Page 13 of Reckless: Chaos

Afterward, as she’s catching her breath, I trace my thumb across her lower lip, cataloging the subtle changes in her breathing. “The evidence suggests my initial hypothesis was correct.”

She swats my shoulder weakly. “You’re impossible.”

I smile against her skin. “Just thorough.”

Her hands slide down my chest, and the predatory look in her eyes makes me shiver. “My turn to gather some data.”

As her fingers trace lower, following the lines of muscle with clear intent, I realize I may have created a monster. A beautiful, brilliant monster who’s about to make me lose every shred of careful control.

For science, of course.

As her clever fingers map the planes of my chest, I draw in a sharp breath. Her fingers move with the same methodical precision I used earlier, but her touch leaves trails of heat that short-circuit my ability to observe. She maps coordinates on my skin with the focus of a cartographer discovering new territory. Her touch leaves fire in its wake, short-circuiting my analytical mind with each new discovery.

“Fascinating response,” she murmurs, mimicking my tone as her hand drifts lower, tracing the sensitive skin just above my waistband. “The subject exhibits increased respiratory rate and pupil dilation when stimulated here.” Her nail scrapes lightly along my hip bone and my careful control fractures further.

“The subject,” I manage, though my voice sounds strangled, my usual precise diction failing, “would appreciate less commentary and more—” My words fragment as her clever fingers find a sensitive spot, a weakness in my defenses she immediately logs for future reference. Trust a hacker to exploit every vulnerability she discovers.

“More what, Professor?” Her smile carries that sharp intelligence that first drew me to her, the one that tells me she’s already mapping my responses, creating algorithms of pleasure based on each reaction. “I need clear parameters for my experiment. For proper documentation, of course.”

Even now, with desire short-circuiting my higher functions, I recognize the beautiful precision in her approach. She analyzes me the way she breaks code—methodically, thoroughly, testing each response before moving to the next line of inquiry. My own beta nature appreciates her technique even as it drives me mad.

I thread my fingers through her hair, unable to resist arching into her touch. “You’re terrible at following parameters.”

“True.” Her tongue traces binary patterns down my abdomen, each hot, wet stroke making my muscles tense. “I prefer to hack the system.”

Her fingers wrap around my length with the same precise attention she gives to cracking encryption. My carefully maintained control stutters like corrupted code, each touch a perfectly executed breach of my security. She strokes upward with deliberate pressure, applying the exact force needed to maximize response—my body’s own penetration testing. Her thumb circles the sensitive tip with mathematical precision,making my hips buck involuntarily, a physical response I can’t help but admire even as it wrecks me.

“Fascinating data point,” she murmurs, her analytical mind clearly cataloging every reaction just as I would. The symmetry of our beta natures shows in how we approach pleasure—systematic, thorough, each touch an experiment building toward a greater theorem of desire.

My carefully cataloged observations dissolve into pure sensation as she learns every inch of me with the same ruthless intensity she applies to breaking through my security systems. Each twist of her wrist, each perfectly timed squeeze takes me apart line by line, like she’s debugging my defenses and exploiting every vulnerability she finds.

“Look who’s lost control now,” she whispers against my hip, and I can hear the triumph in her voice.

I want to argue, to maintain some semblance of my usual analytical composure, but then her mouth replaces her hand and coherent thought becomes impossible. My world narrows to the wet heat of her tongue, the slight scrape of teeth that makes my hands fist in her hair, the hum of satisfaction she makes when I can’t hold back a moan.

“Cay,” I gasp as pressure builds. “I’m close?—”

She pulls back just enough to smirk up at me. “Now who’s edging who?”

“Evil,” I manage, though it comes out more reverent than accusatory. “Brilliant and evil.”

“You love it.” She looks up at me, her eyes filled with a mix of mischief and desire, before taking me deep once again. I can feel the warmth of her mouth, the gentle pressure, and the soft movements of her tongue as she proves just how thoroughly she’s learned to hack my careful control. Her rhythm is steady, her touch delicate yet firm, drawing out a gasp from deep within me. Each motion is calculated, designed to push me closer to theedge, and I can’t help but surrender to the sensation, my body responding to her every touch with a surge of pleasure.

When I come back to myself, she’s propped on an elbow beside me, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Data collection complete,” she says with a grin. “Though we should probably run multiple trials. For accuracy.”

I pull her down for a kiss that tastes like sunrise and victory. “The scientific method does require repetition.”

Her laugh vibrates against my chest. “For science?”

“For science.” I roll her beneath me, already planning my next experiment. “Though I think we need to adjust the variables.”

The way her eyes darken sends a cascade of biological responses through my system—pupils dilating, heart rate accelerating, breath shortening. My mental notes become disjointed, observations fracturing into half-formed thoughts. Temperature elevated. Pulse accelerating beyond baseline. Focus compromised. The scientist in me drowns beneath waves of something more primal, more immediate. Her arousal sharpens the air between us, a chemical equation I couldn’t solve even if I wanted to.

The hay scratches against my palms as I lean over her, and for once, the precise measurements and careful calculations that usually fill my mind dissolve into something rawer, more primal. The warmth of her skin bleeds through to mine, every point of contact a data point I’m rapidly losing the ability to process.

My lips find hers—no longer an experiment in pressure and response, but a need that defies my careful analysis. Her tongue tangles with mine, and my methodical nature wars with pure instinct. The professor, the analyst, the careful observer—all those parts of me recognize something equally complex in her. Two betas, both ruled by logic, finding something that transcends our careful calculations.

The sweetness of her beta scent mingles with mine, a perfect chemical equation I can’t help but solve. Each touch generates new data points my mind struggles to process—the careful scratch of her nails against my scalp, the precise way she maps my responses, the methodology in her exploration matching my own analytical nature.

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