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You set the rules at the front door with your coat still on and the city air in your hair.
“No equations,” you said, holding up one finger. “No experiments.” Second finger. “No disappearing acts into ducts, portals, crawlspaces, or the astral plane.” Third finger. “Tonight is dinner. That’s it.”
Reed nodded with exaggerated solemnity like you were swearing him in. He looked…normal. Or as normal as he got: dark sweater pushed to the sleeves, curls that never quite did what he wanted, the kind of hands that looked like they had never stopped moving.
“I can do that,” he said, and you believed that he believed it.
You chose the place precisely because it wasn’t impressive. The trattoria had wobbly tables and paper menus and a waiter who waved at Reed like he was a regular, which he was not, but the kind of face you had to wave at anyway. You ordered pasta and wine and pretended not to notice when he timed the bread basket’s descent to the table with a quick glance at the clock. He was trying. Earnestly. It made your ribs ache with affection.
“So,” you said once the plates arrived, “tell me something non-technical about your day.”
He blinked. “I liked your shirt.”
“That was from yesterday.”
“I liked it then as well.”
You kicked him under the table. He grinned.
The first hour was easy. He told you about lunch on the roof with Johnny and a pigeon that stole his sandwich in a daring, midair heist. You told him about a lab tech who labeled three identical beakers “A,” “A,” and “A?” and started a minor revolt. You let the hum of other people’s conversations hold you up. Reed kept his hands on the table like a penitent monk, only sneaking one away when the waiter brought pepper. You caught him and lifted a brow. He lifted both palms like a man who knew better than to argue with a judge.
He made it all the way to dessert.
It was a lemon tart, glossy and small and bright enough to read by. You split it, traded forkfuls, and you were already thinking about leaving—already mapping the quick walk under the streetlights—when the air around him changed, subtle as a glitch in a song. Reed’s gaze unfocused and then snapped tight in that way it did when something flicked on behind his eyes. He reached, almost gently, for the paper napkin.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I won’t,” he said.
He did.
He didn’t even reach for a pen; he conjured one from somewhere, that irritating, endearing detail that made you suspect he had them secreted in every pocket like talismans. You watched—helpless, fond—as his wrist loosened and his fingers started moving, writing in a slope that looked fast even when he slowed it. Symbols, fractions, a curve, then another. His mouth softened open like it always did when he forgot he had one.
“Reed,” you said.
He made a sound of acknowledgment. Not a word. Not English. A sound like you made when you tasted something you loved.
“Reed.”
He finished a line and blinked up, guilty as a cat with a paw in the frosting. “I—”
“—broke the rule,” you said.
“I did,” he said, already crowding a smile with apology. He looked down at the napkin, then up at you through lashes far too long for a genius, and added, softly, “I’m sorry.”
You sighed, because you were. You slid the napkin away from him and set it under your water glass like a prisoner under ice. He watched you do it with a strange, aching concentration, as if the napkin were a living thing you had to keep from bolting.
“We’re going home,” you told him, standing and tugging on your coat. “You owe me.”
The walk was short, the city springy-wet after an afternoon rain. Reed stayed close without touching, like he hadn’t decided what counted as legal yet. He kept stealing looks. Your irritation was real but it lived side by side with something that felt almost like hunger. He had tried. His mind was just a weather pattern and you’d asked it for blue sky. The napkin crinkled in your pocket like proof.
Inside, you dropped keys in the bowl and toed off your shoes. Reed hovered two steps behind, contrition and curiosity threaded together across his face.
“So,” he said, tentative. “Consequences.”
“Mm.” You turned to him and tugged at the hem of his sweater until it rose, warm and stubborn. “You’re not going to talk your way out of this.”
“I wasn’t going to try,” he said, breath hitching when your palms slid under the cotton to the bare heat of him. “But for the record, I did enjoy the movie.”
“We didn’t see a movie.”
“Then I enjoyed your company on the walk between dinner and here.”
You kissed him once for that, quick and close-mouthed, because the sweetness of it hit you square and stupid. Then you took his sweater off and he let you, obedient and bright-eyed, hands up and away as if he were in a museum and everything was fragile. You pushed him onto the bed with a finger between his shoulder blades. He went easily, a long line of a man folding down like he had been meant to meet the mattress all day.
“Hands at your sides,” you told him, and he obeyed immediately. That was the thing about Reed: he lived in the yes.
You stood at the edge of the bed and let him look. You dragged your dress up over your head, slow enough that the fabric whispered against your skin, and tossed it aside. His eyes tracked the line of your body, pupils wide, lips parted. Your bra followed with a practiced flick, landing somewhere on the floor. You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your thighs deliberately, stepping out of them one foot at a time, letting him see everything.
Reed’s hands twitched against the quilt but he didn’t move them. His throat bobbed like he was trying to swallow words he wasn’t allowed to say.
You crawled onto the bed, straddling his hips first, then shuffling forward until your knees bracketed his shoulders. He looked up at you with something between awe and hunger, curls already mussed from your hands, mouth wet from anticipation.
“This is your punishment,” you told him, tugging gently at his hair until his head tilted back the way you wanted. “You don’t get to think tonight. You don’t get to solve anything. You’re going to shut up and make yourself useful.”
“Yes,” he whispered, voice raw. “Please.”
You smiled and shifted forward, slow, until the heat of you hovered just above his mouth. His breath hit your folds, warm and shaky, and you felt your thighs tense with the effort of holding yourself there. The anticipation made your whole body ache.
Then you lowered yourself onto him.
The first brush of his tongue against your clit made you gasp, sharp and startled. You tightened your grip in his hair and ground down harder, testing the pressure. His tongue flattened, then curled, as if he had been waiting for this exact variable. Heat spread through you like a spill.
“Good boy,” you murmured, breath hitching as you rocked against him. His hands flexed at his sides, obedient even as his shoulders strained with the effort of staying still. You rolled your hips and smeared yourself over his mouth, thighs already trembling from the pace you set.
He groaned into you, low and vibrating, and the sound shot straight through your cunt. The rhythm grew filthy fast—your hips working, his mouth relentless, the wet slap of it filling the room. Every time you tried to ease up he followed, tongue chasing, refusing to let you go slack.
When you dared glance down, you caught him jerking himself—slow, desperate strokes of his cock in time with your movements. His chest was flushed, his jaw slick with you, and his eyes were glassy but locked on yours, waiting for permission you hadn’t given yet.
“You couldn’t even last five minutes,” you said, panting, rocking harder against his face. “Already touching yourself?”
He moaned, which only made his tongue stutter against your clit in a way that had your nails raking across his scalp.
“Keep going,” you ordered. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t. He never did.
What followed blurred into heat and noise and a pace you couldn’t hold but couldn’t stop. Reed’s mouth worked like he had memorized you: tongue sliding over your clit in maddening circles, then flattening, then flicking until your thighs shook. You rocked against him, desperate, but every time you edged too close he eased his rhythm just enough to keep you teetering.
“Don’t—” you gasped, nails biting into his scalp.
“Don’t what?” His voice was ruined, muffled under you, vibrating against your cunt. “Don’t stop? Or don’t let you come yet?”
You moaned instead of answering, because his tongue had curled low to lap through your folds, then back up to suck your clit hard enough to make your vision break. He moaned with you, greedy, sloppy, his hands tightening on your thighs to drag you harder against his face.
You tried to lift up, to ease the intensity, but he wouldn’t let you. He groaned and held you down, and the sound of it—raw, hungry—sent a pulse through you that left you trembling.
“Reed—fuck—” You couldn’t form a full sentence. You ground down helplessly, smearing yourself all over his mouth and chin, your own wetness coating him as he licked and sucked and refused to let you escape.
When you forced your eyes open and looked down, you caught the sight of his hand again—wrapped around his cock, slick with his own precum, stroking in desperate, uneven pulls. He wasn’t even pretending to be controlled anymore. His chest was flushed, abs tensing with every stroke, precum dripping down his fist.
“Look at you,” you choked out. “Fucking yourself while you eat me out. You’re so—God—”
His eyes flicked up at you, glassy and pleading. He moaned against your clit, and the vibration sent you spiraling.
“Don’t you dare finish before I do,” you warned, panting. “You come when I tell you.”
“Yes,” he gasped, breaking only long enough to answer before burying his mouth back between your thighs.
Your orgasm crept up mercilessly, cresting, breaking, pulling back again as he slowed just enough to torture you. He was dragging it out, making you ride the edge until your thighs quivered and your lungs hurt. When you whimpered, “Please,” he hummed, and the hum pushed you over the edge of reason.
You came with a broken cry, thighs locking around his ears, hips grinding down on his face. He didn’t stop—didn’t even pause. He licked you through it, swallowing you down, sucking your clit until your whole body twitched in aftershocks.
“Too much,” you sobbed, though you didn’t move.
“Not enough,” he rasped against you, his voice ragged and wet. He kept going until you were trembling uncontrollably, tears stinging your eyes, until you shoved at his hair weakly and he finally let you slump forward against his chest.
Only then did he let himself go. You felt his arm flex under you, the frantic stutter of his wrist, and then the hot spill of his release across his stomach and chest. He groaned, wrecked, bucking up against his own fist as he came apart.
When you managed to lift your head, you found him destroyed—mouth swollen and shiny with your slick, face flushed, hair wild. His hand was still wrapped around his softening cock, streaked with his own come.
You collapsed forward again, laughing breathlessly into his throat. “That was—Jesus, Reed—that was not punishment.”
“I know,” he murmured, pulling you closer with trembling arms. His mouth brushed your temple, ruined and smug and tender all at once. “But I’ll happily take it as one.”
You kissed him, slow and messy, tasting yourself on his lips. He kissed back like a man starved, tongue sweeping against yours, and when you pulled away you expected him to be finished—spent and sated.
Instead, he shifted beneath you.
You felt it before you saw it: his cock, half-hard already, twitching back to life against your stomach where your bodies pressed together. You lifted your head, incredulous. “You just came.”
“I’m aware.” His voice was hoarse, eyes dark. “I’m not done with you.”
Before you could argue, he rolled, flipping you onto your back with the kind of smooth strength that reminded you exactly what kind of body lived under all that intellect. The room tilted and steadied with him above you, broad shoulders braced, hair falling into his eyes.
“Reed—”
“Shh.” His mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, kissing you until your head spun. His hand slid down your stomach, over your still-sensitive cunt, and you gasped against him.
“I just—”
“I know.” His fingers spread you open, slick and swollen from his mouth, and he groaned at the mess he’d made of you. “But I want you again.”
He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, and you cried out at the stretch—still tender, still trembling from the first orgasm, and now filled again, deep and deliberate. He hissed as your cunt clenched around him, like the sensation shocked him every time.
“God, you’re so tight,” he rasped, burying himself to the hilt. He stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting through the shock of it.
Then he started to move.
It wasn’t gentle. Not the way Round One had been drawn out and controlled. This was messy, desperate—him slamming into you with a rhythm that knocked the air out of your lungs. His cock drove deep, stretching you wide, the slap of his hips against yours echoing through the room.
You clutched at his shoulders, nails dragging red across his skin. “Reed—oh, fuck—”
He growled into your ear, thrusts growing harder. “You think you can sit on my face, make me come like that, and just be done? No. I’m fucking you until you scream.”
And you did. He angled his hips just right, driving into the soft spot inside you that made your vision spark, and you screamed his name without shame. He swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss, sweat-slick bodies grinding together.
He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, holding you down, his other hand slipping between your thighs to rub your clit in ruthless circles. You bucked up helplessly, every muscle taut, the coil in your stomach winding tight again.
“Come for me,” he demanded, breath ragged. “Do it while I’m inside you.”
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You shattered around him, sobbing his name, clenching so hard he cursed into your neck. He fucked you through it, relentless, until the pulsing drag of your cunt pulled him over too. His thrusts stuttered and broke as he spilled inside you with a guttural groan, hips jerking messily.
When he finally collapsed, it was on top of you, heavy and shaking, both of you drenched and gasping. You wrapped your arms around his back and clung, feeling him pulse inside you, still buried deep.
“Round two,” you whispered weakly against his ear. “Overachiever.”
He laughed hoarsely, nuzzling into your neck. “Always.”
You stroked his damp curls, still catching your breath. “So what now? You going to log this as another experiment?”
He kissed your throat, slow and reverent, his voice thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. “No. This one’s just for me.”