Chapter 14 Celeste
FOURTEEN
Celeste
For one searing, suspended breath, I think Ryan might give in. Might finally crush the distance between us, pin me against the wall, and show me exactly what it means when he says punishment. The air between us vibrates with it, every heartbeat a countdown.
But then—he steps back. Breaks the spell.
“We can’t afford distractions. Not until you’re secure.”
The rational part of me knows he’s right. The rest of me—the part that’s been drowning in his presence for two days—wants to scream. His control is infuriating, unbearable, and worse, it makes me want him more.
“Fine,” I bite out, sharp with resignation. “Take the floor. Martyr yourself on the altar of professionalism.”
A flicker of amusement sparks in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. “My comfort isn’t my priority, Celeste. Your safety is.”
“And sharing a bed compromises my safety, how exactly?” The deliberate flippancy drips from my tone, a taunt I know will get under his skin. I want it to. God help me, I want to see him snap.
And then he does.
Something detonates in his expression. In two strides, he’s on me—towering, radiating fury and want in equal measure.
“For all that is holy, stop fucking pushing me, Celeste.” The words tear from him, raw, guttural, a growl that vibrates through the space between us.
His fists clench at his sides, like it’s taking every ounce of discipline not to put them on me.
“Sleeping with you compromises my focus—whether it’s just lying beside you or fucking you senseless.
Either way, it compromises what I’m trying to do here—keep us both alive. ”
The crude language from his disciplined mouth sends a shockwave through me. My stomach twists, my thighs clench, my skin burns. The way he spits out “fucking you senseless” isn’t an idle threat. It’s an admission, thick with frustration and need.
I shouldn’t revel in it. But I do.
“Sorry,” I murmur, breathless, a lie we both hear for what it is. I’m not sorry. Not even close. There’s a dangerous, addictive thrill in unraveling him, in making this iron-willed man fracture for even a second.
His eyes narrow, sharp and knowing. “No, you’re not. That’s the problem.” His chest rises and falls once, twice, as though he’s dragging himself back from the edge by sheer will. “Even now, you’re still pushing me.”
And then it happens. The shift. His features harden, his body straightens, and suddenly the man is gone, replaced by the commander—unyielding, immovable, carved from steel.
“Not another word.” His tone drops, lethal in its finality. That voice, low and commanding, doesn’t allow argument, doesn’t leave room for games. “Get in bed. Go to sleep. Stop. Pushing.”
The words slam into me harder than a touch would.
My body thrums with the ache of everything unsaid, with the need he refuses to indulge, with the tension coiling tighter every time I breathe the same air as him.
I climb into the bed, pulse racing, skin hot, need unrelieved, and lie in the dark, wide awake—every nerve screaming, every part of me burning for the man stretched out on the floor, fighting his own battle with control.
Even as part of me bristles at being commanded, another part—a darker part I’ve never dared acknowledge—thrums at the pure authority in his voice.
I retreat to the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing somewhere I can wrestle my composure back under control before I do something insane. Like beg him to give up every ounce of restraint he’s clinging to.
When I emerge, Ryan has already built his nest of blankets on the floor. His shirt is gone, tossed aside, and in the dim light, the map of scars across his torso looks brutal, carved. Every mark is a reminder of violence endured, of a man tempered in fire. A man who survives by force of will alone.
I can’t stop staring.
He catches me, eyes meeting mine, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” I manage, throat dry, crossing to the bed before I betray myself further.
He nods once, silent, then moves past me. The scent of him—sweat, steel, and something deeply male—slams into me. My fingers twitch with the reckless urge to reach out, to touch, to see if his skin feels as hot as it looks.
The bathroom door closes. The shower starts.
I lie rigid in the bed, staring at the ceiling, every nerve thrumming with the awareness of him just feet away. Water pounds against tile, each splash a vivid reminder of what he’s doing in there—what he could be doing.
My imagination betrays me, tumbling down a path I shouldn’t even be traveling.
Ryan under the spray, muscles shifting beneath scarred skin, head bowed, water sluicing over every hard line of him.
My pulse kicks higher, breath shallow, when the fantasy sharpens—one hand braced against the wall, the other stroking himself in ruthless rhythm, jaw clenched to keep silent.
The thought slams into me, molten and reckless. Heat surges between my thighs, shameful and unstoppable. I can’t stay in bed. I can’t stay still. Before I’ve thought it through, I’m sliding out from under the sheets, bare feet whispering across carpet, inching toward the bathroom door.
My mind wanders to dangerous territory. Is he doing what he did last night? Taking himself in hand, finding release to ease the tension I’ve deliberately stoked?
I can almost see it—water cascading down his powerful back, one hand braced against tile, the other working in rhythmic strokes as he fights to keep silent. Is he thinking of me while he does it? Imagining what would happen if his rigid control finally shattered?
The thought sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. I shift restlessly, my body betraying me with its response.
What would it be like if he finally broke? Would it mirror that first night when I tried to leave the hotel room—his body pinning mine against the wall, his breath hot against my ear?
Only this time, he wouldn’t stop. He’d let his hands wander where they wanted. He’d use that commanding voice to make me obey in ways that have nothing to do with security protocols.
I hover there, heart jackhammering, straining for any sound beyond the rush of water. Listening. Hoping.
And then I hear it. A groan—low, rough, dragged from his chest before he muffles it against the tile.
My breath catches, heat flooding low and sharp.
The next sound strips me bare: the wet, steady rhythm of his fist pumping his cock, the slap of skin on skin unmistakable even under the cascade of water.
My knees go weak. Each stroke plays out in my head in agonizing clarity—his hand tight, relentless, working himself fast and hard, water pouring over the breadth of his shoulders as he braces against the wall.
His breathing grows ragged, desperate. Every guttural sound punches straight through me, leaving me trembling, thighs pressing together uselessly. I should turn away, should stop listening, but I can’t. I’m captive to the raw, unguarded need in his voice.
The rhythm quickens, sharper, harder. A choked growl tears out of him, followed by a strangled gasp—my name, broken on his tongue as he comes.
I clap a hand over my mouth, dizzy from the rush of arousal slamming into me. My body is on fire, molten and aching, the sound of my name on his lips seared into me.
This is madness. This man is a stranger. Someone who chose to save my life and has now made it his personal mission to keep me safe, not fulfill the sudden, overwhelming fantasies I’m having. Fantasies I’ve never acknowledged before, never allowed myself to explore.
Tomorrow we’ll be back on the road, back to the tense silence and circular arguments.
But right now, in the darkness of this anonymous motel room, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth: whatever is happening between us isn’t just attraction.
It’s not just proximity, adrenaline, or the unique circumstances that have brought us together.
It’s something I don’t have a name for yet. Something that scares me more than the men hunting us.
Because Ryan Ellis is right about one thing: I can’t seem to stop pushing his boundaries. And I’m terrified of what might happen when they finally break.
The shower cuts off.
Panic jolts me into motion. I stumble back across the room, diving under the covers just as the bathroom handle turns. My chest heaves, lungs burning, my body still trembling with the echo of his groans, the image of his hand, the way he came—saying my name.
The door swings open. Steam spills into the room, curling into the lamplight. Ryan steps out, towel slung low on his hips, droplets tracking over scarred muscle, down the hard lines of his abdomen. His gaze finds me instantly. I freeze, every inch of me screaming to play dead.
It doesn’t matter. He already knows.
“Next time you want to listen in,” his voice rolls out low, rich with dark amusement, “cover the gap under the door. Unless you want me to know you’re there.”
My stomach drops. Heat sears my face. He takes a step closer, lazy, predatory, water still dripping from his hair.
“I hope you heard,” he continues, unashamed, savoring every word. “Every stroke. Every sound. And I especially hope you heard me say your name when I came.”
The words hit like a physical touch, molten, humiliating, and electrifying all at once. I can’t stop the way my thighs clench under the covers, can’t hide the flush burning down my throat.
His eyes catch the movement, sharpen, and gleam with cruel delight. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Celeste. Pushing me. Listening. Getting yourself all hot and restless while I …” His smirk deepens, wicked, merciless.
The taunt lands like a strike, leaving me squirming under the sheets, my body betraying me with every shallow breath.
He doesn’t soften. Doesn’t pull back. He lets the silence drag, heavy and charged, until my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. Then he drops the blade, voice a low growl that coils heat straight through me:
“That’s your punishment, sweetheart. Lying there wet and wanting, too keyed up to sleep. Knowing I had my release while you ache for yours.”
My breath catches, sharp, shamed, and aroused all at once. He wants me this undone.
“Push me again,” Ryan finishes, voice hard enough to bruise, “and I won’t let you listen. I’ll make you watch, and I’ll make damn sure you feel every second of it.”