Page 59 of Brass
The selfishness of the decision doesn’t escape me. For the first time in my operational career, I’m making a choice based on personal desire rather than tactical advantage. I should be concerned by this departure from protocol.
Instead, I’m already planning where we’ll stop, what I’ll need, and how I’ll introduce her to the elements of control and surrender she responded to so intuitively last night.
Her comment about being my willing student in “all things kinky” has lingered in my mind, a tantalizing possibility I intend to explore. The way she yielded when I pinned her wrists, the sharp intake of breath when I gripped her hair, her immediate response to my commands—all indicate potential for dynamics I crave but rarely indulge.
Never with someone who challenges me so consistently. Never with someone who surrenders not from weakness but from choice, from desire as strong as my own.
Celeste stirs beside me, stretching like a cat, oddly graceful despite the confines of the passenger seat. Her eyes open, immediately finding mine with that direct gaze that’s been disarming me since day one.
“Morning. Again.” Her voice is sleep-rough, a sound I’ve quickly grown to appreciate.
“Technically, it’s afternoon.” I glance at the dashboard clock: 12:47 PM.
She follows my gaze, eyebrows rising. “You let me sleep for hours.”
“You needed it.”
Her hand reaches across the console, fingers trailing along my forearm with a casual intimacy that would have been unthinkable yesterday.
“So do you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Always fine,” she murmurs, a teasing note in her voice. “Always in control.”
Not always. Not last night. Not when she pushed me beyond breaking. Not when I finally took what I’d been denying myself since that first almost-kiss against the hotel wall.
The memory sends heat coursing through me, a response I carefully control. Focus on the mission. On keeping her safe. The rest comes later.
“Where are we?” she asks, gazing out at the passing scenery.
“About to cross into Idaho. Making good time.”
“Idaho.” She processes this, mental calculations obvious in her expression. “We could reach Seattle by tonight if we pushed through.”
Of course, she’d reach the same tactical conclusion. Her mind is as sharp as it is stubborn.
“We could,” I agree, keeping my tone neutral.
“But we’re not going to.” Not a question. An observation.
I glance at her, finding a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “No. We’re not.”
“Any particular reason?” The question is innocent. Her tone is not.
“Several.” I return my attention to the road, but not before catching the flush rising on her cheeks. “We’ll stop in Coeur d’Alene. It’s a good strategic position before the final push to Seattle.”
“Strategic,” she repeats, amusement coloring the word. “Of course.”
Her hand remains on my arm, thumb tracing idle patterns against my skin. The casual touch is simultaneously calming and arousing—a contradiction that seems to define everything about Celeste Hart.
“We need supplies,” I say after a moment. “I’ll stop at the next major truck stop.”
“Supplies?” Her eyebrow arches. “Like food? Fuel?”
“Rope and… other things.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, that investigative mind working through possibilities. When understanding dawns, her pupils dilate visibly, lips parting on a soft exhale.
