Page 41 of Rhythm and Rapture

Ash is everywhere above me, his hands on my breasts, his mouth finding each exposed, sensitive inch, his words a torrent of praise and filth in my ear. "Look at you, Sabina. Fucking beautiful. Every part of you, hell, even your voice—listen to yourself. You sound so fucking good, sweetheart—keep making those noises, just like that?—"

I am making noises. I didn't know I could. I am sobbing, gasping, half-laughing, my pleasure a wave that drowns out the clinical self and leaves only the animal, the ache, the need?—

Felix's hands find my face; he tilts my chin up so I have to look at him, his pupils blown wide, the black mask turning his eyes into twin voids. "Don't hide behind the data. Don't distance yourself. Just feel it." His thumb sweeps the corner of my mouth,smearing lipstick that's probably already ruined, and then he kisses me, slow and exploratory, letting me set the pace.

Roman's hands dig into my hips, holding me in place as he sets a rhythm that's punishing but perfect, not too fast or slow, just relentless rhythm, and the friction is incredible, the stretch more intense than anything my fingers ever dared to produce. I can feel the evidence of my arousal dripping down my thighs, evaporating every remaining particle of shame; there's only the hungry, greedy, wet wanting.

"Good?" he asks, voice thick and gentle. I can't answer with words. I press my hips back, taking him deeper, and the sound I make is part howl, part prayer.

The pressure builds and builds, a feedback loop of stimulus and response, all three of them learning my body as if it's a new instrument, building on each other's explorations, never crowding, always amplifying. Felix pinching my nipple just as Ash bites my shoulder, Roman pounding from behind, pushing me into Felix's mouth—each node of sensation spiking, hijacking my attention, overlapping in ways that make it impossible to map, only to experience.

Somewhere in the cascade, I start to come apart. My legs collapse, but Ash is there, holding me upright, whispering, "Let go, Sabina, let go, we've got you—" And I do. I shatter, pleasure detonating through every limb, my knees buckling and my fingernails digging into Roman's forearm as I spasm around his cock.

Roman curses, losing what's left of his composure, and I feel the hot rush of him deep inside, filling me as my whole body contracts involuntarily. He holds, stills, pressing his mouth to my shoulder, and I want to stretch that moment for hours—a perfect, trembling equilibrium.

It's Ash who keeps my mind from shorting out, his hands gentle again as he kisses my forehead, wipes sweat from my brow. "Breathe," he says, voice soft, "you did so fucking good."

Felix waits until my eyes refocus and then brings me a glass of water, which I swallow greedily, the coolness a new spike of sensation in my burning nerves. He holds the cup steady, his thumb tracing lazy circles against my jaw while I drink, and the simple tenderness of the gesture makes my chest tight with emotion I can't name.

When he helps me stand, my legs refuse to cooperate, trembling like I've just run a marathon. I'm laughing and crying simultaneously, gasping for air, unable to process the magnitude of what's just happened, my body still pulsing with aftershocks that make coherent thought impossible.

The data recording tablet is on the floor by the lab table, screen shattered into a spider web of broken glass. I should care about the destroyed equipment, the ruined experiment, the complete abandonment of scientific protocol, but I have zero regrets about the destruction of property. Instead, I feel nothing but savage satisfaction at the evidence of how thoroughly they've unraveled me.

Ash finally breaks the silence, grinning like a madman. "So, Chemist, what's the official scientific conclusion?"

I try for a joke, but it comes out soft and unsteady. "Further study is strongly indicated."

Roman wraps his arms around me from behind, still gloriously naked and unashamed, his chin resting on my shoulder. The solid warmth of him grounds me when everything else feels like I'm floating. "Any time you want to run another experiment, we're all in."

"Better sample size," adds Felix, deadpan, but he's smiling too. "More trials. Control group. Extensive replication."

I laugh and close my eyes as another tremor rolls through me, my body still hypersensitive to every touch, every breath. The three of them surround me—tangled, sweaty, perfect—and for the first time in my adult life, I'm not observing from a safe distance. I'm not performing for cameras or hiding behind masks or calculating how to survive the next disaster.

My mask sits askew, my hair is a wreck, and I feel thoroughly debauched and absolutely transformed—ALIVE. Every variable is pointing to the only conclusion that matters:

I want this. Again and again, with a desperation that terrifies and exhilarates me, as often as they'll let me, as often as my overloaded body can bear.

For the first time, I understand why people risk everything for connection, for meaning, for the burning need to be touched and known and wanted.

And these three men have just taught me the most important lesson of my life: some things are too precious to quantify.

Chapter Seventeen

A WEEK AND A HALF LATER

The check sitson my kitchen table like a rebuke. $428,000 for the calendar shoot and video content—printed in neat block numbers so enormous I have to squint to make them real. Just the first payment, according to Lorna's note. "Initial disbursement based on pre-sales and the first 48 hours of traffic. Expect substantially more as numbers continue to climb. P.S. - Whispers of a certain indie rock group making an appearance have sent views through the stratosphere. Well done. I'veincluded some stills Chad selected—these are extraordinary, Sabina."

The photosareextraordinary.Anddevastating.

The first shows me at the lab table, mid-explanation, one hand gesturing at the molecular model while the other rests on my hip. The red mask catches the light like fresh blood, my eyes bright with the confidence of someone in their element. The Hidden Chemist in full glory—brilliant, untouchable, in complete control.

The second makes my chest tight every time I glimpse it.

It's from the bed, after everything. My mask is askew, pushed up into my hair. My face is turned toward the camera but my eyes are somewhere else—soft and unfocused, lips parted, skin flushed. But it's the expression that stops my heart. Raw vulnerability mixed with wonder, like someone discovering something sacred and terrifying all at once. Behind me, you can just make out three shadowed figures, their presence suggested rather than shown.

I look happy. Not performative happy, not relieved-to-have-money happy. Actually, genuinely, bone-deep happy in a way I haven't been since before Maria died.

The third photo I can barely stand to look at—all four of us tangled together afterward, my face buried against Roman's chest while Ash's hand rests protective on my hip and Felix's fingers thread through my hair. We look like we belong to each other.

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