Chapter 18 Celeste
EIGHTEEN
Celeste
Something snaps behind his eyes—control giving way to something primal, dangerous.
Before I can register the movement, his hands are on my waist, lifting me as if I weigh nothing.
The world spins as he turns us, reversing our positions until my back hits the wall, the impact forcing a gasp from my lungs.
His body presses against mine, pinning me in place. One hand moves to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His eyes search mine, looking for hesitation, for doubt.
He finds none.
“You never know when to stop pushing, do you?” The words rumble from his chest, vibrating against mine.
“Not when I want something.” My voice comes out breathier than intended.
“And what exactly do you want?”
“You,” I admit, the word falling between us like a gauntlet thrown. “I want you to stop pretending this isn’t happening. I want you to admit that this isn’t just professional for you. I want—”
His mouth crashes against mine, swallowing the rest of my demands.
The kiss is nothing like the gentle one I imagined during our almost-moment days ago.
This is a potent mix of possession, domination, fury, and desire, all combined into something explosive.
His lips claim mine with bruising intensity, tongue demanding entrance that I willingly grant.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as his fingers tangle in my hair, angling my head for deeper access. The kiss is a battle neither of us is willing to lose—teeth nipping, tongues dueling, hearts racing.
He tastes like mint and something darker, more primal. His stubble scrapes deliciously against my skin, the slight burn only enhancing the pleasure coursing through me. I arch against him, seeking more contact, more friction, more of everything he’s finally giving me.
One of his hands slides down to my hip, gripping with enough force to leave marks. I should care about that—about the evidence his fingers will leave on my skin. Instead, I find myself hoping they do.
He breaks the kiss abruptly, both of us gasping for air. His eyes are nearly black with desire, all traces of that icy control gone.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growls, lips moving to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. “To break my control? To make me snap?”
“Yes,” I gasp as he nips at my pulse point. “God, yes.”
His laugh is dark, dangerous against my skin. “Careful what you wish for, sweetheart.”
He lifts me again, hands clamped around the backs of my thighs.
My legs lock around his waist, dragging us into perfect alignment.
There’s nothing subtle about the thick, rigid length pressing against me through his clothes—hard, straining, leaving no doubt what he wants, what he’s barely holding back.
Heat sears through the thin layers separating us, every grind of his hips a brutal reminder of just how ready he is to take me.
He carries me to the bed, our mouths fused again in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger.
The mattress gives beneath my back as he lowers me, his body covering mine with delicious weight.
His hands are everywhere—sliding under my shirt, skimming along my ribs with surprising gentleness despite the urgency of his kiss.
“Ryan,” I breathe as his lips travel down my neck.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, hands pausing their exploration. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Right now.”
“Don’t you dare.” I reach for the hem of his T-shirt, tugging upward. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Something like relief flashes across his features before determination replaces it. He helps me remove his shirt, muscles flexing as the fabric slides over his head. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but never this close, never with permission to touch.
My hands explore the expanse of his chest, tracing scars and ridges of muscle with wonder. He watches me through hooded eyes, allowing the exploration for precious seconds before his patience expires.
“My turn,” he murmurs, reaching for my shirt. He hesitates, eyes flicking to my bound ribs. “Your injuries—”
“Will be fine.” I sit up slightly, wincing only a little as I help him remove my shirt. “I’m not made of glass.”
His eyes darken as they sweep over me, taking in the black lace bra he selected days ago. “I knew this would look perfect on you,” he says, voice rough with appreciation.
“Did you imagine this when you bought it?” I arch into his touch as his fingers trace the edge of the lace. “Me underneath you, wearing what you chose?”
His eyes meet mine, startlingly direct. “Every night.”
The admission sends heat spiraling through me. Five days of shared fantasies, of mutual want cloaked in professional distance. Five days of restraint about to shatter completely.
His hands slide to the waistband of my leggings, pausing—command in the stillness, a question in his eyes.
I arch my hips in answer. That’s all the permission he needs.
The fabric peels down slowly, dragging my underwear with it.
Cool air rushes over heated skin, raising goosebumps that vanish under the rough sweep of his palms.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick, gaze searing as it travels the length of me. “Even more than I imagined.”
I should feel exposed. Laid bare. Instead, fire licks through me at the way he looks at me—like I’m power incarnate, like I’m the one undoing him. Desired. Claimed. Seen deeper than skin.
“Your turn.” My voice comes out hoarse, urgent. My hands tug at his waistband. “Fair’s fair.”
He rises, shoving the rest of his clothing off in one fluid motion, every movement deliberate, unhurried—devastatingly erotic. Then he’s there in front of me, gloriously, brutally naked.
My breath hitches, the sight a punch to my chest. Broad shoulders carved in shadow, scars cutting across muscle like battle honors, narrowing to lean hips, powerful thighs, and his cock—thick, heavy, rigid, angled toward me like inevitability itself.
My mouth waters, anticipation pooling hot and shameless.
He lowers back to the bed, the weight of him covering me, skin to skin at last. Heat explodes at every point of contact, overwhelming, too much, and nowhere near enough.
“Protection,” he rasps against my throat, already reaching for a condom, purchased that first night, when he knew this moment might come.
My nails dig crescents into his shoulders as he rips the foil, rolls the latex over his thick length. No pause. No prelude. Just need. Pure and undeniable.
Then he’s between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing hard against me, demanding entry.
“Look at me when I fuck you,” he commands, voice stripped down to raw authority.
The words crack something open inside me. I obey without hesitation, locking eyes with him as he pushes inside.
The stretch burns—sharp, exquisite, overwhelming—but it’s exactly what I’ve been craving, what I’ve been needing without admitting it. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as he forces himself to go slow, giving me time I don’t want.
“Okay?” The word scrapes out of him, half-groan, half-concern.
“More than okay.” My hips roll, greedy, pulling him deeper.
The sound he makes shreds me—raw, guttural, a man’s control shattering. He surges forward in one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt, filling me so completely my vision whites out. The pressure teeters on the edge of pain, pleasure so sharp it blurs the line between the two.
“God, Celeste.” His forehead crashes against mine, breath ragged, body trembling with restraint. “You feel—”
“I know.” My whisper is a gasp, a plea, a confession. “I know.”
Then he moves, all restraint gone. His thrusts are hard, driving, perfectly angled to strike deep, to make me cry out. Not gentle. Not punishing. Precision—like every motion is a calculation to break me down, to make me take him deeper, harder.
His hands grip my hips, fingers biting into flesh as if he’s anchoring himself. But the truth is clear: I’m the one who’s anchored him. And with every thrust, every raw sound torn from his throat, I realize he’s not just inside my body. He’s breaking past every defense I’ve ever built.
I match him beat for beat, nails scoring lines down his back that make him hiss with pleasure-pain.
The tension that’s been building for days, for miles, coalesces into something urgent and unstoppable.
Every push and pull between us since that subway platform distills into this moment—his body moving inside mine, claiming and surrendering simultaneously.
“Ryan,” I gasp as his rhythm intensifies, driving me higher, closer to the edge. “Please—”
“Tell me what you need,” he demands, voice rough with exertion.
“More. Harder.”
He complies immediately, one hand sliding beneath my lower back to tilt my hips higher, changing the angle to something devastating. I cry out as he hits a spot deep inside that sends sparks shooting up my spine.
“There,” he growls, recognizing my reaction. “Right there.”
His thrusts become relentless, targeting that spot with unerring precision. The tension builds, coiling tighter with each movement, each brush of his chest against mine, each command he whispers against my skin.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice dropping to that register that seems hardwired to my core. “Now, Celeste.”
My body obeys as if it were made to follow his commands.
Pleasure crashes through me in waves, vision blurring at the edges as every muscle contracts around him.
I’m distantly aware of crying out his name, of my nails digging into his shoulders, of his rhythm faltering as my release triggers his own.
He groans against my neck, hips jerking as he follows me over the edge. For seconds or minutes or hours, we remain locked together, trembling with aftershocks, breathing in sync as reality slowly reassembles around us.