Page 61 of Brass
The cashier barely glances at my selections as she rings them up. Just another traveler stocking up for the road. I pay cash, as always. No electronic trail. No evidence of our passage except in the memories of those we briefly encounter.
When I return to the SUV, Celeste is alert, watching the parking lot with the observational skills that make her an excellent journalist. She’s learning—integrating tactical awareness into her natural ability to read situations. It’s strangely satisfying to see.
“All set?” she asks as I slide behind the wheel, placing the bags in the back seat.
“For now.” I start the engine, checking mirrors before pulling out.
Her eyes drift to the bags, curiosity evident in her expression, but she doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push, for once. Just settles back in her seat with a small smile playing at her lips.
“I can hardly wait,” she says, the simple statement heavy with anticipation.
Neither can I, though I don’t say it aloud. Some admissions are still difficult, even after everything we’ve shared. Instead, I reach across the console and take her hand, a gesture that feels both foreign and essential. Her fingers intertwinewith mine without hesitation, and we drive toward Idaho in companionable silence.
Tonight, I’ll show Celeste Hart exactly what she’s awakened in me. Until I can introduce her to pleasures she’s only beginning to understand. Until I can claim her again in ways that leave no doubt about who she belongs to.
Mine. The word echoes with each mile marker we pass.
Coeur d’Alene appears on the horizon as the sun begins its descent—a picturesque lake town nestled in the mountains of northern Idaho. Under different circumstances, it might be a vacation destination. Tonight, it’s simply our final stop before Seattle.
I bypass the first few motels we pass—basic establishments similar to where we’ve stayed previously. Tonight calls for something different. Something better. Not luxury—we’re still maintaining a low profile—but a step up from the utilitarian accommodations we’ve endured thus far.
The Lakeview Inn appears after several minutes of searching—a renovated motel with updated exteriors and a sign advertising “Newly Remodeled Rooms.” The parking lot is half-full, busy enough to blend in but not so crowded as to create security concerns. Perfect.
“Wait here,” I tell Celeste as I park in a spot with clear sightlines to both the office and the main road.
“No argument this time.” Her smile is knowing. She understands the routine now, accepts the necessary precautions without the resistance that marked our early days together.
The check-in process is smooth—cash payment, minimal questions, a room on the first floor with exterior access, and multiple escape routes. The clerk hands over an actual key card, rather than the metal keys of our previous accommodations —a minor upgrade that somehow feels significant.
When I return to the SUV, Celeste has already gathered our meager belongings, ready to move to our room. The seamless cooperation is a marked change from her earlier defiance. Not submission, exactly—she’s too independent for that—but a willing partnership that makes my job easier while acknowledging my expertise.
Room 117 is at the far end of the building, offering both privacy and tactical advantage. I unlock the door, performing my usual security sweep with Celeste waiting patiently in the doorway. The room is noticeably better than our previous stays—featuring a queen bed with an actual headboard, furniture that doesn’t look salvaged from the 1970s, and bathroom fixtures that gleam rather than grimace.
“Clear,” I announce, completing my circuit of the space.
Celeste enters, setting our bags on the dresser before turning in a slow circle to take in our surroundings. “This is practically the Ritz compared to last night.”
“You deserve better than what we’ve had.” The admission comes easily, surprising me with its sincerity.
Her expression softens, something vulnerable flickering in those observant eyes. “Thank you.”
I close the door, engaging both locks and the security chain—routine security measures that suddenly feel like something more. A boundary between the outside world and what’s about to happen in this room. A demarcation between danger and sanctuary.
Celeste watches me, her body language shifting subtly as she reads my intent. Her spine straightens, her breathing quickens, her eyes darken with anticipation.
I complete my checks—window secured, bathroom clear, sight lines assessed—before turning my full attention to her. The transition is deliberate, the shift in my demeanor intentional. No longer just the protector, the operative, the tactician.
Now, the dominant. The one in control. The one who will teach her exactly what she asked to learn.
I move toward her slowly, giving her time to process the change, to adapt to this new aspect of our dynamic. When I stop, I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body but no touching. Not yet.
“Kneel.”
One word, delivered with quiet authority. No room for misinterpretation. No space for argument.
Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating. For a moment, I think she might resist—the independent journalist reasserting herself against the command. Then, with a grace that steals my breath, she sinks to her knees on the carpeted floor, eyes never leaving mine.
The sight of her kneeling before me—willing, eager—sends a surge of primal satisfaction through my veins. This powerful, stubborn woman is surrendering not out of weakness, but by choice. There is no greater aphrodisiac.
