath him, eager and hungry for whatever he might offer. “Then show me,” I challenge, emboldened by desire. “Everything. Anything. I want to be your willing student in all of this.”
His eyes darken with satisfaction and desire. “My eager little submissive,” he murmurs, the label sending a shiver through methat has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with recognition. “So ready to surrender control.”
“Only to you,” I breathe, the truth of it surprising us both. “Ryan,” I breathe, arching beneath him. “Please…”
“Please, what?” His voice is soft but commanding. “Tell me what you need.”
“More,” I manage, overwhelmed by the intensity of this slower pace. “Faster.”
“No.” He presses deeper, maintaining that deliberate rhythm. “Not this time. This time, we go slow.”
The denial should frustrate me. Instead, it sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with surrendering control. With letting someone else—letting him—dictate the pace, the pressure, the path to release.
His eyes never leave mine as he moves within me, reading every reaction, adjusting to every response. It’s the most intimate experience of my life—being seen so completely, being known so thoroughly.
When release finally comes, it builds like a wave rather than a crash—gathering momentum slowly, inexorably, until it sweeps through me with devastating intensity. I cry out his name, back arching, hands gripping his with desperate strength.
He follows moments later, my name a prayer on his lips as he shudders above me. For long moments afterward, we remain connected, breathing in sync, foreheads pressed together in silent communion.
Eventually, he shifts to lie beside me, gathering me against his chest. I trace idle patterns across his skin, marveling at how quickly the unfamiliar has become essential.
“We should get moving,” he says eventually, voice rumbling beneath my ear. “Long drive ahead.”
I nod against his chest, knowing he’s right but reluctant to leave this moment. “Seattle?”
“If we make good time.” His fingers trail along my spine, a casual intimacy that feels more significant than what preceded it. “This is our last night on the road.”
I push up on one elbow to look at him properly. “Our last night?”
“We’ve got a little over twelve hours left on the road, maybe more if we double back.”
“We should do that.”
“What?”
“Double back?”
