Chapter 22 Ryan
TWENTY-TWO
Ryan
The submission in those two words—from a woman who has fought me on every directive since the subway platform—is the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard. More powerful than any fantasy, more affecting than last night’s passion.
I unbuckle my belt, slow and deliberate, giving her time to adjust to what’s happening. Her eyes follow every movement, pupils dilated with arousal rather than fear. When I free myself, her gaze is hungry, eager.
“Hands behind your back,” I instruct, watching as she complies immediately. “Keep them there unless I say otherwise.” I step closer, guiding her with a hand in her hair. “Show me what you can do.”
She takes me into her mouth with unexpected confidence, a skill that sends a jolt of both pleasure and something darker through me. Not jealousy, exactly, but possessiveness. A determination to erase the memory of anyone who came before me.
I control the pace with my grip on her hair, not rough but firm. Guiding. Teaching. Showing her precisely what I want. Her responsiveness is immediate—adapting to each subtle cue, learning my preferences with the same keen observation she applies to everything.
“Look at me,” I command, needing to see her eyes as she serves me this way.
She obeys, gaze lifting to meet mine without hesitation. The connection intensifies everything—the physical sensation, the emotional impact, the power exchange happening between us. This isn’t just sex. This is communication on a level I’ve rarely experienced.
When I’m close to the edge, I pull back, denying myself release. Not yet. This night is about exploration and discovery, about teaching her what she’s capable of. My pleasure is secondary to that goal.
“Enough.” I help her to her feet, steadying her when she wobbles slightly. “You learn quickly.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks at the praise. “I have a good teacher.”
I smile at that—a genuine smile, unguarded in a way few ever see. “We’ve barely begun.” Leading her to the bed, I guide her to lie in the center. “Arms above your head, crossed at the wrists.”
Again, she complies without hesitation, stretching out before me in a position of complete vulnerability. Trust given freely. Power surrendered willingly.
I retrieve the cotton rope from my purchases and uncoil it.
“This is for restraint, but more importantly, for the sensation it creates.” I let the fibers trail across her arm, watching as goosebumps rise in their wake.
“The awareness of being bound. The freedom that comes from having choice temporarily removed.”
Her breathing quickens as I begin binding her wrists—secure enough to restrain, loose enough to ensure circulation. Each loop, each knot, is performed with methodical attention to both aesthetic and function.
“How does that feel?” I ask when I’ve finished, her wrists now secured to the headboard with artful knots.
She tests the restraints, finding just enough give to be comfortable but not enough to escape. “Good. Different. I’ve never …”
“I know.” I trail my fingers down her bound arms, across her collarbone, down to where her pulse beats visibly at the base of her throat. “Most haven’t. Not like this.”
Next comes the silk scarf, held before her eyes. “Vision is our dominant sense. Removing it heightens everything else—touch, hearing, smell. Are you ready for that?”
She swallows, nods. “Yes.”
I wrap the silk around her eyes, secure but not tight, plunging her into darkness. Her body tenses momentarily, adjusting to the new vulnerability, then relaxes as she accepts it.
“Remember your safe word,” I remind her, trailing fingers down her cheek.
“Phoenix,” she whispers. “But I won’t need it.”
The confidence in her voice sends pride surging through me. My brave, stubborn woman. So new to this world, yet so naturally suited to it.
What follows is a study in sensation—the feather’s whisper-light touch making her squirm and gasp, the pinwheel’s blunt spikes rolling across sensitive skin, drawing sharp inhales and bitten lips, and the wooden spoon’s smooth handle tracing patterns on her inner thighs, making her arch into the contact.
With each new sensation, I watch closely, learning her responses, noting what makes her breath catch, what draws a moan, what causes her to pull against her restraints, seeking more.
By the time I remove the blindfold, her eyes are hazy with arousal, pupils fully dilated. By the time I untie her wrists, her body is trembling with need. By the time I finally enter her, we’re both beyond restraint.
The sex that follows is unlike anything I’ve experienced—rawer, more honest, more complete.
The trust she’s given, the vulnerability she’s shown, strips away whatever barriers remained between us.
I move within her with the certainty of ownership, claiming her body with the same thoroughness I’ve claimed her responses.
When release finally comes, it’s simultaneous—her body clenching around mine, my name a prayer on her lips, my control finally, completely shattered.
In the aftermath, I tend to her with careful attention—checking her wrists for marks, applying soothing oil to skin reddened by the belt’s touch, wrapping her in my arms with a protectiveness that goes beyond the physical.
“Are you okay?” I ask, needing confirmation despite her obvious satisfaction.
She nestles closer, a contented sound escaping her throat. “Better than okay. That was … I don’t have words.”
“You did beautifully.” I press a kiss to her temple, genuine pride in my voice. “A natural.”
Her laugh is soft, sleepy. “Who would have thought?”
“I did,” I admit, the truth easy in this moment of vulnerability. “I saw it in you from the beginning. The strength it takes to truly surrender.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, processing this. “Thank you. For showing me.”
“We’ve barely scratched the surface.” I trail fingers along her spine, feeling her shiver slightly at the touch. “There’s so much more I could teach you.”
“I want to learn it all.” Her voice is becoming heavier as she approaches sleep. “Everything.”
“We have time,” I murmur, though I’m not entirely sure it’s true. Seattle brings unknowns. Complications. But in this moment, I allow myself to believe in possibilities beyond tomorrow.
She relaxes in my arms, trusting and unguarded. I remain awake long after she succumbs to sleep, watching her, cataloging each breath, each subtle movement. Memorizing this moment as if it might be our last. Tactical awareness is never fully dormant, even in the aftermath of passion.
Eventually, sleep claims me as well, deeper than I’ve allowed in years. Too deep, perhaps, for someone responsible for another’s safety. But my subconscious has made its assessment—this room is secure, this woman is mine, and for these few hours, vigilance can yield to rest.
The vibration of my secure phone jolts me awake at precisely 2:17 AM. Full alertness returns instantly, combat training overriding the lingering warmth of sleep. Celeste stirs beside me but doesn’t fully wake as I slip from the bed, retrieving the device from my jacket.
The screen displays an emergency protocol I haven’t seen in months. Ghost Priority Alpha. Secure channel only.
All traces of the lover vanish, replaced by the operative. Tactical assessment. Threat evaluation. Action plan formulation. I move to the bathroom, closing the door before connecting the call, voice pitched low.
“Ellis.”
“We have a situation.” Ghost’s voice is clipped, controlled, but I detect the underlying tension. “You need alternate routing.”
My mind shifts immediately to operational mode. “Explain.”
“They connected you to Cerberus.”
Five words that change everything. Not Celeste being tracked—me. My affiliation. My team.
“How?” One word that asks a dozen questions. Shit, I’ve been careful. Beyond careful.
“Facial recognition at a gas station three states back. They’ve been running your image through every database they can access. Didn’t get a hit until they tried private contractor registries.”
My jaw tightens. Private registries are supposed to be secure, accessible only to cleared personnel. “Phoenix?”
“No. Obsidian.” A pause. “We’ve been analyzing the files from Willow’s drive. The ones tagged ‘Obsidian’ contain surveillance approvals. Signed by her ex-husband.”
The connection clicks into place. “Federal judge with security clearance.”
“Authorizing domestic surveillance under the guise of national security.” Mason’s disgust is evident even through the secure line.
“But it goes deeper. There are references to Project Phoenix throughout. We think her ex-husband was one of the judicial gatekeepers—signing warrants, authorizing operations, ensuring legal cover.”
“And now their system is targeting anyone connected to those files.”
“Including you, since you’re with Celeste Hart.”
I process the implications rapidly. If they’ve connected me to Cerberus, then bringing Celeste to headquarters risks exposing the entire operation.
“Where do we redirect?” I’m already mentally calculating routes, assessing options.
“Safe house in Portland. Torque will meet you there with new credentials. We need to extract Hart and her evidence without compromising the rest of the team.”
“Understood.”
“Brass.” Mason’s tone shifts slightly, with personal elements breaking through the professional ones. “There’s something else. These files suggest Phoenix isn’t just an autonomous targeting system. It’s fully integrated with multiple surveillance networks. Public and private. And it’s learning.”
“AI evolution.”
“It’s identifying threats based on behavior patterns, not just data access.” He pauses. “Your extraction hasn’t followed standard protocols. That unpredictability might be why it took this long to locate you.”
A cold realization settles in my gut. My decision to drive rather than fly. The circuitous route. The cash-only transactions. The vehicle switches. All deviations from standard procedure. All contributing to our continued evasion.
“How much time do we have?”
“Unknown. But assume they’re closing in. Ditch your current vehicle. Switch to the alternate identities I’m sending to your secure drop. No electronic communication after this call.”
“Copy.” I’m already formulating our exit strategy. “Portland in eight hours.”
“Make it happen.” The line goes dead.
I stand motionless for exactly seven seconds, prioritizing information, calculating risks, and developing contingencies. Then I move.
Celeste is awake, sheet pulled around her, eyes alert despite being roused from deep sleep. Perhaps the journalist’s instincts sense when something has changed.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
“We’ve been compromised.” I begin gathering our belongings, movements efficient without panic. “We need to move. Now.”
She’s out of bed instantly, reaching for clothes. No questions, no arguments.
“They found us?” She pulls on jeans and a T-shirt, and her voice is steady despite the danger.
“They found me.” I meet her eyes briefly. “Connected me to Cerberus through facial recognition. We need to change our destination, our route, and our vehicle. Everything.”
She processes this with impressive speed. “Where are we going instead?”
“Portland. Safe house. One of our operatives will meet us there.” I check my weapon, confirming its readiness. “We leave in five minutes.
She nods, already sorting through the few possessions we’ve accumulated. “The flash drive—”
“Keep it on you. Always.” I move to the window, checking the parking lot. Clear for now, but that could change at any moment.
“Ryan.” Her voice draws my attention back. She’s dressed now, hair pulled back, ready for whatever comes next. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Perceptive, as always. I consider deflection and decide against it. “The project you’ve been investigating goes deeper than we thought. Willow’s ex-husband—the federal judge I told you about—was involved. Judicial authorization for domestic surveillance. Legal cover for Phoenix and Obsidian.”
Her eyes widen slightly as she connects dots I haven’t explicitly drawn. “A federal judge with security clearance could authorize almost anything under national security protocols.”
“Exactly.”
“So this isn’t a private corporation. This is—”
“A shadow operation with governmental connections.” I finish packing our bag, zipping it closed with finality. “Which makes it infinitely more dangerous. And more importantly, that we get you and that evidence somewhere secure.”
She nods, the journalist in her processing the implications, the stories waiting to be told. “How long until we leave?”
“Three minutes.” I conduct another visual sweep of the parking lot, which remains clear.
Then I hear it. Faint but unmistakable. The soft crunch of tactical boots on gravel outside. The barely perceptible click of a radio transmitting on a secure frequency. The sounds of a professional team moving into position.
Our time has just run out.