“Orgasm ineffective,”she finally says.“Attempting again while fantasizing about external…external stimulus…”
I lean in, listening closely, wanting her to say it out loud. I wonder if I’ll hear my name—if I’m even right in thinking thatIam the external stimulus. And I’m sitting there at my desk, wondering what she’s picturing, wondering what she’d imagine me doing and just how lackluster it is compared to how I wouldactually fuck her?—
“Hey,” she says.
I snap my head up to find her standing in the doorway.
I press my finger against the stop button so hard it makes my joints scream.
Lyn stands with her arms crossed, leaning against the wall, her cheeks flushed. “I uh…I see you found my logs from this weekend.”
I clear my throat. I try—gods help me—to sit up straighter and look like a man who hasn’t just been caught mid-fantasy with his subordinate’s masturbation log playing in the background.
“Walker,” I say. “I was reviewing your diagnostics, yes.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
A beat passes between us. Two. Three. Her arms stay folded, her stance casual but…coiled, like she’s giving me just enough rope to hang myself.
I clasp my hands in front of me, thoroughly rattled. “Bit of a bizarre recording to upload to your official file for the project.”
“I was trying to document my findings,” she says. “After all, you did tell me that I should try to orgasm on my own. I tried. It failed.”
“And I suppose narrating the entire attempt in clinical detail was necessary?”
“Literally yes. Data is data, right?”
I stare at her.
She stares at me.
I finally sigh, shaking my head and squeezing the bridge of my nose.
“So…your problem persists, then,” I mutter.
“Mmhm,” she says, nodding slowly. “Plus…it wasn’t in the logs, but I tried it with a partner, too. Nothing works. Toys, clitoral stimulation, penetration—digital or penile—not oral, not…”
“You don’t have to go into detail,” I interrupt, and I would be lying if I said it wasn’t partially because something sparks hot and angry in my chest at the idea of her trying it with a partner.
“I would have warned you, but I didn’t hear you come in,” she says haplessly. I can see the clear, real shame in her face. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
I soften—not visibly, I hope, but I soften nonetheless. It’s the way she looks when she sayssorry, like she’s afraid she’s broken something between us she didn’t even mean to touch.
“I’m the one who should apologize,” I say finally. “You uploaded it to a shared research folder. You didn’t hide it. And I told you to pursue diagnostics. I just…” I trail off, sliding my hand over my tendrils. “I wasn’t prepared for how…personal…those diagnostics would be.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well. Neither was I. I can confidently say I wasn’t prepared for any of this.”
Lyn shifts her weight from one foot to the other, then glances at the floor. “So what now?” she asks.
I flick my eyes over her shoulder, to her work station. “You seemed to be running tests when I came in, didn’t you? What are you working on?”
She perks up a little at that, eager to steer the conversation back into known territory.
“Yeah,” she says. “I was trying to track what regions are lighting up during the frustration plateau. Like…I know I’m reacting physically, but I’m not tipping over into orgasm. There’s a stall point somewhere.”
“Can I look?” I ask.
“Please do.”
