Page 37 of Rhythm and Rapture

"May I?" I gesture to the tablet she's clutching like a lifeline.

Her knuckles are white around the device. I can see the internal war playing out—her scientific mind knows the data is just numbers, but it's her last shield. She hesitates, fingers trembling slightly, then extends it toward me.

The moment I take it, her hands flutter helplessly before settling at her sides. Without her data to hide behind, she looks younger, more vulnerable. Perfect.

"Heart rate maintaining at 118," I read from the screen, letting my voice carry the same clinical detachment she's been clinging to. "Elevated but stabilizing. Let's see if we can change that."

I set the tablet aside with deliberate care, placing it just out of her reach. The symbolism isn't lost on either of us. Now there's nothing between us but air and intention.

"The thing about control," I say, moving closer with measured steps, "is knowing when to exercise it and when to release it."

My fingers find the first button of her lab coat. The fabric is quality—thick cotton that's been starched to perfection. Very professional. Very much a barrier.

"The experiment protocol suggests—" she starts, that professor voice trying to reassert itself.

"The experiment requires honest responses," I interrupt gently, holding her gaze as my fingers pause on the button. "Not hiding behind protocols."

One button slides free. I take my time, letting the anticipation build. She could stop me with a word, a gesture, the slightest indication of discomfort. Instead, her breathing accelerates, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that has nothing to do with scientific observation.

Two buttons. The lab coat parts slightly, revealing a glimpse of red lace that makes my mouth go dry. Her hands flutter again, seeking stability that isn't there. I notice she's shifted her weight, unconsciously moving closer even as her mind probably screams at her to maintain distance.

"Your breathing pattern has changed three times since I started this," I observe, working the third button with the samemaddening slowness. "Your pupils dilate every time my fingers brush the fabric. You're already responding and I haven't even touched skin yet."

"Felix..." My name emerges as half plea, half warning. The sound of it in her voice—breathy, desperate—tests every ounce of control I pride myself on.

"Your heart rate is climbing," I continue, not breaking eye contact as the final button yields. "I estimate 130 now. Your respiratory rate has doubled. Should I stop?"

The question hangs between us. This is her last chance to retreat into safety, to rebuild those careful walls. I watch emotions flicker across what I can see of her face—fear, desire, curiosity, need.

"No," she whispers, and the word carries more weight than any data could.

"Is this what you want, Sabina?"

Using her real name is calculated—I know it will strip away her last defense. And it does. I watch it happen in real time: the confident persona of The Hidden Chemist crumbles, leaving just her. Raw. Real. Magnificent in her vulnerability.

"Yes," she breathes, and the certainty in that single word despite her obvious nerves makes something protective surge in my chest. "Please."

The final button comes undone with a soft sound that seems to echo in the studio. I push the lab coat off her shoulders with careful precision, watching as it slides down her arms in slow motion. She shivers as the fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in red lingerie that transforms her from scientist to siren.

"Beautiful," Roman says softly from his position.

"Exquisite," I correct, because beautiful is too simple a word for what she is right now. My hands hover just above her shoulders, not quite touching, letting her feel the heat from mypalms. "The way your skin flushes, the micro-tremors in your muscles, the dilation of surface capillaries..."

"You're analyzing me while seducing me," she accuses, but there's wonder in her voice rather than indignation.

"Is it working?" I ask, and finally, finally allow my fingertips to make contact with her skin.

The touch is whisper-light, just the barest trace along the curve of her shoulders, but her reaction is electric. She gasps, back arching in a way that displays the elegant line of her throat. The monitors behind us are probably going wild, but I don't need machines to read her responses.

"I think that's a yes," Ash observes with obvious delight.

I trail my hands down her arms with scientific precision, cataloging every shiver, every catch in her breath. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm silk over delicate bones. When I reach her wrists, I pause, thumbs finding her pulse points. The rhythm there is wild, hummingbird-fast.

"One hundred thirty-two beats per minute," I report, counting the rapid flutter. "Radial pulse strong and rapid. Classic arousal response."

"I could have told you that," she manages, aiming for sarcasm but achieving something closer to desperate yearning.

"But experiencing it is different from knowing it," I say, echoing her earlier realization. "Isn't that what this experiment is about? The gap between theoretical knowledge and practical application?"

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