Chapter 19
KAELION
She requires sustained, dispersed touch for relief…and I am more than happy to provide that in these stolen midnight hours.
Lyn lies sprawled on top of me, my cock nestled inside her, claspers holding her open and keeping her close. She arches so I can reach her breasts, my lips closing around one nipple while my tendrils flick over the other. My hands roam across her back repeatedly, covering as much space as possible.
She curls slightly every so often, rocking into me, moaning softly. Her tongue darts out and grazes up my ear, breath harsh.
“How do you feel?” I rasp. “Any pain?”
She laughs softly. “I feel…amazing? I mean—to be honest, though, unrelated to the neurotech or anything like that, just…” she gasps mid-sentence when I move to find a new spot inside her.
“Just what?”
“Just you,” she sighs. “My fucking fine-ass supervisor fucking…ah…fucking the everloving fuck out of me.”
I groan against her skin, the rumble in my chest making her whimper.
“You’re insatiable,” I murmur, flattening my tongue against her sternum, tasting the sweat and sweetness of her.
“Me?” she pants. “You’re the one treating my whole nervous system like a laboratory. Like you’re…like you’re mapping it with your dick…”
“That’s because I am,” I admit. “And every result encourages further study.”
She laughs before grinding down just enough to make my hips twitch. I flex my fingers against her spine, then sweep them up into her curls, tugging on her hair as my other hand drifts lower to squeeze her ass.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Better.” She rolls her hips, bracing her hands against my chest. “Although…that may be because you’ve been inside me for—what, hours at this point?”
I glance at the clock. “When did you get here?”
“Around ten.”
It’s the middle of the night.
“Yes…hours,” I breathe.
She smiles at that, her lips curving against my skin. “Is this billable time? Should I put it in the expense report?”
I huff a laugh against her collarbone, shifting my hips. Her breath catches in response, the smallest flutter of her inner muscles around me pulling a soft groan from my throat.
“Do not log this in your expense report,” I mumble, trailing my fingers up and down her spine again.
“Though we may want to take some readings in the morning…make sure we’re monitoring your vitals when we do this again.
Map where your nervous system lights up, what parts of the brain are sending signals… ”
Her cunt clenches around me. “Jesus, talk dirty to me some more.”
I chuckle low against her throat, the sound vibrating through both our chests. "Oh, is that what does it for you? Cortical mapping and synaptic firing patterns?"
She moans softly. "Fuck yes. Especially when you say it like that. Say neurotransmitter cascade next."
I shift slightly inside her—enough to make her whimper again, but not enough to push her over. We’re riding the edge together, steeped in the afterglow but nowhere near done.
“Neurotransmitter cascade,” I whisper against her jaw, dragging my tongue along the delicate angle of it. “Triggered by sustained external stimulation and modulated through dopaminergic feedback. You’re soaked in it right now. I can smell it in your sweat.”
She trembles, nipples peaking against my chest. Her hips give a weak roll and I steady her with my hands again, stroking over her ribs, her waist, her hips—never letting the sensation settle in one place for too long.
“What do you think…” She pauses, feeling me, feeling us. “What do you think this means for the pain relief function of the translator?”
“It may need…” I thrust into her, and she gasps. “Various transmitter points. Language is not…gods…embodied like…like pain. Like pleasure. It’s symbolic—processed primarily in the left hemisphere. But this—what you’re feeling—”
I slide one hand up to her nape, fingertips grazing the base of her skull.
“This is somatosensory. Limbic. Motor cortex. We’re not just rewriting input—we’re rerouting the entire signal chain.”
Her breath catches. She blinks, dazed, then whispers, “So it’s not a translator.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “Not in the linguistic sense, no. It’s a converter. A neural transducer. Pain to pleasure. Or—at the very least—pain to…non-pain.”
“Because the body doesn’t distinguish them the way we think,” she murmurs, brows furrowing. “Same pathways. Shared receptors. That’s why the analgesia works. Why some people come during labor. Why it’s always—fuck, Kaelion—always been a spectrum…”
She rocks against me, and I groan softly, tightening my arms around her as the pressure starts to build again.
“That’s why it’s too intense in one spot,” she gasps. “Because the pain memory is still there. The nociceptors are trained to expect hurt.”
“But when we stimulate a wider area,” I say, “we drown out the specificity. Engage the parasympathetic response. Trigger oxytocin, dopamine, even endogenous opioids…”
“God, you’re sexy when you talk about brain chemicals.”
I roll us so I’m on top, settling myself deeper inside her, thrusting hard, and she moans—loud and lovely and utterly unselfconscious.
“You’ve created something powerful, Lyn,” I whisper. “But it’s not a patch. It’s a reprogrammer. A whole-body remapping interface. If we calibrate the dispersal nodes right—”
“—we can overwrite pain response entirely,” she breathes. “Fuck, I knew it had to be deeper. Not just a wearable, not just surface level. But an immersive system. Fuck, I’m gonna come—”
“Do it,” I growl, “but hush…hush…”
I kiss her hard, swallowing her moans as her orgasm hits like a landslide, burying me, consuming me. And in that moment…I know that we are still doing the work, but also that something has changed irrevocably between us.
And that she is still my subordinate.
That she is still under the influence of a device that has tricked her into attraction to me.
That my daughter is sleeping in the next room over, and that I promised Shahar I would be honest if I had another adult in this house.
Her breathing slows and she slumps into the mattress, pliant and panting…and that’s when the edge gets sharper. Clarity strikes me like a physical blow, maybe because it’s been hours, maybe because I’ve been lost in pleasure this whole time and I’m finally back on solid ground.
I don’t stop touching her—I won’t. I let my hands keep moving, gently now, dragging sweat-damp curls off her forehead, brushing along the soft arc of her ribs. Her scarf is lost somewhere in my room, tossed away with the rest of her clothes, and she’s mine.
And that—that is a problem.
“Lyn.”
She hums, blinking up at me with this heavy-lidded, sex-drunk look that damn near sends me into euphoria again. I barely manage to anchor myself to reality.
“What is it?” she asks.
I smooth a thumb across her cheekbone, and I study the way her body curls around me, one leg hooked over my calf, the other falling open to let me deeper. I think about the lab. The prototype. The look on her face when she came just from my hand on her cheek.
“I shouldn’t have let this happen,” I say. “Not like this. Not while you’re still—”
“This isn’t just the translator,” she interrupts. She reaches up and touches my face, a tender gesture at odds with all the ways she disregards authority, seriousness. “Ask any of my friends—I’ve been talking a big game about fucking you for years.”
I let out a surprised, confused laugh. “That is…wildly inappropriate.”
“That’s kind of my whole thing, right?”
I huff a breath and drop my forehead against hers. “Lyn…”
“What?” she whispers. “You want me to lie and say I haven’t thought about this?
About you? That I didn’t imagine what it would be like…
after a late shift in the lab, or when you laid into me about safety protocols—what it would be like to let you chastise me, then get on my knees and suck your dick—”
I rock inside her, cutting her off. “You’re filthy.”
“I’m a genius,” she says. “And you like it. You like me, Kaelion Rhyss.”
I do like her.
Gods help me, I like her more than I should.
Her wit. Her stubbornness. The way she argues like it’s foreplay and solves problems with the same hands she uses to claw at my back. She’s brilliant, irreverent, impossible—and she’s beneath me now, legs still spread, wrapped around my hips like she belongs there.
“You’re trouble,” I murmur, my mouth brushing the corner of hers.
“And you’re the one who let me in,” she replies, rocking her hips again. “You could’ve kicked me out.”
“I still could.”
She grins. “But you won’t.”
I glare at her. She’s right.
We’re already too deep. Hours in. Physically tangled, chemically high, still riding the overlap of orgasm and insight.
And neither of us has said stop.
“You think this is a good idea?” I ask, voice low.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
I swallow hard.
Gods…she’s phenomenal.
“Also,” she adds, with a smirk, “you have a stupidly good dick.”
I bark out a startled laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says. “Objectively excellent. You should be studied.”
I lean down and nip her shoulder. “You’re not allowed to publish on it.”
“Too late. Already submitting an abstract. Title: ‘Applications of Nyeri’i Cock in Neural Pattern Disruption.’”
“Lyn, that would never pass peer review.”
“Or maybe ‘Sticky Hypothesis: Why I Keep Coming Back to My Supervisor’s D—’”
I shut her up with a kiss, but she’s laughing into it, her fingers sliding over my tendrils again.
This is not a relationship.
This is not safe.
But it’s happening.
And for now—for the rest of this night—we’re letting it.