Page 21 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)
Chapter Fourteen
My turn. The methodical approach. Where Roman overwhelmed and Ash distracted, I intend to deconstruct.
I approach with surgical precision, each step calculated.
The studio lights catch the red rhinestones on her mask as she tracks my movement, those intelligent eyes trying to predict my strategy.
That's what she doesn't understand yet—the most effective control often comes from removing her ability to analyze.
"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 same maddening 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 my palms. "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?"
My hands move to her waist, fingers spanning the narrow width. I can feel her trembling—not from cold or fear, but from pure sensory overload. Every nerve ending is firing, sending signals her brilliant mind can't quite process fast enough.
"I need..." she starts, then stops, frustration flickering across her features.
I understand. How do you articulate a need you've never experienced? How does someone who deals in formulas and facts express something as ephemeral as desire?
"We know," Roman says, moving closer with that predatory grace of his.
When Felix moves toward me with that deliberate precision I've come to associate with his personality, I realize there's nothing familiar or controlled about this situation anymore.
Where Roman was intense and Ash was playful, Felix is something else entirely—calculating in a way that makes me feel like prey.
His hands reach for the tablet first, and I watch helplessly as he sets aside my last connection to scientific objectivity. The gesture is gentle but firm, like he's removing a security blanket I no longer need.
"I think we have enough data," he says quietly, and his voice carries a heat I've never heard before. Professional Felix, careful Felix, is looking at me like he wants to dismantle me piece by piece and catalog every response. "Time for the hands-on portion of the experiment."
My breath catches as his hands move to the buttons of my lab coat. Each movement is calculated, deliberate, taking twice as long as necessary. He's making me wait, making me anticipate, and somehow that's even more intense than Roman's direct approach or Ash's playful chaos.
"You're studying me," I observe, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The same way you study chemical reactions," he confirms, undoing the first button with careful precision. "Every variable matters. The speed of approach, the pressure of touch, the timing between stimuli."
Another button comes undone, and I can feel cool air against my heated skin. "Your breathing pattern has changed three times since I started this. Your pupils dilate every time my fingers brush the fabric. You're already responding and I haven't even touched skin yet."
"Felix..." His name comes out as half plea, half warning.
"Is this what you want, Sabina?"
In the back of my mind, I know it will be edited out of the final video but the use of my real name instead of my Hidden Chemist persona breaks something fundamental inside me.
The mask—literal and metaphorical—that I've been hiding behind crumbles, leaving just me.
Not the confident performer who educates while she entertains.
Not the brilliant scientist who can explain desire on a molecular level.
Just Sabina who's never been touched like this, never felt wanted like this, never experienced anything beyond theory and imagination.
"Yes," I breathe, surprised by how certain I sound despite the chaos in my mind. "Please."
The final button comes undone, and Felix pushes the lab coat off my shoulders with the same careful precision he's applied to everything else. It pools at my feet, leaving me in the red lingerie that suddenly feels like both too much and not enough coverage.
"Beautiful," Roman says softly from his position, and I can feel all three sets of eyes on me.
"Exquisite," Felix corrects, his hands hovering just above my shoulders, not quite touching. "The way your skin flushes, the micro-tremors in your muscles, the dilation of surface capillaries..."
"You're analyzing me while seducing me," I accuse, but there's no heat in it.
"Is it working?" he asks, and finally, finally his hands make contact with my skin.
The touch is so light it's barely there, just fingertips tracing the curve of my shoulders, but after all the anticipation it feels like being struck by lightning. I gasp, my back arching involuntarily, and I hear Ash chuckle softly.
"I think that's a yes," Ash observes.
Felix's hands trail down my arms with scientific precision, mapping every response. When he reaches my wrists, he pauses, thumbs finding my pulse points.
"One hundred thirty-two beats per minute," he reports, and I realize he's counting without equipment. "Radial pulse strong and rapid. Classic arousal response."
"I could have told you that," I manage, trying for sarcasm but achieving something closer to desperate.
"But experiencing it is different from knowing it," Felix says, echoing my earlier realization. "Isn't that what this experiment is about? The gap between theoretical knowledge and practical application?"
His hands move to my waist, and every point of contact creates its own reaction—heat radiating outward, nerve endings firing in patterns I've studied but never felt. The scientific part of my brain tries to catalog the sensations even as they threaten to overwhelm me completely.
I stand there in red lace and promise, every monitor showing what we can all see with our eyes. I'm coming apart at the seams, the brilliant professor reduced to pure sensation. The realization hits me with sudden clarity.
"All variables," I gasp suddenly, looking at each of them in turn. "The experiment requires testing all variables simultaneously for accurate data."
"Together?" Roman's voice could melt steel.
"For complete results," I confirm, and there's desperation beneath the scientific justification that I can't hide anymore.
They converge like they've rehearsed it, but this is pure improvisation. Roman moves behind me, Ash to my side, Felix remaining in front—three points of a triangle with me at the center.
"I need..." I start, then stop, unsure how to articulate what I need when I've never had it before.
"We know," Roman says, his voice a dark promise as he moves closer. "We've got you."
And suddenly they're all touching me—in all the right places—my breasts, my inner thighs, slipping their fingers inside me.
It should be overwhelming. Roman's hand in my hair, Ash's fingers tracing patterns on my arms, Felix's hands steady on my waist, grounding me even as everything else spins out of control.
. It is overwhelming. But somehow having all three of them there makes me feel safer, not more vulnerable.
"Peak heart rate approaching," I try to narrate even as they systematically destroy my composure. "Subjects showing coordinated response patterns—oh god..."
"Forget the numbers," Roman growls against my neck. "Just feel."
Ash leans in for a deep kiss, his lips capturing mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
His tongue traces patterns that match the rhythm he's been drumming against my skin, turning our lips into music.
Felix's thumb finds my clit, alternating between circling and strumming with the same precision I've only seen him use on stage while performing.
Behind me, Roman's mouth finds the nape of my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot where spine meets skull, sending electric shivers cascading down my back. As if my body is an instrument they’re learning to play.
The synchronous exploration of my body makes me finally understand why they call it chemistry—every touch catalyzes new reactions, creating compounds of pleasure I never knew existed or could be capable of feeling.
"The data—" I gasp at one point, still trying to maintain some pretense of documentation even as my world tilts on its axis.
"Still want to document this?" Ash teases gently, his fingers never stopping their maddening rhythm against my skin.
"The only data that matters," Felix says, sliding off my panties, revealing my wetness and steadying me as my knees threaten to give out, "is what you're feeling right now."
"Everything," I breathe, the word escaping like a confession. "I'm feeling everything."
I laugh, slightly hysterical, as the absurdity of trying to quantify this hits me. "I can't... I don't know how to document this. Also, I don't think there's a scientific journal in the world that would publish these findings."
"Their loss," Felix murmurs, and then they're moving me toward the bed that's been set up in the corner of the studio—because of course Lorna thought of everything.
"Don't document," Roman tells me, his voice rough with desire but tender with care. "Just feel."
And for the first time in my adult life, I stop thinking and surrender completely to sensation.
The scientist in me will want to analyze this later—to understand how three men who were strangers days ago have become the safest space I've ever known.
But right now, in this moment, I'm just Sabina.
Not hiding behind a mask or a lab coat or scientific terminology.
Just me, discovering that sometimes the most important experiments are the ones where you throw out the hypothesis and simply experience the results.