Chapter 20 Ryan
TWENTY
Ryan
Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror as I finish dressing, the lingering heat a reminder of what transpired in the shower moments ago.
Celeste’s soft gasps as my hands replaced hers with the soap.
The way she arched against the tile when I pressed into her from behind.
The water running cold before we noticed, too consumed with each other to care.
Now she’s gathering our few belongings, movements efficient despite the exhaustion evident in the slight droop of her shoulders.
We need to be on the road soon. We need to maintain our schedule and security protocols.
Need to function as if last night—this morning—hasn’t fundamentally altered everything between us.
I check my watch: 7:23 AM. Later start than planned. I don’t regret it.
The sight of her, hair still damp, wearing clothes I selected days ago, sends a surge of possessiveness through me that should be alarming. This wasn’t the mission. Wasn’t the plan. Wasn’t within operational parameters.
Mine. The word surfaces unbidden, resonating with unexpected force. When did Celeste Hart transition from assignment to something else entirely?
The subway platform? The first hotel room? The tunnels? I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. Just the culmination—her body beneath mine, her voice calling my name, her complete surrender as she came apart at my command.
I glance at the floor beside the bed, where our clothes lay scattered in uncharacteristic disorder until moments ago. Evidence of the control I finally relinquished. The barriers I allowed to fall. I should regret it—the breakdown of professional distance, the compromise of tactical focus.
I don’t.
I feel more focused, more centered than I have since this extraction began. The tension that has been building for days has finally found release, but vigilance remains—sharpened, even. Because now I’m not protecting an asset or a civilian. I’m protecting what’s mine.
The realization should concern me. Emotional investment compromises objectivity—first rule of protective operations. But as I watch her folding the last of her clothes into our shared bag, I recognize that this particular rule was broken long before last night.
It was broken the moment I diverted from my mission to save her on that platform. The moment I called Ghost instead of the local authorities. The moment I decided to personally drive her across the country rather than hand her off to another operative.
My brothers in arms would call it fate, our paths intersecting at that precise moment. Ghost would call it a tactical vulnerability. My sisters would say I’ve finally met my match.
They’re all partially right.
“Ready?” Celeste asks, zipping the duffel closed. Her eyes meet mine with a directness that hasn’t changed, despite everything else that has.
I nod, conducting one final sweep of the room—habit rather than necessity. “One more day on the road.
“One more night,” she adds, something knowing in her smile.
My arm slides around her waist as we head for the door, a possessive gesture I don’t bother to analyze. One more day. One more night. Then everything changes.
The Montana landscape rolls past the windows, mountains giving way to plains, then rising again at the Idaho border. Celeste dozes in the passenger seat, her body angled toward me even in sleep. We’ve been on the road for four hours, maintaining good time despite a later start than usual.
I check the mirrors—clear. We’ve implemented sufficient evasive measures that I’m confident our trail is cold. The truck stop coffee beside me has gone lukewarm, forgotten as I calculate distances, fuel stops, optimal routes.
With minimal stops and trading driving shifts, we could reach Cerberus headquarters by midnight. It would be the tactical choice—maintaining momentum, minimizing exposure time, getting Celeste into secure facilities as quickly as possible.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I dismiss the option. One more night. One more night with her before everything becomes complicated by briefings, threat assessments, and team dynamics.
One more night to have her completely to myself.
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.
“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.