Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Liam
T he flickering fluorescent light above my head buzzed like an angry wasp as I trudged back into the lab, my footsteps bouncing off empty walls. Christ, this place was creepy after hours. The maintenance in the building was a joke—probably another casualty of budget cuts.
As I walked back into the lab, my eyes landed on the explosion that was Emerson's workspace, and something in my chest squeezed tight.
She'd been carrying so much lately, the stress etched into every line of her face, weighing down those proud shoulders. The least I could do was try to bring some order to this chaos.
I pushed up my sleeves and dove in, trying to ignore how everything smelled like her—that mix of coffee and whatever fancy blossom shampoo she used that drove me absolutely crazy.
Empty cups everywhere, sticky notes in her rushed handwriting, papers covered in her neat formulas.
Jesus, even her mess was sexy. The way she'd pace around this desk when she was thinking, those legs going on forever in her pencil skirts, that fierce look of concentration that made me want to...
No. Stop. Focus.
But then I saw it, buried under a stack of folders like she'd tried to hide it. The contract. Her signature flowing across the bottom in that scrawl I'd seen a thousand times on lab reports and grant applications.
But this time, seeing it felt like a punch to the gut.
"Fuck." The word escaped in a harsh whisper. My fingers raked through my hair, probably making it stand up, but I couldn't care less.
Everything we'd built here—the late nights puzzling over data, the way she'd get so excited about breakthrough results that she'd grab my arm without thinking, how sometimes our eyes would meet across the lab and time would just... stop.
All of it felt like sand slipping through my fingers.
I stood there in the flickering light, staring at her signature until the letters blurred together, feeling like I was watching the beginning of the end.
Part of me wanted to tear the damn thing up, but I knew I couldn't. Not when she was fighting so hard to keep this place running.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this new direction would strip away the soul of our work even more, reducing the beautiful chaos of love to even more boring and quantitative data points.
Goddamn it, I knew that love wasn’t just about dopamine and serotonin; it was about the spark, the connection, the intertwining of souls.
But how the hell was I supposed to make Emerson see that?
My internal debate got cut short by a sound coming from one of the privacy rooms.
The unmistakable moans and the rhythmic creaking of furniture. Christ, this last couple was really going at it, giving a real hands-on demo of our research. Gathering data on the physical and emotional aspects of romantic love was a weird fucking gig.
I swallowed hard.
Those raw, animalistic sounds weren’t helping my “keep it professional” mantra one bit.
The soundtrack of uninhibited passion wasn't exactly helping my attempt to maintain professional distance. My brain, the traitor, was busy converting every moan into a high-definition mental movie starring yours truly and a certain gorgeous colleague.
Desperate to think about anything other than the live-action Kama Sutra happening a few feet away, I dove into our latest batch of data like it was a pool on a hundred-degree day.
Numbers, graphs, charts—anything to cool off my overheating brain. But even in the sterile world of graphs and charts, I found traces of what I was trying to ignore. The participants’ emotional responses were off the charts, especially during their most intimate moments.
The sounds of passion were reaching their peak, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair. My pants were getting tighter, and not in a stylish way. Seriously, could these two get any louder?
Every gasp and moan echoed through the lab, each one more desperate than the last. I couldn’t help but picture them, bodies tangled together, exploring every inch of each other like they were on a mission. The rhythmic thumping against the thin wall was a drumbeat, each thud driving me closer to losing my mind.
Great, just what I needed—a live-action porno to remind me of all the ways my life was lacking.
Her voice, high and breathy, cut through the air, sending a shiver through me. “Yes... yes, just like that, oh my God, don’t stop!” she cried out, her words punctuated by the sounds of their bodies colliding.
The raw intensity of their hookup was impossible to ignore, a relentless assault on my senses.
His deep, guttural groans followed, a counterpoint to her cries. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his voice thick with desire.
I found myself breathing in sync with them, my own breaths coming quicker, shallower, as if I were part of their wild ride. The tension in the room was a coiled spring ready to snap, and I was caught in its grip, unable to stop listening.
Her cries grew louder, more urgent. “I’m so close, so close!” she gasped, her voice tinged with desperation. His response was a low, primal growl, a sound that spoke of possession and dominance.
Then, suddenly, their voices merged into a harmonious chorus of ecstasy, their climaxes crashing over them like a tidal wave. Her screams were a symphony of release, his roars a declaration of conquest.
After several minutes, the participants emerged from the room, looking euphoric and satisfied, like they’d just unlocked the secret to eternal happiness. Spoiler alert: it’s apparently sex in a lab.
“Liam, you’ve got to try it sometime,” the guy said, grinning. His face was flushed, his hair tousled, and there was a gleam in his eye that spoke of more than just physical satisfaction. “Fucking in the lab, knowing you could be watched—it’s a hell of a thrill.”
I smirked. “You’re not being watched, Dave.”
His partner giggled and gave him a playful smack on the arm. She looked radiant, her cheeks glowing with a post-sex flush, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“He’s right, though. The experience is electric. There’s something about it that heightens every sensation.”
I forced a smile and nodded, trying to will away the persistent pressure in my groin as I said goodbye. As soon as the door closed behind them, I let out a long, frustrated sigh.
The room felt empty now, the silence almost deafening after their noisy session. I tried to shake off the lingering effects of their performance, but my body was still buzzing with residual tension, my mind replaying the sounds that had been burned into my consciousness.
“Get it together, man,” I muttered, pacing the room like a caged animal.
I was hoping that moving around would help burn off some of this restless energy, but no dice. It was like my body had chugged five Red Bulls and was ready to run a marathon.
Their passionate romp had lit a fire in me hotter than ghost peppers, and it wasn’t going out anytime soon.
I stared at the closed door they’d come out of, wondering if I’d ever find someone who would rock my world like that. Someone who could make a sterile lab feel like a sexy amusement park and make me forget everything.
Of course, I already knew someone who could make a lab feel sexy the moment she walked into the room.
With a resigned huff, I got ready to leave, my mind still spinning with thoughts of Emerson.
And as I drove back to my shitty apartment, they kept at me. Even as I opened my front door, my imagination was still running wild, faster than a greyhound chasing a rabbit.
The quiet of my apartment pressed in around me, a reminder of just how alone I was.
In my mind, I could see her perfectly: that small crease between her brows when she concentrated, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.
The ache in my chest wasn't just physical desire—it was longing for connection, for understanding.
I wanted to know her story, to understand why she built those walls so high. What made her believe love was just chemistry? Who had hurt her so deeply that she'd retreated into pure logic?
Stepping into the shower, I let myself imagine a different reality as the warm water cascaded over me. One where I could break through those barriers, where she'd let me see the real her. I pictured her vulnerable and open, not just physically but emotionally.
The fantasy wasn't about conquest—it was about trust, about finally bridging that gap between us.
My hand moved lower, seeking relief from the building tension.
I imagined her whispering secrets against my skin, sharing the fears she kept hidden behind her professional facade. The way she might finally let someone—let me—see past the brilliant researcher to the woman underneath.
The memory of our earlier interaction in the lab intensified everything—how our fingers had brushed when I’d helped her with her coat, the way her breath had caught, that moment of unguarded vulnerability in her eyes before her walls slammed back into place.
"Emerson," I whispered into the empty room, the name carrying all my complicated emotions—desire, frustration, longing.
I pictured her spread out beneath me, her skin flushed with desire, her eyes dark with need. The fantasy was so vivid I could almost feel the heat of her body, smell the intoxicating mix of her cherry blossom perfume and arousal.
Her hair fanned out across the pillow, lips parted in a soft, breathy moan that sent shivers down my spine. The need was unbearable, a gnawing ache that demanded release.
I stroked slowly, savoring the sensation, letting the fantasy unfold in my mind.
Her hands would roam over my body, exploring, teasing, driving me wild with every touch. I pictured her nails digging into my shoulders, her back arching as I trailed kisses down her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.
I could almost hear her responding, her voice a soft, breathless plea.
Her lips parting in a moan, her breath hitching as I teased her, my mouth moving lower, tasting the salt of her skin, the sweetness of her arousal.
I closed my eyes, lost in the fantasy of her hands on me, guiding me, teasing me. Whispering my name, her breath hot against my ear, the sound sending a thrill racing through me.
“Please,” she’d say, her voice a desperate whimper. “I need you.”
“Fuck, Doc,” I groaned, my grip tightening.
My strokes became frenzied, my body trembling with the intensity of it. The image of her, lost in ecstasy, her body arching, her moans filling the air… it was too much. With a final, desperate thrust, I came hard, my body trembling from the intensity of it as my breath came in ragged gasps.
The physical release was intense, but it did little to ease the deeper yearning.
The fantasy had been perfect, but the reality was an empty room.
After I toweled off and headed to my kitchen, the weight of my financial burdens came crashing back down like an avalanche. I straightened the overdue notices that littered the table and buried my face in my hands, the crushing pressure of my life spiraling out of control.
Between the impending shitstorm at work and my precarious financial state, I was drowning.
I supposed I should be thankful for Emerson and that contract, for being able to keep my job at the lab. And fuck, what the hell was I even thinking with all this Emerson stuff? How stupid could one asshole be?
But the erotic daydream still echoed in my mind, entwining with visions of holding her, having her... damn it, I was a mess.
I crossed to the bookshelf, picking up a framed photo of my family.
They had stories of love and resilience that were fairy tales in comparison to my current shitshow. Tales of soulmates who overcame every obstacle to be together.
Was that kind of love still possible? Would I ever have the chance to experience it, or was I destined to be alone, a romantic idiot in a world that had given up on romance?
Seized by a sudden restlessness, I threw some clothes and personal shit into boxes. I didn’t have a clear plan, just a desperate need to do something before it all fell apart.
I lay awake for hours, my thoughts a chaotic mess of desire and dread. My mind wandered back to the lab, to the way Emerson’s hands moved with precision and grace, the way she bit her lip when she was thinking.
God, I wanted her. Wanted her in ways that terrified me.
But reality had too many obstacles, too many reasons why it would never work. And as I stared at the ceiling, the looming shadow of my financial troubles kept creeping back in.
One thing was for sure: I couldn’t keep going like this.