Chapter 11 Celeste
ELEVEN
Celeste
The brief contact between Ryan’s arm and my bare shoulder sends electricity coursing through me. I stand frozen as he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
My fingers dig into the bundle of clothes I’m holding, knuckles white with tension. My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain he must have heard it before he closed the door. The spot where his skin touched mine burns like a brand, sensation radiating outward until my entire body feels flushed.
What the hell just happened?
It’s infuriating how easily he affects me. I’ve spent years building walls around myself—professional walls, emotional walls—training myself to remain coolly analytical no matter what horrors I uncover. It’s what makes me good at my job.
But Ryan Ellis walks by without a shirt, and suddenly I’m as flustered as a college intern on her first assignment. One look from those icy blue eyes dismantles my carefully constructed defenses faster than any threat or bribe ever could.
The worst part? He knows it.
The shower starts running, the sound of water hitting tile filtering through the thin door.
I force myself to move, to get dressed before he finishes.
The underwear—which I now notice is black lace rather than practical cotton—slides against my skin with unexpected luxury.
The matching bra fits perfectly. The leggings are soft, the T-shirt even softer.
Everything fits. Everything feels good against my skin. Everything was chosen with care and attention that professionals don’t usually waste on short-term assignments.
As I’m brushing my hair, a sound from the bathroom catches my attention. A low, masculine groan barely audible over the running water.
I freeze; brush suspended in midair.
It could be pain. Could be him addressing an injury I don’t know about. Could be perfectly innocent.
But it doesn’t sound innocent.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward the bathroom door, drawn by curiosity I can’t justify even to myself. My ear presses against the wood, shame and anticipation warring in my chest.
The water continues to fall, but now I can clearly hear rhythmic movements disturbing its steady pattern. Another groan, deeper this time. The unmistakable sound of wet skin against wet skin, friction creating its own percussion.
He’s … Oh my God.
I should move away. Should give him privacy. Should pretend I don’t know exactly what he’s doing on the other side of this flimsy door.
Instead, I listen harder, my own breathing shallow, my body responding to the erotic soundtrack with a heat that has nothing to do with the lingering steam.
“Celeste …”
My name on his lips—low and throaty, filthy as sin—sends a jolt of electricity straight through me. It’s followed by a guttural groan, the sound primal and raw, undeniably masculine.
“Fuck, Celeste.” His voice carries through the door, strained and desperate, each syllable dripping with need.
I spring back as if burned, heart pounding against my injured ribs.
The knowledge that he’s pleasuring himself while thinking of me—saying my name like a prayer and a curse combined—leaves me dizzy with a dangerous cocktail of embarrassment and arousal.
I dart across the room, grabbing the first thing I see—the hair dye box—and pretend to be deeply engrossed in reading its ingredients when the bathroom door finally opens.
Ryan emerges in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets cling to his chest, tracking paths between defined muscles, disappearing beneath the towel’s edge. His hair is darker when wet, slicked back from his forehead, emphasizing the strong lines of his face.
My eyes betray me, dropping lower before I can stop them.
The towel does little to conceal the substantial bulge beneath—impressive even in what must be a semi-relaxed state.
An unbidden thought flashes through my mind: if he’s that noticeable after release, how formidable would he be fully aroused?
How would it feel to have all that hardness pressed against me, into me?
Heat scorches my cheeks as my focus slips where it shouldn’t.
Pulitzer nomination or not, every ounce of discipline shatters at the sight of him standing there in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Water still beads along his skin, sliding in slow rivulets I can’t seem to look away from.
I should turn around, should remind myself why I’m here—but God help me, I can’t stop staring. I return my gaze to the box in my hands, fighting to control my breathing, to appear casual and unaffected. To hide the fact that I just listened to him bring himself to climax while thinking of—me?
“We need to change your appearance,” he says, as if he hasn’t just done what he did, as if I don’t know, as if we’re discussing nothing more intimate than weather patterns. “Hair color, length. Those men have a description of you.”
I clear my throat, desperate for a normal conversation. “Hence the dye.”
“Auburn. It’ll work with your coloring.” He crosses to his pile of clothing, selecting sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I’ll cut it now while it’s wet, then we’ll color it in the morning after it dries.”
“You cut hair?” I ask, skeptical, relieved to be talking about something so mundane.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Among other skills. Nothing fancy, but enough to change your silhouette.”
“Now?” I touch my damp hair protectively.
“Best time to cut it is when it’s wet.” He sets down his clothes. “Sit at the desk. I’ll grab the scissors.”
Reluctantly, I move to the chair, watching in the dresser mirror as Ryan retrieves the shears from the shopping bag.
My hair falls past my shoulders, one of my few vanities.
I’ve worn it long for years—a signature look that’s become part of my professional identity.
The thought of losing it sends a pang of unexpected grief through me.
Ryan moves behind me, his reflection meeting mine in the mirror. “How much are you willing to lose?”
The question surprises me. I expected military efficiency—a utilitarian hack job done without consultation. “You’re asking my opinion?”
“It’s your hair.” His voice carries a hint of amusement. “I need to change your appearance, but I don’t need to make you miserable doing it.”
“I thought you’d just—chop it all off.”
“I could.” He lifts a section of my hair, studying the length. “But there are more sophisticated ways to alter your look while still leaving you something to work with.”
His fingers slide through my wet strands, slow and unhurried, and the world contracts to that touch.
Every nerve sparks alive, sharp as electricity, hot as flame.
The shiver that runs down my spine betrays me, leaving me exposed, raw.
I should recoil. I should hate the way he handles me as if I belong to him.
Instead, my body leans closer, desperate for more.
It feels wrong—God, it feels more invasive than when he pinned me against the wall with brute force.
Because this isn’t about power or control.
It’s tender. Intimate. Personal in a way I never invited, never expected.
His hand in my hair is a promise and a threat at once—one I don’t know how to refuse.
My throat tightens, voice dragging out husky when I manage, “What do you suggest?”
“Face-framing layers. Shorter in back, longer in front. It would change your silhouette completely while still being flattering.” His gaze locks onto mine in the mirror, steady and assessing. “You have good bone structure. We should emphasize that.”
My pulse thrums like I’ve just run miles. Not from fear; from something far more dangerous.
I swallow hard, fighting for composure. “You know a lot about hair for an ex–Delta Force operator.”
A real smile touches his lips this time, softening him in a way that makes my stomach flip. “Three sisters. One went to cosmetology school. I was her practice dummy for years.”
The image of a younger Ryan sitting patiently while his sister experimented on his hair humanizes him in a way that his scars and combat skills don’t. I find myself smiling back.
“Okay,” I concede. “I trust you.”
The words fall between us with unexpected weight. He holds my gaze in the mirror for a long moment, seeming to understand that I’m offering more than permission to cut my hair.
“I’ll be careful,” he says quietly.
He begins with a comb, working through the tangles with unexpected gentleness. His touch is sure but considerate, easing through knots without pulling. The same hands that disabled four men with lethal efficiency now handle my hair with a delicate, if not reverent, touch.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmurs, standing close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. Water droplets still cling to his skin, occasionally falling onto my shoulder as he leans forward.
His fingers replace the comb as he sections my hair, the heat of his hands against my scalp sending another shiver through me. I close my eyes, surrendering to the strange intimacy of the moment.
The first snip of the scissors makes me flinch.
“Trust, remember?” His voice is low, close to my ear.
I nod, keeping my eyes closed as he works. The rhythmic sound of the scissors becomes almost meditative. Snip. Pause. The brush of his fingers. Snip. Snip. The gentle tug as he positions another section. His breathing steady and controlled above me.
Minutes pass in this strange, suspended intimacy. I’ve had relationships with men that felt less personal than this haircut. Less revealing.
“Open your eyes,” he says finally.