Page 88 of Boiling Point
“Now,” he said, coaxing me, “assuming amplitude stays the same…but I increase the frequency to…” He turned the dial. “One hundred pulses per second. Are the pulses any stronger?”
The new intensity crashed through me, and I struggled to find my voice. “No,” I gasped, the word nearly lost on a breath.
The vibrations were relentless and consuming as he asked, “Then what have I done to the amount of energy delivered to your…stimulated nervous system over time?”
I shuddered, my whole body taut and trembling. “Doubled it,” I moaned.
His laugh was unrestrained, full of delight and mischief, and it sent another wave of heat through me.
“Precisely.” He turned the dial as high as it would go. The vibrator whined, and the surge of sensation lit up every nerve ending I had. Too much. Almost unbearable. But I couldn’t pull away.
He pinned my hips down with his forearm, the force of it exquisite, and the vibration seared through me, fast as lightning. He watched as I writhed, as my body strained against his hold, desperate for more but too overwhelmed to take it.
“With all this energy I’m sending through you,” he said, teasing and sure, “there’s only so much these sensitive nerves can take until they…overload.”
The words barely registered before the world shattered white. My muscles clenched around the sensation, my voice breaking into a cry.
I came back to myself slowly, breathless and undone. The duvet was bunched beneath me, and my skin pulsed with aftershocks. Cal shut off the vibrator and eased it away, his eyes never leaving mine.
“In biosexual terms,” he said, his mouth curving into that wicked grin, “that ‘overload’ is called an orgasm.”
I let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, the sound raw and unconfined.
“That was your best lecture yet,” I managed, my breath still catching.
He pulled me up, wrapping me in his arms, the motion tender and possessive. “I know,” he said, cocky, unrepentant.
I tipped my chin up, lips grazing his ear. “Five stars, Professor,” I whispered, letting the title drip like sin between us.
He went still for half a heartbeat—just long enough for me to feel the shift—then let out a low, dark groan and gripped my hips.
“Say that again,” he growled, voice thick with hunger, “and I won’t stop until you forget your own name.”
I leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “Thank you for the lesson, Dr. Hawthorne.”
He let out a low, guttural sound and buried his face in my neck, tension rolling through him like thunder. “Christ, just get me through the next two days,” he breathed. “Freedom is so close I can taste it.”
I didn’t answer. I just kissed him like I could bend time.
Chapter 31
Callum
Spring term was done, but the ghosts of it still lingered—scattered papers, red pens, the sterile scent of the physics lab clinging to my skin. I sat in my office where the overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly. Absently, I reached for the coffee cup on my desk as I reviewed the next row of grades. The first sip caught me off guard—bitter, thin, and tepid. I grimaced but swallowed it anyway. It was the standard office blend: weak, industrial, and barely drinkable. A far cry from what I brewed at home. But I needed something—anything—to push through the end-of-term tedium. A stimulant and a distraction. Both were in short supply as I entered the last of my grades.
Two screens flanked me like sentries—one with my online grade book, the other with the university’s portal. I worked methodically, the names blurring into numbers, into decimals, into letters. A few more entries, and I’d be free. Free of this place. Free to take Gabrielle to England, where there would be no secrets and no pretense, only the truth of us, laid bare in the long shadow of my family’s approval.
I reached her name.
Clark, Gabrielle Suzanne
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, a slight tremor in them as I paused, savoring this last act. She had scored a 94 on the final exam, well above the class average of 85. Her overall grade was a 95.7. I let the numbers settle in, let the pride unfurl in me like a slow bloom. She’d done an exemplary job, and in one decisive motion, I entered an A for her final mark.
Sitting back, I allowed myself a moment to bask in the quiet triumph of it, a smile tugging at the edges of my mouth. “Well done, love,” I said softly to the empty room. She had earned every bit of it on her own—no favors, boosts, or advantages. Merely her determination. Her brilliance.
A sharp chime from my laptop fractured the quiet, and the name flashing on the incoming video call sent an icy spike through me: Father. Unscheduled, though hardly a surprise.
I stood—briskly enough to send my office chair skidding with a muted scrape against the linoleum—and crossed to shut the door. The old handle stuck slightly before clicking into place. I turned the lock. Then I slipped on my headphones—a preemptive shield against the hallway beyond—and perhaps against what I was about to hear. I drew a full breath and accepted the call.
