Page 14 of Reckless: Chaos

I try to maintain some semblance of control, to keep recording her reactions like the scientist I am. The way her breath catches when I nip at her lower lip. The precise arch of her spine as my hands slide up her ribs. The frequency of her moans as I?—

“Fuck,” she gasps against my mouth, and that single word shorts out what’s left of my higher brain functions.

Her shirt rides up, revealing the canvas of her skin to my hungry gaze. Her breasts rise and fall with each quick breath, nipples tightening under my scrutiny. The mathematics of her beauty overwhelm me—the golden ratio of her curves, the perfect symmetry of her form, the calculated risk of letting myself fall this completely into need.

My eyes track lower, to where her thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache I can smell on her. This is what drives me mad—not just the visual data or the physical responses, but the knowledge that her body’s reactions mirror my own desperate hunger. For once, our chaos and control align into something devastating.

“Roll over.” The command comes out rough, my usual precise diction fractured by need. I watch her comply, each movement a deliberate performance that makes my cock throb. She knows exactly what she’s doing to my systems, how thoroughly she’s corrupting my protocols.

A drop of her arousal trails down her inner thigh—my finger traces its path back to its source, collecting data I can barely process. The perfect curve of her ass rises into the air, andwhatever remains of my analytical mind disappears into static. All my carefully constructed barriers, my firewalls against pure instinct, crash down at once.

“You look perfect here.” Clinical observation fails me as I lean over her, my chest pressed to her back. Even my beta nature’s drive to analyze can’t maintain objectivity when faced with such precise data. “Like an elegant solution to a complex equation. Every variable perfectly aligned for thorough examination.”

She pushes back against me, and I recognize the calculated intent behind her movement—the same precision she uses when targeting security weaknesses. “Your processing time is excessive, Professor.” Her voice carries that sharp edge that tells me she’s already solved this particular problem and is waiting for me to catch up. “Stop running diagnostics and execute the program already.”

“Impatient,” I murmur, but I admire the efficiency of her logic. My cock slides against her slick heat, and for once both our analytical minds align on the most straightforward solution. “Some processes require proper initialization.”

“And some require parallel processing.” She reaches back, fingers tangling in my hair with targeted accuracy. The slight tug sends electrical impulses down my spine that even my beta brain can’t quantify. “Multiple threads running simultaneously.”

The technical perfection of her metaphor makes me groan. Of course she’d understand exactly how to short-circuit my defenses—one beta hacking another’s carefully constructed controls. My hands map coordinates on her hips, positioning with mathematical precision while my mind tries to maintain some semblance of systematic analysis.

I should draw this out. Should catalog every shiver, every gasp, every clench of muscle. Should maintain some semblance of the careful observer. But the sight of her spread before me, thescent of her need mixing with mine, the heat of her body calling to my most primitive coding—it’s too much.

My hands grip her hips, fingertips pressing into soft flesh as I position myself. The head of my cock pushes against her entrance, and the last fragments of my control splinter. Even now, some distant part of my mind tries to measure the angle, calculate the pressure, analyze the?—

She rocks back, taking me in one deep thrust, and every calculation dissolves into pure sensation.

The tight, wet heat of her surrounds me like a system overload, short-circuiting every attempt at analysis. I hold myself there, buried to the hilt, feeling her body adjust to my intrusion. Her inner walls pulse around me, and my remaining thoughts scatter like corrupted data.

Time loses meaning. For once, I stop measuring, stop calculating, stop trying to quantify every response. Each thrust drives me deeper, and I let myself get lost in her—in the way she moves with me, in how perfectly we fit together. Her moans echo through the barn, and I find myself craving the sound more than any elegant equation.

My hands grip her hips tighter, fingers pressing into soft flesh hard enough to mark. Some distant part of me still tries to analyze, to maintain that beta control, but then she clenches around me, and everything else falls away. No more professor, no more analyst—just us, finding something that defies explanation.

“Perfect,” I breathe against her neck, and for once I don’t need to measure what makes it so. “So perfect for me.”

She reaches back, finding my hand and tangling our fingers together. The gesture carries more meaning than any data point I could collect. When she whispers my name, it sounds like a solution to a puzzle I didn’t even know I was trying to solve.

“Fuck, Cay.” My voice comes out wrecked, all traces of the careful professor gone. One hand slides up her sweat-slicked back, tangling in her hair. The other snakes beneath her, finding the swollen bud of her clit. “Let me feel you lose control.”

She pushes back against me, taking me impossibly deeper. “You first, Professor.”

The challenge in her voice strikes something primitive in me. My hips snap forward harder, faster, the sound of flesh meeting flesh mixing with our shared moans. I feel her tension building, her inner muscles fluttering around my cock. My fingers work her clit in tight circles, my own release building like a system reaching critical mass.

“Together,” I manage, though speech feels foreign now. All that exists is the point where our bodies join, the building pressure, the inevitable crash. “Let go with me, love.”

She breaks first, her body convulsing around me as she cries out my name. The rhythmic pulsing of her orgasm triggers my own, and I bury myself deep one final time as pleasure whites out my vision. For endless moments, there is no analysis, no data, no thought—just pure, unfiltered sensation as I empty myself inside her.

Reality returns slowly, sweetly. First, the warmth of her body beneath mine, fitting against me in ways I couldn’t have calculated. Then, the gentle flutter of her pulse against my lips where they press against her neck. The scent of us mingled together makes my usually ordered mind hazy with contentment.

For once, I don’t try to analyze—I just feel.

“I think you broke my brain,” she murmurs against my chest, and I can hear the smile in her voice. That real smile, not her usual sharp-edged one. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Professor.”

“I excel at thorough research.” I trace lazy patterns on her skin, not coding this time, just touching because I can’t stop. Because I don’t want to stop. “Though I think we both exceeded initial projections.”

She laughs softly, the sound unguarded in a way that makes my chest tight. “Is that your way of saying I surprised you?”

“You always surprise me.” I press a kiss to her temple, tasting salt and satisfaction. “It’s one of your more fascinating qualities.”

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