Page 40 of Rhythm and Rapture

Chad's cameras record everything from multiple angles, but what they can't capture is the energy in the room. The way three different approaches—intensity, chaos, and control—blend into something entirely new. The way her responses teach us as much as we're teaching her.

"I can't—the data—" she gasps at one point, still trying to maintain some pretense of documentation.

"The only data that matters," I tell her, steadying her as her knees threaten to give out, "is what you're feeling right now."

"Everything," she breathes. "I'm feeling everything."

And that's the real experiment—not the numbers or the recordings, but this moment where theory becomes practice, where chemistry transcends textbooks, where equipment clatters to the floor as we abandon the carefully arranged lab setup in favor of something far more primal.

Chapter Sixteen

Her breasts lay bare,exposed to the cool air, as he rolls one taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand glided down her stomach, reaching the apex of her thighs to cup her mound, rubbing gentle circles with his palm..

Ash's fingers trace the length of Sabina's slit, and I feel my gown tenting, my erection throbbing painfully, pulsing as I steal glimpses of Ash's fingers slipping between Sabina's slick folds. The wet, rhythmic sounds fill the air as Ash traces tight circles around Sabina's clit, causing it to swell, her pussy lips quivering as arousal spreads through her like wildfire.

Sabina's hooded gaze locks onto mine, her eyes telling me she understands this is no longer just about science—it's become something much more primal than that. "Harder," she whispers, a plea wrapped in urgency. Ash responds, easing two long, thick fingers deep inside her, mere inches from where I stand, observing. Her body stretches to welcome him, and she gasps his name, her voice a gentle caress. She moves in sync with Ash's expert touch, grinding against his skilled fingers, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. I can't hold back any longer. Stepping forward, I press myself against her from behind, feeling the burning heat of my desire against her entrance. I lean in, my voice rough, "Ready to take some data for your research, Doc?" Her response is a breathless, "Yes."

“I don’t think you are,” I growl, wrapping my arms around her thighs and yank her to the very edge of the bed. The sharp motion causes her to gasp, but she doesn't pull away; she splits open for me, inviting, practically trembling with anticipation.

I don't waste time. I bury my face in the slick heat between her legs, flattening my tongue and dragging it up her center, slow at first, then with a building, relentless pressure. I hear her voice, tinny and high, stuttering a protest that melts into a moan as I map the shape of her with my mouth and the practiced swirl of my tongue.

Her hands grasp the sheets, her analytical mind stripped bare by sensation. Her moans are like music, and I look up just to watch her fall apart, her mouth wide and eyes unfocused. She's exquisite like this, caught between surrender and the desperate need to understand what's happening to her.

I don't let up. I curl two fingers inside her, searching for that perfect spot, the one that will make her see stars, all while keeping up the wet, rhythmic flick of my tongue. Ash moves in, pinching one nipple between his knuckles, and Felix leans overto whisper something into her ear. Her body is a live wire now—every nerve ending lit up, every muscle straining toward climax.

"Roman—oh god—" she whimpers, but I'm not satisfied until I feel her shatter under my mouth, legs locking around my head as she comes with a sharp, keening cry that echoes off the sterile tile and glass. I keep going, gentle now, coaxing every last wave out of her until she's limp and half-laughing, half-sobbing in some language only her body knows.

When I finally pull away, there's a moment of total stillness in the room. I stay crouched at the foot of the bed, just watching her: Sabina's head thrown back, her lips parted, her hair a wild halo damp with sweat. She's panting like she's just finished a marathon, eyes unfocused but locked somewhere above me, processing the aftershocks. I can practically see her brain—always running, always dissecting—short-circuiting and trying to reboot. Her thighs twitch with the memory of what I've just done, and her chest rises and falls in frantic, uneven intervals.

She finally looks down and meets my gaze. Her eyes are glassy and wide, as if I ripped open some hidden compartment inside her and now we're both staring at whatever's leaking out. I lick my lips, savoring the taste I left on my tongue, and I can see the way her pupils dilate when she realizes how much I'm enjoying the evidence of her unraveling. I want her to see that—want her to know that I love this version of her, the one that's raw and exposed and not in control of a single fucking thing.

"Now you're ready," I murmur, and my voice is lower than even I expect—something predatory, reverent.

I stand, my hands finding her hips as I guide her further onto the bed. She moves with me, trembling, letting me position her. With deliberate care, I turn her over, and she goes willingly, pressing her face into the sheets as I pull her hips up and back toward me. The sight of her like this—open, vulnerable, trusting—makes something primal surge through me.

I press my body against her, grinding slow and deliberate, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. The heat of my cock against her skin, slick with her own wetness, makes her shudder all over again. The sound that comes out of her is less a moan than a sob, half-panic and half-ecstasy, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

I lean down, lips tracing a path up her spine, tasting the salt of her sweat as I cup her breasts in my palms, leaving nothing between us but hunger. I nip at her shoulder blade, and she arches her back in response, pushing her ass harder against me, searching for friction, for punishment, for release. I could take her right now, could fuck her until she screams herself hoarse, but I want to draw this out, I want to make her first time something to remember, want to see how close I can bring her to the edge before she breaks for us.

I let her dangle, teasing her with the promise of more, and then, when I sense she's about to lose her mind, I pull back. She whimpers at the loss, but before she can protest, I hook my arms under her knees and yank her to the edge of the mattress until her calves dangle, feet barely skimming the floor. She looks down and sees me kneeling between her spread legs, my eyes locked on her messy, ruined pussy. I want her to know what's coming, and I want her to beg for it.

"Roman," she whispers, voice cracked and desperate, "please."

That's all it takes. I bury my face in her again, my tongue navigating the slick folds with the patience of a man who knows he owns her pleasure now. The taste is sharper, richer the second time, and I grin into her as she tries to keep her composure and fails spectacularly, her entire body convulsing with each stroke. I don't let up, not for a second, not even when she fists the sheets and shrieks my name so loud it echoes throughout the room. I hold her right there, at the ragged borderof too much and not enough, and only when her whole body goes taut and her thighs clamp around my head do I let her fall. She comes hard, a full-body quake, and I drink it in like oxygen, refusing to stop until she's a trembling, ruined mess.

With a nod at Ash and Felix, I position myself behind her properly, one hand steady on her hip while the other trails down her spine. We agreed that her first time should be with just one of us. And while we all wanted the honor, they were also trepidatious about causing her any pain.

"Say stop," I grit out, and she shakes her head. I lose myself in her heat.

I gripthe edge of the bed, the soft sheets bunching under my fingers as I try to remember how to breathe, how to think, how to keep the wet heat between my thighs from hijacking my higher functions. There's a desperate, wild animal in me now—one that wants, takes, claws and fucks and bites. My brain, normally so full of caution and calculation, is a lit fuse burning straight for the stick of dynamite at my core.

Roman starts slow, his hands anchored to my hips, grounding me against the g-forces of my racing pulse. The first blunt, thick push of him is careful, measured, but it's still such a shock that every muscle in my body contracts at once, my heels digging into the mattress. I thought I understood the physical mechanics, the possible discomfort, the pain threshold, but I was not prepared for how much I would want it. Not just tolerate, not just endure, but crave, with an instinctive, animal certainty that overrides every scholarly objection.

He eases in, then stops, breathing hard, forehead pressed to the back of my neck. I can feel him trembling, not with restraint but with reverence, and it makes me dizzy, makes me want to arch into the stretch of him until I come undone.

"Say stop," he grits out.

I shake my head, wild and wordless, grabbing his wrist, pinning both of us in place. Every inch further, every controlled thrust, is a chemical chain reaction, my body making new molecules of sensation from nothing, oxygen and hydrogen and carbon combusting behind my eyes.

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