Page 12 of Reckless: Chaos

“Greedy.” But she settles more comfortably into the hay, pulling me closer. “First time was a disaster. Senior year, prom night, back of his father’s Volvo. Very cliché.”

“Tragic.” I press a kiss to her collarbone. “Let me guess—he didn’t know what he was doing?”

“Neither did I.” Her fingers play with the collar of my tactical gear. “First love was better. College. She taught me how to race motorcycles and write malicious code.”

“Dangerous woman.”

“Says the man who just threw me out of a plane.”

“Controlled descent,” I correct, sliding my hand under her back to pull her closer. “Very different from your usual chaos.”

She wraps her legs around my waist, and suddenly all that careful control threatens to snap. “Maybe I like a little chaos with my control.”

When I kiss her again, every point of contact becomes a data point in my mind. The soft gasp as my fingers trace the curve of her spine—noted. The way her pulse accelerates when I graze my teeth against her neck—cataloged. The slight arch of her back when my hand slides beneath her shirt—filed away for further analysis.

“Still gathering data?” Her voice carries that teasing lilt I’ve come to associate with successful system breaches. The kind that comes right before she proves how thoroughly she’s mapped my defenses.

I trail my fingers along her ribs with scientific precision, watching goosebumps follow in their wake like a perfectly executed line of code. “Preliminary results suggest increased sensitivity here.” My touch drifts lower, each response carefully documented in my mental database. “And here.” The catch in her breath provides another perfect data point—the kind of response that makes my beta mind hum with satisfaction at a well-structured experiment.

“Your methodology is showing, Professor.” She arches into my touch, her own analytical mind clearly appreciating the systematic approach. “Though your sample size might need expansion.”

“Good science requires thorough testing.” I trace another pattern, this time in binary, spelling out equations of want against her skin. Her breath catches, pupils dilating as her fingers twitch against my skin—the universal response of one coder recognizing another’s signature. “Multiple trials across various parameters.”

She retaliates with her own mathematical precision, fingers finding pressure points with targeting accuracy that would impress any security system. Each touch calculates, measures, analyzes—a perfect mirror of my own methodical nature. It’s like watching someone solve complex equations with pure instinct, beautiful in its efficiency.

She retaliates by running her nails down my back, and I have to pause my analysis as pleasure short-circuits my thought process. “What about your sensitivity points, Professor?” Her smile turns wicked as she finds a spot behind my ear that makes me shudder. “Should I be taking notes?”

“The scientific method requires thorough testing.” I catch her hands, pinning them above her head with one of mine. Her pupils dilate—another data point. “Multiple trials for accuracy.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly as I trace patterns on her skin—binary code spelling out everything I want to do to her. “Is this how you approach all your experiments?”

“No.” I let my free hand drift torturously slow across her stomach, watching each micro-expression. “You’re a unique case study.”

A whimper escapes her as my fingers dip just beneath her waistband, then retreat. Her hips chase my touch instinctively. “Tease.”

“Not teasing.” I kiss the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, letting my teeth graze the sensitive skin. “Establishing baseline reactions. Need to know what makes you...” I repeat the motion, harder this time, and her whole body arches. “Do that.”

She manages to free one hand, threading it into my hair. The sharp tug sends electricity down my spine. “What happened to your careful control?”

“Still in control.” I trail open-mouthed kisses down her sternum, pausing to map her reactions. “Just expanding the parameters of the experiment.”

Her laugh turns into a moan as I find a particularly sensitive spot. “God, only you would turn foreplay into a science experiment.”

I lift my head, meeting her gaze. “Would you prefer I stopped analyzing?” My hand slides lower, and her eyes flutter shut. “Stopped cataloging every sound?” Lower still, and she gasps. “Every reaction?”

“Don’t you dare stop.” Her voice breaks on the last word as I begin moving my fingers in slow, calculated circles around her clit.

I watch her face intently, adjusting pressure and speed based on the smallest changes in her expression. Like debugging code, every response provides crucial feedback. When her breathing turns erratic, I ease back, starting the pattern again.

“Finn,” she practically growls my name. “If you edge me one more time?—”

“Three times,” I correct, keeping my touch light enough to drive her mad. “The results are fascinating.”

She writhes against my hand. “I hate you.”

“Your physiological responses suggest otherwise.” I increase pressure just enough to make her moan. “But I should probably verify that hypothesis.”

This time when I bring her to the edge, I don’t pull back. Instead, I catalog every detail of her release—the way her back arches off the hay, the broken sound of my name on her lips, the flutter of her pulse against my tongue where it rests on her neck.

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