Page 23 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

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 over to 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 border of 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 grip the 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.

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.