Page 60 of Brass
“Oh.”
One syllable, loaded with anticipation. The sound travels directly to my core, awakening hunger barely sated by last night’s encounters.
“Any objections?” I keep my voice even and controlled while offering her the space to refuse.
“None whatsoever.” Her fingers tighten slightly on my arm. “I meant what I said last night.”
About being my willing student. About surrendering to me in ways she never has with anyone else. The memory of those words, spoken as I moved inside her, nearly breaks my composure.
“Good.” I cover her hand with mine briefly before returning it to the wheel. “Because I have plans for tonight.”
The promise hangs between us, charging the air with expectation. Her breathing quickens slightly, a response she doesn’t try to hide. This new honesty between us—the acknowledgment of what we both want—feels more intimate than the physical joining of our bodies.
We drive in comfortable silence for several miles, the landscape changing around us as we cross state lines. Celeste eventually turns on the radio, finding a classic rock station that fills the space with familiar melodies. Her taste in music surprises me—not the pop I expected, but Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, bands I grew up listening to on my father’s vintage vinyl collection.
When she hums along to “Ramble On,” something shifts in my chest—a tightening that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with recognition. With a connection beyond the physical. With the realization that I want to know every layer of this woman, not just the ones I’ve uncovered between hotel sheets.
The feeling is unfamiliar. Unsettling. I compartmentalize it for later examination and focus on the mission parameters. Coeur d’Alene by nightfall. Supplies before then. Keep Celeste safe. The rest is secondary.
Even as I think it, I know it’s no longer true. Nothing about Celeste Hart will ever be secondary again.
TWENTY-ONE
Ryan
The truck stop looms ahead—asprawling complex of fuel stations, fast-food restaurants, and a surprisingly large convenience store. I park the SUV near the side entrance, positioning it for quick departure if necessary—a habit rather than a specific concern.
“I’ll be quick,” I tell Celeste, already scanning the surroundings for potential threats. Clear for now. “Lock the doors. Stay alert.”
“Yes, sir.” She delivers the acknowledgment with a mock salute that should irritate me, but instead sends a pulse of heat through my veins.
My eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“What?” The challenge in her voice is deliberate, calculated to provoke.
“That particular word means something to me.” I lean slightly closer, voice dropping. “In certain contexts, ‘sir’ isn’t just a casual honorific. It’s an acknowledgment of power exchange. Of control freely given and responsibly taken.”
Her eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning.
I exit the vehicle, confirming the locks engage behind me. The convenience store’s fluorescent lighting is harsh after hours on the road, but I adjust quickly, orienting myself. Food and drinks in the back. Automotive supplies to the right. Toiletries and medical items are along the left wall. A surprising array of household goods and travel necessities in the center aisles.
I move with purpose, selecting protein bars, waters, and premade sandwiches for the road. Practical needs first. Always. It’s the foundation of survival—addressing basic requirements before secondary concerns.
Once those are secured, I allow myself to focus on tonight’s objectives. The store’s selection is limited, but sufficient for what I have in mind. A basic introduction, nothing too intense for her first deliberate experience with kink. Just enough to test her responses, to learn her boundaries, to show her what’s possible between us.
I select items with the same methodical attention I’d give to tactical gear—each choice deliberate, each purpose clear in my mind. Soft cotton rope, pliable but strong. A silk scarf that can serve as a blindfold or a restraint. Massage oil with minimal scent. Basic first aid supplies that can double for aftercare.
The selections are innocuous enough individually. Together, they form the foundation of what I have planned. Nothing that would raise eyebrows at checkout, nothing that requires specialized knowledge to use effectively. Just everyday items that become something else entirely in the right hands.
My hands. On Celeste.
Around her wrists. In her hair.
The images flash through my mind with vivid clarity, momentarily distracting me from my surroundings—a lapse in vigilance I immediately correct, scanning the store for potential threats before continuing.
In the automotive section, I find a leather tool roll—perfect for implementing impact play without being obvious. In the kitchen aisle, a small wooden spoon with a smooth handle. From hardware, a small wheel tool with blunt spikes used for marking patterns—innocent enough for its intended purpose, but capable of creating exquisite sensory play. A packet of cheap feathers from the craft section completes the collection.
I add a few more items to my basket—things to make her comfortable afterward. Small luxuries that have no tactical purpose but will bring her pleasure. Dark chocolate. Aloe vera gel for her still-healing ribs.
