The world is white noise.

I'm on my back, naked, restrained at wrists and ankles. Five distinct vibrating zones, special pillows, pressing against my upper back, lower back, hips, thighs. Another one rests on my belly. Each one pulses to a different, chaotic rhythm.

My hands are gripping vibrating cylinders. My feet too. The sensations compete, overlap, create a storm of input I can't parse.

Then I feel her hand on my inner thigh—warm, steady. The only predictable touch in all this madness. It moves up and down, loving, caring... then it goes away.

I hear her opening a bottle. Lube. Then her fingers are between my legs, working the slick liquid around my asshole. Gentle circles, patient and careful. I try to move my hips to make it easier.

"Don't move. Just relax for me," she murmurs.

The plug presses against me—small at first, then widening. I know this part now. The stretch, the burn, the way my body accepts it. It slides home. I grit my teeth.

The plug begins to vibrate. Random chaos added to everything else. I gasp. Its vibrations dominate my senses. Too close to my clit. But like all the others, there is no rythm to it. Susan's masterwork. Randomized vibration patterns.

"Good," Susan whispers. "Now the new part."

I hear her footsteps moving away. Then back. Something leather whispers against her palm as she adjusts her grip.

The crop.

We'd talked about it during the week. About finding my limits. About finding hers.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Remember—three taps if it's too much."

Through all the noise, I can barely sense her. Normally I can read everything—her heartbeat, her breathing, the micro-expressions of her muscles. But right now, the vibrations scramble all of it. I'm flying blind in a way I never was before I met her.

The crop kisses my thigh—a sharp sting that cuts through the white noise. Completely unexpected. Unforeseeable. My mind focuses on that single point of pain. Such a new, novel experience for me.

"Again," I breathe.

She strikes again. My other thigh. The pain radiates, provides an anchor in the sensory storm. My pussy clenches. It is good. But my mind is still solid.

"Harder," I hear myself say.

The next strike makes me cry out. But it's not the safe signal. It's need. A short gap in my thought process - where I disappear and only the experience remains. Just a glimpse of what I crave for.

Susan's breath catches. She's getting braver. Learning she can hurt me and I'll love it. That it's not the same as what was done to her.

"This is working," she says, and I can hear the wonder in her voice. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," I gasp as another strike lands. "God, yes."

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let me tell you how we got here.

---

I see with my hands. I've never seen colors. I've never envied those who can.

My world is vibration, tremor, pulse. When my fingertips rest on a table, I can sense the tiny insect walking across its surface—the delicate tap-tap-tap of minuscule legs traveling up through my fingers, into my bones, settling in my shoulders. Standing still in an apartment, I feel the downstairs neighbor move from bedroom to kitchen, the rhythm of her footsteps painting a map of her home in my mind. When I press my ear against a wall, I can hear every conversation in the building, every whispered secret, every muffled cry.

My mother drank heavily while she was pregnant with me. The alcohol damaged my optic nerves before I was born. But life has a way of balancing its ledgers—taking with one hand, giving with the other. What it took from my eyes, it gave back in this: the ability to feel the world's vibrations with supernatural precision.

I can't tell you what blue looks like, but I can tell you that my mother's car engine was failing three days before it died. I felt it through my ass, sitting in the passenger seat—a wrong vibration, a stutter in the rhythm that didn't belong.

---

I met Susan through my mother.

More accurately, I met her through my mother's alcoholism, which seems fitting given that my mother's drinking is the reason I exist the way I do. Mary Charleigh—my mother—attended a therapy group for alcoholics at a community center in downtown Seattle. She dragged me along sometimes when I was sixteen, seventeen. Made me sit in the hallway and wait while she confessed her failures to strangers.

Susan was one of those strangers.

Dr. Susan Vance, though she didn't use her title in the meetings. Just Susan, sitting in a circle of folding chairs, drinking terrible coffee from styrofoam cups, admitting that she'd lost five years of her life to vodka and wine and gin and anything else that could make her feel less bored with existence.

She came from money—old Seattle money, the kind that has streets named after it. Her family had disowned her when her drinking got bad, cut her off from the trust fund and the estate. But she'd clawed her way back to sobriety, finished her medical degree late, built a small private practice. When she proved she could stay sober for two years, her family reluctantly took her back. Gave her access to the connections that money buys: senators, university deans, people who could make impossible things possible.

I was nineteen when my mother died. Pancreatic cancer, because life apparently hadn't taken enough from her already. Susan came to the funeral. She was the only person from the therapy group who did.

Afterward, at the depressing reception in the funeral home's basement, Susan sat next to me. Didn't say anything for a long time. Just sat there while I felt the vibrations of other people's footsteps, their murmured condolences, the general buzz of obligatory grief.

Finally she said, "What are you going to do now?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't exactly plan for this."

"Your mother talked about you," Susan said. "In group. She said you could feel things. Vibrations. That you were special."

"Special." I laughed bitterly. "I'm blind. That's what I am."

"You're not just blind." Susan's voice was firm. "You're something else. Something extraordinary. And your mother may have fucked you up, but she knew that. She was proud of you, even if she never figured out how to say it."

I felt tears threaten and swallowed them back. "Doesn't matter now."

Susan was quiet for another moment. Then: "What if I told you I could make something of you? What if I told you I could get you into medical school?"

I actually laughed. "Medical school. A blind woman. You're insane."

"I'm well-connected," Susan corrected. "And I'm a doctor who needs an assistant. Someone with extraordinary diagnostic skills. Someone who can feel things no one else can."

"You barely know me."

"I know enough. And I owe your mother a debt—she kept me sober when I wanted to drink. Let me pay it forward. Let me give you a life."

I should have been more suspicious. Should have questioned her motives, her sudden interest in the blind daughter of a dead alcoholic. But I was nineteen and alone and terrified, and Susan was offering me a purpose.

So I said yes.

---

Medical school was hell.

Susan pulled strings I didn't even know existed. Called in favors from senators her family had funded. Found international medical programs that were more flexible about disabilities, then worked the university equivalency system to get the credentials recognized in the States. She tutored me herself, read textbooks aloud, described diagrams, taught me to memorize through patterns and rhythms.

It took six years. There were professors who refused to pass me, administrators who said it was impossible, classmates who whispered that I was a charity case. But Susan's connections—and her sheer stubborn will—got me through.

The first time I placed my hands on a patient's abdomen and felt the stuttering vibration of a blocked artery, the attending physician's jaw dropped. I could sense the blood flow, the way it hit the blockage and scattered into turbulent eddies. I told them exactly where the blockage was, how severe.

They ran tests. I was right.

After that, things got easier. I wasn't a charity case anymore. I was an asset.

Susan set up a private practice—small, exclusive, expensive. She handled the treatments, the prescriptions, the surgical referrals. I handled the diagnostics. Together, we were extraordinary.

I remember the first patient who really proved what we could do together. Mr. Chen, mid-forties, complaining of chronic fatigue and joint pain. Three specialists had run blood panels, imaging, biopsies. Everything came back inconclusive.

I placed my hands on his neck. Felt the pulse in his carotid artery—not just the rhythm but the quality of it. Thready. Weak. I moved to his chest, felt the vibrations of his heart through his ribs. The timing was off. Not arrhythmia exactly, but something subtle in the filling pattern between beats.

"His heart isn't pumping efficiently," I told Susan. "But it's not the muscle. It's something else. Restrictive, maybe?"

I moved my hands lower. Felt his liver—enlarged, the surface texture rough under my palms even through skin and muscle. The vibrations when I tapped it were wrong, dampened.

"Amyloidosis," Susan breathed. "Cardiac and hepatic. Jesus, Lettie."

She was right. The biopsy confirmed it. We'd found what three specialists had missed, and we'd done it in fifteen minutes.

Word spread. Patients came to us with mysterious symptoms, impossible cases. And together, we solved them. I would run my hands over their bodies and feel what was wrong. Susan would synthesize my findings with medical knowledge I didn't have. We were perfect complements.

We made a name for ourselves. We made money. Susan shared all of it with me—equal partners, she said, even though her name was on the door and I was technically her assistant.

I never questioned whether she was using me. Of course she was. I was making her rich and famous. But I was using her too—for purpose, for identity, for a reason to exist. We were using each other, and we both knew it, and neither of us cared enough to stop.

---

Somewhere along the way, we fell in love.

Or maybe not love. Maybe codependency. Maybe desperation. Maybe two broken people clinging to the only thing that made them feel less alone.

It started small. Susan's hand on my shoulder, lingering too long. Her voice going soft when she spoke to me. The way she'd find excuses to touch me—adjusting my collar, brushing hair from my face, guiding my hand to the right spot on a patient's body.

I felt every touch like lightning. Felt her heartbeat accelerate when our fingers met. Felt the heat of her skin, the slight tremor in her hands. She was already my world. My eyes. She would describe to me the environment, the objects, the people - like a narrator to replace my sight. I had no one else, nothing else. And it was about to transform to something else. I could sense the storm brewing. Thrilled. Afraid.

One night, after a long day at the practice, she kissed me.

We were alone in her office. The last patient had left an hour ago. Susan had poured us both whiskey—she could have one drink now, she said, as long as it stayed at one. Control, not abstinence.

She handed me the glass and her fingers brushed mine and I felt it: the spike in her pulse, the catch in her breathing.

"Susan," I said. We both knew it. It was about to happen.

"Tell me to stop," she whispered.

I didn't. Nor I moved back. Instead, I leaned into the warmth of her breath.

Her lips were soft and tasted like whiskey and desperation. Her hands cupped my face and I felt everything—the slight tremble that never quite went away, the warmth of her skin against mine.

When she pulled back, she said, "I shouldn't have done that."

Her voice. I'd heard it hundreds of times in meetings, in the practice, reading medical texts aloud to me. But this—breathy, uncertain, wanting—this was new. I wanted to hear more of it.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm your mentor. Your employer. Because there's a power imbalance. Because it's wrong."

I laughed. "Susan, you made me a doctor. You made me someone. Everything about us is a power imbalance. This doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything," she said.

But she kissed me again anyway.

---

That was almost two years ago. Now I'm twenty-nine and she's forty-two and we've long since stopped pretending this is just professional convenience.

Susan moved me into her house—a beautiful old Craftsman in Capitol Hill with hardwood floors that transmit vibrations beautifully. I can feel her walking from room to room, can track her movements throughout the house. It's comforting, knowing exactly where she is. It became my home as well.

Our home.

At work, we're still doctor and assistant. But at home, we're something else entirely.

I know she finds me very attractive. I turn her on. Her heart accelerates when I spread my legs. Her breath catches when our breasts press together. She makes me feel special. The little telltales of desire, moans, gasps she makes before the fucking. She told me once, late at night with her head on my shoulder: "Everything is gray. Everyone is predictable. I spent my whole life bored to tears, and drinking just made it worse—turned gray into black. I thought when I sobered up, the world would have color again. But it didn't. It's just gray in better focus."

"And me?" I asked.

"You're the only thing that isn't gray. You and the work—diagnosing impossible cases, solving puzzles. Those are the only times I feel alive."

I feel like she needs me. Or the challenge of me, the impossibility of me. Needs the way my touch is different from everyone else's. Whatever the mechanics of it, I'm special to her. And that's my only anchor. And it makes me want to be special for her as well.

Because here's the thing: Susan's nervous system is damaged too. Not like mine—not enhanced. Dulled. Years of alcohol abuse burned out something in her, left her with muted sensations. Most touches barely register. Most pleasure is distant, academic.

But my touch is different.

My tremorsense means I can feel every response her body makes. Every physiological change. I know exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply, which nerves to stimulate. I can read her body like a book written in a language only I can understand.

When my fingers slide inside her, I can map her arousal in real-time. The pulse in her carotid accelerates—I feel it when I kiss her neck. Her skin temperature rises by degrees I can detect with my palms. The muscles in her thighs develop micro-tremors I sense before she does. The subtle shift in her breathing pattern, the slight rigidity in her joints as tension builds. I can bring her to the edge of orgasm and hold her there, reading these signals, keeping her suspended in that impossible moment.

It's my specialty: edging her. Denying her. Controlling her path to climax with inhuman precision.

Sometimes I bring her to the edge four times in an evening, then send her to bed frustrated. Do it again the next day. And the next. Building the pressure, the desperation. I can feel it in her body—the way her baseline arousal increases, the way her heart jumps when I so much as touch her hand.

After three or four days of this, when I finally let her come, it's explosive. I'll have four fingers inside her, fucking her hard, and she'll scream and shake and sob. I feel every contraction, every muscle spasm. Sometimes I worry her heart might give out, the orgasms are so intense.

Only I can make her feel like that. Only my touch breaks through the numbness that alcohol left behind.

Afterward, she holds me. Kisses me. Strokes my hair. She's so grateful it almost hurts.

"God, Lettie," she'll whisper against my temple. "What you do to me."

I never tell her how much those words mean. How her voice—rough from screaming, thick with emotion—fills something in me that touch can't reach. In a world I navigate through vibration and pressure, her voice is color. Her gasps and moans and whispered declarations paint pictures I'll never see with eyes.

And then she tries to give me the same pleasure.

---

This is where the story turns sad.

Susan touches me with reverence. Kisses me with desperate tenderness. Uses her fingers, her tongue, her whole body to try to make me feel what she feels.

And technically, it works. My body responds—heart rate increases, blood flows to my clit, my pussy contracts around her fingers. I get wet. I flush. According to Susan, my face turns pink and my lips part and I look beautiful.

But I barely feel it.

My tremorsense is a gift in so many ways. It made me a doctor. It makes me an incredible lover. It lets me navigate a world I can't see.

But it also means I can predict everything my body does.

I feel my heart rate starting to climb, so the climax isn't a surprise. I sense the blood flow changes, the muscle tensions, the chemical cascades. I know exactly when the orgasm is coming because I can feel all the precursors. My body has no secrets from me.

And without surprise, without the unknown, there's no overwhelming sensation. Just a predictable sequence of physiological events. It is maybe slightly more exciting than my next heartbeat. A mild warmth. A release of tension. Nothing more.

I've tried faking it. Making the sounds Susan makes, moving the way she moves, hoping it would create some kind of psychological bridge between my mind and body. But it didn't work. My brain knows I'm performing.

It's frustrating in a way I struggle to articulate. I can sense, through Susan's body, how incredible orgasms can be. I feel the way pleasure overwhelms her, the way her whole being seems to shatter and reform. I know what I'm missing.

And it makes me feel even more severed from the world than my blindness does. I'm separate from even this most fundamental human experience.

Susan knows. She figured it out early on, though I tried to hide it. She's a doctor—she can tell the difference between real and performed.

The first time she confronted me about it, I cried. Admitted that I felt broken in yet another way. Told her I was sorry, that she deserved a partner who could share that experience with her.

She held me and said, "Don't. Don't apologize for your body. This isn't your fault."

But I could feel her heartbreak in the way her pulse stuttered.

---

We've experimented, trying to find a solution.

Different positions. Different techniques. Toys, drugs, extended foreplay. Nothing works. My tremorsense is too precise, too predictive.

The only thing that helps—marginally—is pain.

Sharp, radiating, pulsating pain in sensitive places can partially override my predictive senses. It creates a signal strong enough to cut through the anticipatory awareness. But it has to be strong. My mind is impervious to mild aches.

We've tried it a few times. An anal plug. Susan's teeth on my nipples, hard enough to sting. Clothespins on my labia, creating hot points of sensation. It works better than anything else—I feel... something. More than the usual mild warmth. A sharpness, an intensity that's almost overwhelming.

But we've never pushed it far enough. Because when Susan hurts me, her hands shake.

I feel it—the tremor in her fingers when she tightens the clothespin. The way her breathing becomes shallow and quick. She'll do it for a few minutes, maybe bring me close to something real, and then she'll stop. Remove the pain source. Hold me and apologize.

"I can't," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I can't."

She doesn't say why, but I know. I can feel it in her body. The pain reminds her of her own past—of being hurt when she was too numb to care, of being used and discarded. I didn't know the details but have connected pieces of half spoken sentences to deduce that she was in bad, bad parties. She had been used, abused, degraded somehow. Even though this is different—even though I'm asking for it, wanting it—something in her can't separate the two experiences.

So we stop before it works. The pain avenue remains unexplored, a door we've opened but never walked through.

And I remain separate. Unable to feel what Susan feels. Unable to orgasm the way I can make her orgasm.

I've learned to live with it, mostly. It's just another way I'm different from everyone else. Another way my body doesn't work the way it should.

But sometimes, late at night, I feel Susan's heartbeat through the mattress and remember what her orgasms feel like from the outside, and I ache with wanting.

---

Neither of us has anything else. She has no other relationships, no hobbies, no desires beyond the practice and me. I'm even worse—I have no desires at all. I'm mildly interested in music, but I've never pursued it. Never wanted to learn an instrument or go to concerts. The practice is my entire life. Susan is my entire life.

We're unhealthily dependent on each other, and we both know it, and neither of us cares enough to change it.

Because the alternative is being alone. And alone, Susan is bored to the point of depression. Alone, I'm just a blind woman with a useless superpower and no purpose.

Together, we're extraordinary. Together, we're alive.

Even if that life is built on a foundation of mutual need rather than healthy love.

---

It's late Tuesday afternoon when everything starts to shift.

We're in the middle of a routine examination. Mrs. Patterson, sixty-seven, complaining of back pain. I have my hands on her spine, feeling my way along the vertebrae. There—L4-L5, disc herniation, pressing on the nerve root.

Earlier in the day, while I was with another patient, I'd sensed someone new in the waiting room. Lighter footsteps than average, a slight irregularity in the gait. The vibrations suggested someone compensating for pain—shifting weight, favoring one side.

I'd felt her presence through the floor while I worked. Noticed the way she sat very still, except for a fine tremor I could detect even from the examination room. Not nervous energy. Something neurological.

Now I'm explaining Mrs. Patterson's diagnosis to Susan when the waiting room door opens. Those same irregular footsteps approaching.

Susan finishes with Mrs. Patterson—prescription for physical therapy, referral to an orthopedic surgeon if it doesn't improve—and shows her out. I hear her talking to the new patient. A woman's voice, warm and confident. The one I'd been sensing all afternoon.

"Ms. Anderson? Come on back."

The footsteps approach. I'm sitting at the small desk in the examination room, making notes in braille. The door opens and I feel the patient enter—the shift in air pressure, the vibration of her movements.

"This is my associate, Dr. Charleigh," Susan says. "She'll be doing your initial examination. Dr. Charleigh, this is Jennifer Anderson. She's here about chronic hip pain."

"Please, call me Lettie," I say automatically, standing and extending my hand.

Ms. Anderson takes it. Her hand is warm, her grip firm. I feel her pulse through her palm—steady, calm. And something else. A slight tremor, not nervous but neurological. Parkinson's, maybe, or essential tremor.

"Thank you for seeing me," she says. Her voice has that particular quality I recognize—careful enunciation, measured pace. She's used to people not understanding her. "I've been to four doctors and none of them can figure out what's wrong."

"That's what we're here for," I say. "Why don't you have a seat on the examination table and we'll take a touch."

There's a brief pause. Then Ms. Anderson laughs—a warm, genuine sound. "Take a touch. I like that. Most doctors would say 'take a look' without thinking."

"Most doctors can see," I say with a small smile.

"And most doctors can't do what you do." Her voice has taken on that intimate quality again. "I think I'm in very good hands."

I feel the temperature shift slightly—Susan's moved closer to the examination table. Hovering. I clear my throat. "Let's start with your medical history."

The examination proceeds. I listen to Ms. Anderson describe the pain—deep in the left hip joint, worse with walking, not responding to anti-inflammatories. Then I have her lie back and I place my hands on her hip.

I feel it immediately. Not arthritis, not a labral tear. The joint itself is fine. The problem is higher up—L5-S1, nerve compression. It's referring pain down to the hip. Simple diagnosis, really.

But as I'm palpating the area, explaining what I'm feeling to Susan, Ms. Anderson speaks.

"You have incredible hands," she says quietly.

It's an innocuous comment. Patients say things like that all the time. But there's something in her tone—an intimacy, a warmth that goes beyond medical appreciation.

I feel my own pulse spike slightly. "Thank you," I say, keeping my voice professional.

"No, I mean it." She shifts slightly under my hands. "I have essential tremor. My hands shake constantly. I can't imagine being able to feel things the way you do. It must be extraordinary."

"It has its uses," I say carefully.

"I read about you online," she continues. "About your abilities. The article said you're blind but you can diagnose things other doctors miss. That you can feel vibrations or something?"

"Tremorsense," I say. "Yes. I can feel vibrations very precisely."

"That's amazing." She pauses. "And you're so young. I was expecting someone older."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I deflect. "Let me finish the examination and we'll discuss treatment options."

I complete my assessment, remove my hands from her body. Stand and turn toward where I know Susan is standing, near the counter.

But I'm distracted now. Because through the floor, I can feel Susan's vibrations—and something is wrong. Her posture is rigid. Her breathing is shallow. Her heart is beating too fast.

She's angry. Or threatened. Or both.

I explain my diagnosis to both of them—nerve compression, needs physical therapy and possibly a steroid injection. Susan's voice is clipped when she discusses next steps. Professional, but cold.

Ms. Anderson doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does and doesn't care. As she's leaving, she touches my arm. "Thank you, Dr. Charleigh. Lettie. Would you—would you be interested in getting coffee sometime? I'd love to talk more about your abilities. I'm a researcher at UW, neuroscience department. I think what you can do could be really valuable for my work."

It's innocent. Probably. A networking opportunity. But I feel the slight increase in her pulse when she touches me. Feel the warmth of her hand lingering just a moment too long.

"I'm quite busy," I say gently. "But thank you for the offer."

"Of course. I understand." She doesn't sound offended. "Well, if you change your mind, your office has my number."

After she leaves, the silence in the examination room is heavy.

I feel Susan's vibrations—she's standing perfectly still. Too still.

"Susan—" I start.

"Last patient of the day," she interrupts. "I'll tell Maria she can leave early."

Her footsteps retreat toward the front desk. I hear her telling our receptionist to go home, that we'll lock up.

This is going to be a problem.

I can feel it in my bones.

---

The silence after Maria leaves is suffocating.

I'm in the examination room, wiping down the table with disinfectant. Through the walls, I feel Susan in her office—sitting at her desk, perfectly still. Her heartbeat is elevated. Her breathing shallow. She hasn't moved in five minutes.

I finish cleaning, organize the instruments with careful precision. Give her time to say something. She doesn't.

Finally, I walk to her office. Stand in the doorway.

"We should talk about it," I say.

"About what?" Her voice is professionally neutral.

"Susan."

"We have paperwork to finish. Then we need to lock up."

I feel the vibration of her pen moving across paper. Deliberate, controlled movements. Everything about her posture screams tension, but her voice remains calm.

I could push. But I know Susan well enough to recognize when she's built walls. So I go back to the examination room and finish my own notes in braille.

Twenty minutes later, we lock up the office in silence.

---

The drive home is worse.

I'm in the passenger seat of Susan's Mercedes, feeling every vibration through the leather. Her hands on the steering wheel are rigid. She takes turns too sharply. Accelerates too quickly at lights.

"You're driving angry," I say quietly.

"I'm driving fine."

"Your heart rate is—"

"Don't." Her voice cuts like ice. "Don't read me right now. Please."

I fall silent. Press my hands against my thighs instead of the door, trying to limit what I can feel. It doesn't work. The whole car vibrates with her tension.

At home, she goes straight to the kitchen. I hear her opening cabinets, the clink of glass. My stomach drops.

"Susan—"

"Just one," she says. "I'm allowed one."

The whiskey bottle. The sound of liquid pouring. I feel the vibration when she sets the glass down on the granite counter—too hard, almost a slam.

She drinks it standing at the counter. I feel the movement of her throat as she swallows. Then she rinses the glass, puts the bottle away. Control, not abstinence. But it's the first time in months I've felt her need it.

"I'm going to bed," she says. "I'm tired."

It's barely eight o'clock.

I don't argue. I hear her footsteps going upstairs, the bathroom door closing, water running. The bedroom door shutting.

I sit on the couch in the living room for a long time, feeling the vibrations of the house. Susan moving around upstairs. Getting into bed. Lying still.

But her heartbeat doesn't slow. She's not sleeping. Just lying there in the dark, refusing to talk to me.

I've never felt so helpless.

---

The next day at the practice, Susan is professionally perfect and emotionally absent.

"Good morning, Dr. Charleigh," she says when I arrive. Formal. Distant.

"Good morning, Dr. Vance," I reply, matching her tone.

Maria glances between us—I feel her confused hesitation—but says nothing.

We see patients. Susan is competent, thorough, appropriately warm with clients. But with me, every interaction is clipped.

When I explain a diagnosis, she says "Thank you" instead of engaging with the details. When our hands accidentally brush passing a file, she pulls away too quickly.

By afternoon, I'm ready to scream.

We're working on Mr. Chen, our first patient, now a regular. He has chronic back issues. I have my hands on his lower spine, feeling the familiar pattern of his degenerating discs. I'm explaining the progression to Susan—how the L3-L4 has worsened since last month—when she interrupts.

"I can see the imaging. I don't need the full explanation."

I pause mid-sentence. Feel Mr. Chen's confusion in his shifting posture.

"Of course," I say quietly. "I'll finish the notes."

Susan leaves the room before I'm done. I hear her in her office, closing the door firmly.

Mr. Chen clears his throat. "Is Dr. Vance alright? She seems... stressed."

"She's fine," I lie. "Just busy. Let's talk about your treatment plan."

But my hands are shaking slightly as I write the prescription information.

---

It's Thursday afternoon when I hear it.

I'm in examination room two with Mrs. Rodriguez, checking her for carpal tunnel. My hands are on her wrists, feeling the nerve compression, when I sense Susan in her office next door. She's on the phone.

I try not to listen. But her voice carries through the wall—sharp, authoritative.

"Maria, I need you to do something for me."

A pause. I can hear Maria's murmured response from the front desk, transmitted through the floor.

"Cancel all of Ms. Anderson's appointments," Susan says. "Yes, Jennifer Anderson. All future appointments. And add her to our declined patient list."

My hands freeze on Mrs. Rodriguez's wrist.

Maria's voice, confused: "But Dr. Vance, she just—"

"I don't need to give you a reason, Maria. Just do it. And if she calls to reschedule, tell her we're not accepting her as a patient anymore."

"I... alright. Should I send her records somewhere?"

"She can request them if she wants. That's all. Thank you."

The call ends. Through the wall, I feel Susan sit back in her chair. Satisfied. Victorious.

Rage floods through me—hot and immediate.

"Mrs. Rodriguez," I say, keeping my voice level with effort. "I need to step out for a moment. Excuse me."

I leave her sitting there and walk straight to Susan's office. Don't bother knocking. The door swings open and I step inside.

"I heard you," I say. "Through the walls."

Susan's posture shifts—defensive. "Lettie, I'm—"

"What the hell are you doing? You just banned a patient for asking me to coffee?"

"That's not—" She stands up. "She was inappropriate. We need to maintain professional boundaries."

I laugh bitterly. "Professional boundaries. That's rich, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We're sleeping together, Susan. We live together. We're in a relationship. Don't lecture me about professional boundaries."

"That's different."

"How? How is it different?"

Susan's hands grip the edge of her desk. I hear the wood groan. "Because she was flirting with you. She was—"

"She asked me about my abilities! She's a neuroscientist. It was a networking opportunity, and you just destroyed it because you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous." But her voice cracks on the word.

"Yes, you are. I can feel it. Your heart is racing right now. Your hands are shaking. You're terrified, and you're taking it out on a patient who did nothing wrong."

"She touched you." Susan's voice drops low, dangerous. "She touched your arm. She looked at you like—"

"I can't even see how she looked at me!" I'm shouting now, something I rarely do. "I'm blind, Susan! I have no idea what her expression was. All I know is that she was polite and professional and asked if I wanted coffee. That's it!"

"But I can see." Susan comes around the desk. "I saw how she looked at you. I felt how her pulse jumped when she shook your hand—you told me about it yourself. I saw the way she smiled, the way she leaned in when she talked to you. She wasn't just networking, Lettie. She was interested."

"So what?" I throw my hands up. "Even if she was, I'm not available! I told her I was busy. I declined. What more do you want from me?"

"I want—" Susan stops. Her breathing is ragged. "I want you to understand."

"Understand what?"

Silence. Long enough that I almost turn to leave.

Then Susan says, very quietly: "I'm terrified of losing you."

---

The anger doesn't drain away completely, but it shifts. Transmutes into something more complicated.

"Susan," I say, softer now. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that." Her voice is raw. "But what happens when someone interesting comes along? Someone who isn't broken? Someone who can actually give you what you need?"

"You give me what I need."

"I can't make you come." The words are flat, brutal. "I can't give you the one thing you want most. What happens when you meet someone who can?"

I step closer to her. Feel the heat radiating from her body, the tremor in her limbs. "That's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" She laughs bitterly. "Some attractive researcher tells you you're extraordinary, offers to take you out, and I'm supposed to just—what? Be fine with it? Trust that you won't realize you could do better?"

"There is no better, Susan. There's just you."

"That's not healthy." But she doesn't pull away when I reach for her hand.

"I know." I lace my fingers through hers. Feel her pulse hammering against my palm. "None of this is healthy. But it's what we are."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You don't know what it was like. Before you."

"Tell me."

Another silence. Then she pulls her hand away, moves to the window. I feel the shift in her posture—arms wrapped around herself. Defensive. Vulnerable.

"During the drinking years," she says slowly, "I was passed around. At parties. Rich men—my father's colleagues, his friends, business partners. I was the fucked-up daughter who was always drunk, always available. They used me like a toy they could share."

I've heard parts of this before, but never the full story. I stay quiet, let her continue.

"And the worst part was, I didn't care. I was so numb—from the alcohol, from the depression, from the boredom—that I felt nothing. They could do whatever they wanted to my body and I just... wasn't there. I was a thing, not a person. An object that moaned at the right times and spread her legs when told to."

She pauses. When she speaks again, her voice drops even lower.

"Sometimes I volunteered for things. Degrading things. Painful things. Not because they wanted me to, but because I was so desperate to feel something. I'd let three of them use me at once. I'd let them... insert things to me. I'd kneel in front of my father's business partners and service them one after another. I once... took eight men. One after the other. I wanted to... I thought maybe if it was horrible enough, humiliating enough, I'd feel something. Anything. But I didn't. I just... performed. Like a trained dog doing tricks."

Her voice is devoid of emotion, clinical almost. Like she's describing someone else's trauma. And I didn't know what to say, or what to do. I sensed more was coming so I held myself in place, silent. Keeping the tears back.

"When I got sober," she continues with a deep breath, "I thought it would get better. I thought I'd feel again. But I didn't. Everything was still gray, still distant, still numb. I tried normal relationships—men, women, people who were kind and wanted to help me heal. Nothing worked. I couldn't feel anything. I was considering drugs."

She turns from the window. Faces me even though I can't see her.

"But then I met you. And you touched me, and for the first time in my entire life, I felt something real. Something overwhelming. You make me feel, Lettie. You're the only person who's ever made me feel."

I hear the desperation in her voice, feel it vibrating through the floorboards.

"Without you," she whispers, "I go back to gray. To numbness. To being so bored with existence that I want to drink just to make the gray turn black. You're not just my partner or my lover or my colleague. You're the only thing keeping me alive."

The words should be romantic. Instead, they're terrifying. Because I hear the truth in them—the obsessive, unhealthy, desperate truth.

"That's too much pressure," I say quietly. "I can't be responsible for your will to live."

"I know." Her voice breaks. "I know it's too much. I know it's not fair. But it's the truth. And when I saw that woman looking at you, touching you, offering to take you away from me for even an hour—I panicked. Because what if you realize you're better off without me? What if you find someone who isn't so broken, so needy, so fucked up?"

"Susan—"

"What if you realize I'm using you?" She's crying now. I feel the vibration of her tears in her voice. "Because I am. I'm using you to feel alive, to build my practice, to give my life meaning. I made you a doctor not just to help you, but because I needed you. I keep you close not just because I love you, but because I'm terrified of being alone with my own emptiness."

---

I should be angry. Should tell her she's right, that this is unhealthy, that we need to separate.

Instead, I cross the room and pull her into my arms.

She collapses against me, sobbing. I hold her and feel everything—the shaking in her shoulders, the racing of her heart, the desperate way her fingers grip my shirt.

"You think I don't know I'm being used?" I say into her hair.

She pulls back. "Lettie—"

"I'm using you too. I have nothing without you. No desires, no dreams. Everything else—my career, my identity—it's all you. We're both using each other."

She's quiet, processing this.

We stand like that for a long moment. Two broken people clinging to each other in a too-quiet office, admitting truths that should drive us apart but somehow don't.

Finally, Susan says, "I'm sorry. For banning her without talking to you first. That was wrong."

"You were scared."

"That's not an excuse."

"No," I agree. "But I understand it."

She pulls back slightly. I feel her wiping her eyes. "I'll call her. Apologize. Say we had a miscommunication about our patient capacity."

"You don't have to—"

"I do. You're right—it was unprofessional. And unfair to her." She pauses. "But I still don't want you having coffee with her."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good." Her arms tighten around me. Possessive. "You're mine."

"I'm yours," I confirm. And I mean it, even though I know how unhealthy that is.

---

We stay in her office for a while longer, holding each other. Eventually, I remember Mrs. Rodriguez is still waiting in the examination room.

"Shit," I mutter. "I left a patient."

Susan actually laughs—a watery, broken sound. "Very professional, Dr. Charleigh."

"I was distracted by my emotionally fragile girlfriend."

"I'm not fragile." But there's no heat in it.

I kiss her—soft, tender, tasting salt from her tears. When I pull back, I say, "We're a mess."

"The worst."

"Lettie," she says, her voice suddenly fierce, determined. "I will make you feel. I swear to god, I will find a way to make you feel what I feel when you touch me."

I sense the shift in her—the obsession crystallizing, focusing. The crisis has somehow made her more determined rather than less.

"Susan—"

"Let me have this." Her grip on my wrist tightens. "Let me solve this one thing. Let me give you something you actually want instead of just taking from you."

She needs this. Needs the purpose, the challenge, the impossible problem to solve. It's part of what keeps her from drowning in gray.

"Okay," I whisper. "Make me feel."

---

It's Friday evening. Two days after our fight, our confessions, our fragile reconciliation.

The last patient—Mr. Hendricks with his gout—shuffles out at five-thirty. Through the walls, I hear Susan thanking him, scheduling his follow-up with Maria. The front door closes. Footsteps returning.

Susan appears in the examination room doorway where I'm sanitizing instruments.

"I'm sending Maria home early," she says.

Her voice is casual, but I feel her heartbeat from across the room. Elevated. Anticipatory.

"Okay," I say simply.

She disappears. I hear her talking to Maria at the front desk—something about rewarding her for a busy week, take the evening, we'll lock up. Maria's surprised thanks. The front door opening and closing again.

Then silence.

Just the two of us in the empty clinic.

I finish wiping down the examination table, my movements slow and deliberate. Through the floor, I feel Susan in her office. She hasn't sat down. She's standing near her desk, waiting.

I set down the disinfectant and walk to her office.

She's facing the window when I enter, arms wrapped around herself. Tense. Vulnerable.

"Susan," I say softly.

She turns. I feel the shift in air pressure, the vibration of her movement.

"I'm sorry," she says. "Again. For—"

"Stop apologizing." I cross the room, find her hands, hold them. "I don't want apologies right now."

"What do you want?"

I pull her toward me. Feel her breath catch. "Lock the office door."

She hesitates for only a second. Then she moves past me, goes out to the hall and I hear the lock click.

When she turns back, I'm already walking toward her. I take her hand—feel her pulse jumping under my fingers—and lead her out of the office.

"Where—"

"Examination room," I say.

"Lettie—"

"Trust me."

She follows without further protest.

---

The examination room is clinical, sterile, fluorescent-lit. The table is freshly sanitized. It smells like disinfectant and the faint lavender of the oil we use for massages.

I guide Susan to stand beside the table. Then I turn to face her, my hands finding her waist.

"I need you to understand something," I say quietly.

"What?"

"I'm yours. You know that. But you're mine too."

Her breathing quickens. "I know."

"Do you?" I slide my hands up her sides, feel her shiver. "Because these past few days, I don't think you've felt it. So I'm going to remind you."

"Lettie—"

I kiss her. Not gentle—possessive. My tongue in her mouth, my hands gripping her hips. She makes a small sound against my lips, her body going pliant.

That sound. Soft, yielding, surprised. I feel it as much as hear it—the vibration traveling from her throat through her chest into mine.

When I pull back, she's breathing hard.

"Take off your blouse," I say.

She obeys without question. I feel the vibrations of her fingers working the buttons—slightly clumsy, shaking. The whisper of fabric sliding off her shoulders.

"Bra too."

Another pause, then the click of the clasp. The bra falls.

I step forward, run my hands up her bare stomach to her ribs. Her skin is warm, soft. I feel her heartbeat through her chest—rapid, insistent.

My hands continue upward and cup her breasts.

Small. Perky. Perfect.

Susan has always been self-conscious about them—I know this from the way her shoulders tense whenever I touch them, the slight defensiveness in her voice when she makes jokes about athletic builds. But to me, they're exquisite. The skin is incredibly soft, the slight weight of them in my palms just right. I can feel the faint give that comes with age, the way gravity has begun its work—but only just. They're still firm, still high. They'll never truly sag, I think. She'll be seventy and they'll still be beautiful.

I brush my thumbs over her nipples and feel them harden instantly, the texture changing from smooth to pebbled. Her breath hitches.

I lean down and kiss the top of one breast, then the other. Trace my tongue along the curve, memorizing the topography. Susan's hands come up to grip my shoulders.

"Lettie—"

"Shh," I murmur against her skin. I take one nipple in my mouth, roll it gently with my tongue. She arcs into me, a soft moan escaping.

I pull back, my hands sliding down her body—ribs, waist, hips. When I reach her ass, I squeeze appreciatively. Firm, tight, round. The muscles are taut under my fingers. Susan runs, bikes, takes care of herself. But it's when my hands drift to her thighs that I smile.

Here, finally, is some softness. Not fat, exactly—just a slight fullness, a gentle accumulation that makes the muscle beneath more interesting. The texture is different here. Smoother. When I press, there's more give. It's beautiful. She's a landscape of contrasts—hard and soft, firm and yielding. A symphony of textures that only I can fully appreciate.

"Get on the table," I murmur. "On your back."

She does. The examination table creaks slightly under her weight. I hear her settling, the rustle of her skirt against the paper covering.

I move to stand beside the table, my hands finding her ankle. I slip off her heel, set it aside. Then the other. My fingers trail up her calf, her thigh. She's trembling.

I place my hand on her sternum. Feel her heart hammering beneath my palm.

"You're already so worked up," I observe. "I've barely touched you."

"It's been a week," she breathes. "Since you—since we—"

"I know." I let my hand drift lower, between her breasts, down her stomach. Stop just above her pubic bone. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before."

It's not entirely true—I've made her come countless times. But she doesn't question it. She just nods, her body arching slightly toward my hand.

I don't give her what she wants. Not yet.

Instead, I lean down and press my lips to her neck, just below her ear.

People think tremorsense is only in my hands. They're wrong. My lips are just as sensitive—maybe more so. The skin is thinner here, the nerve endings more densely packed. When I kiss Susan's neck, I feel everything: the flutter of her pulse against my mouth, the micro-tremors in her muscles, the heat of blood rushing just beneath the surface.

I find the pressure point with my mouth and bite gently. She gasps, her whole body arching up.

"There's a nerve cluster here," I murmur against her skin. "Most people don't know how sensitive it is."

I can feel her response through my lips—the way the sensation travels down her spine like electricity, the way her heart rate spikes. I kiss lower, to her collarbone, feeling the hollow there with my tongue. The vibrations of her breathing, the subtle movement of her clavicle with each inhale.

I move to her breasts.

When I take her nipple in my mouth, I don't just taste her. I feel the texture change against my tongue as it hardens, the way the areola contracts, the tiny goosebumps rising on her skin. I can feel her heartbeat through the tissue—rapid, fluttering. I suck gently and feel the sensation radiate through her chest cavity, her diaphragm tightening.

She's whimpering now, her hands in my hair.

I move to the other breast, lavish it with the same attention. Circle the nipple with my tongue, learning its topography. Then I bite—just hard enough—and feel the sharp spike of her nervous system responding, the endorphins flooding her bloodstream. I can taste the salt of her sweat, smell the rising scent of her arousal.

"Feel that?" I whisper against her skin. "The way the sensation radiates? I can feel it too. Through my lips, my tongue. I can feel exactly how your body processes pleasure."

I kiss my way down her stomach—ribs, solar plexus, navel. Each spot tells me something different. Here, her breathing is shallow. Here, her muscles are tense. Here, she's ticklish but trying not to show it.

By the time I reach the apex of her thighs, she's trembling violently.

I press my mouth to her inner thigh, feel the powerful femoral artery pulsing against my lips. Her blood is racing. I kiss higher, closer, letting my breath ghost over her wetness but not touching. Not yet.

"Lettie, please—" she gasps.

"Shh."

When I finally press my mouth to her pussy, the sensation is overwhelming—for both of us.

Through my lips and tongue, I can feel everything. The swollen heat of her labia, the slickness of it all, and the rapid flutter of muscle contractions. When I find her clit with my tongue, I feel it pulse against me, feel the blood engorging the tissue. It's like having a direct line to her nervous system.

I know exactly how much pressure to apply. Exactly where to focus. Exactly when to speed up or slow down.

She cries out, her hips bucking against my mouth.

"Oh god," she gasps. "Lettie, please—"

My name. Broken, desperate. The sound of it makes my own heart stutter. I file it away—this particular inflection, this specific need.

"Shh. I've got you."

I circle slowly, feeling the blood flow, the way the tissue swells under my touch. Her hips rock up, seeking more pressure, but I keep the touch light. Maddening.

"You're so wet," I observe. "I can feel your pulse here. Did you know that? Your heartbeat echoes in your clit when you're this aroused."

She makes an incoherent sound.

I slide two fingers inside her—easy, she's so ready—and she clenches around me immediately. I can feel every muscle, every contraction. It's like reading braille written in her body.

"There," I murmur, curling my fingers to press against her front wall. "Right there. I can feel the texture difference. The way this spot swells when I touch it."

"Please," she begs. "Please, Lettie, I need—"

"I know what you need."

I start to move. Slow at first, feeling my way. Each stroke gives me information—which angle makes her tighten, which rhythm makes her breathing skip. I'm not guessing. I'm reading her body in real-time and adjusting constantly.

My thumb finds her clit. Circles in counterpoint to the thrust of my fingers.

Her hands grip the edges of the examination table. I feel the vibration of her knuckles against the metal frame.

"That's it," I encourage. "Let me feel you. Don't hold back."

I bring her to the edge quickly—I know her body too well not to. I feel the telltale signs: her inner muscles starting to flutter, her heartbeat spiking above 140, her breathing going ragged, the tension building in her thighs.

Right before she tips over, I change the rhythm. Slow down just enough to keep her suspended.

"No," she gasps. "Please, I was so close—"

"I know. I felt it." I lean down, kiss her breast. "I felt the exact moment. That's why I stopped."

I build her up again. Faster this time. Bring her to the edge again—feel her body coiling tight, ready to snap—and ease back.

She makes a frustrated sound that's almost a sob.

"Lettie—"

"One more time," I murmur. "Trust me."

The third time I bring her to the edge, I don't stop.

I feel the moment her orgasm starts—the first deep contraction around my fingers, her pussy clamping down hard. But instead of letting it peak and crash, I adjust immediately.

I curl my fingers harder against her G-spot, pressing firmly while the tissue swells and pulses. My thumb increases pressure on her clit—not circling anymore, but pressing down with steady, unyielding force. The dual stimulation locks the orgasm in place.

The orgasm doesn't peak and fade. It plateaus.

Susan's whole body goes rigid. A strangled cry tears from her throat.

And then I keep her there.

Through my fingers, I feel the contractions—normally they'd come in waves, building and fading over ten, maybe fifteen seconds. But I don't let them fade. I feel the first contraction squeeze my fingers, and as it starts to release, I thrust deeper, curl harder against that front wall. The pressure triggers another contraction immediately. Then another.

I'm fucking her through the orgasm. Short, firm thrusts timed exactly to the rhythm of her contractions, extending each one, preventing the natural fade. My thumb grinds against her clit in small, relentless circles—not enough movement to build her higher, just enough constant pressure to keep every nerve ending firing.

She's suspended in orgasm. Not building toward it, not coming down from it. Just existing in that impossible moment of overwhelming sensation.

Fifteen seconds. Thirty. Forty-five.

She's making continuous sounds now—high, keening, broken. Her hips are moving against my hand but she's not in control of the movement. It's pure reflex, her body trying to process sensations it's not designed to sustain.

The sounds she makes—wordless, animal, honest—are more intimate than anything she's ever said to me. This is Susan with no walls, no control, no careful performance. Just raw sensation given voice.

I lean close to her ear. "Stay with me," I whisper. "I've got you. Just feel."

One minute. I feel her heartbeat racing—160, 170. Dangerous territory, but I'm monitoring it. The pulse in her clit is so strong I can feel it against my thumb. If her heart rate goes too high, I'll let her down. But not yet.

"Please," she gasps. "I can't—it's too much—I can't—"

"You can." I kiss her neck, feeling her pulse hammering against my lips. "Feel it. Feel everything."

I ease back slightly—not stopping, but reducing the intensity. My thumb lightens on her clit, and my fingers shift to shallow thrusts, barely moving. I feel the orgasm start to ebb, the contractions spacing out, her muscles beginning to relax.

Then, just as she starts to come down—just as her breathing begins to even—I thrust deep and hard. My fingers find that swollen spot and press firmly. My thumb grinds down on her clit with renewed pressure.

The orgasm slams back into her like a second wave. Her back arches and she sobs—not crying, but the sound of someone overwhelmed beyond words. The contractions restart, harder than before because I gave her that moment of false respite.

Ninety seconds. Two minutes.

Her pussy is soaking wet now. The examination table paper beneath her ass is damp. I can feel the tremors in her thighs, the muscles exhausted from sustained tension.

I let her down again—this time further. I pull my fingers almost all the way out, just the tips resting inside her. My thumb lifts completely off her clit.

I feel her body trying to recover. The contractions slow, weaken. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps. For a few seconds, she's in that floating space between orgasm and recovery, her nervous system trying to reset.

Then I give her the final wave.

I plunge three fingers deep inside her—one more than before—stretching her wider. I curl them hard, finding that swollen, spongy spot and stroking it with firm, rapid pressure. My thumb comes down on her clit and I pinch it gently between thumb and the base of my palm, creating constant, inescapable pressure.

And I fuck her. Really fuck her. Fast, deep, relentless thrusts.

The orgasm comes back, like a phoenix awakening from its ashes.

Her back arches completely off the table. The sound she makes isn't even human—pure sensation vocalized. Her pussy clamps down on my fingers so hard it almost hurts my hand. I feel every muscle in her body contract at once.

I hold her there—fingers buried deep, stroking that spot, thumb grinding her clit—for ten more seconds. Ten seconds of the most intense peak, her body locked in pleasure so overwhelming it borders on pain.

Then, finally, I let her fall.

I slow my movements gradually—not stopping all at once, but easing down in stages. Fast thrusts become slower. Deep becomes shallow. Hard pressure becomes gentle. I'm reading her body's descent, matching the natural fade of her orgasm now instead of fighting it.

The contractions slow from rapid-fire to waves with space between them. Then longer spaces. Then just occasional flutters. Her heartbeat begins to drop—170, 160, 150. Still elevated, but no longer dangerous.

Finally, the last contraction fades and her muscles go completely slack.

Susan collapses back onto the table, boneless, sobbing. Her whole body is trembling with aftershocks—tiny muscle spasms I can feel through the examination table.

I carefully remove my fingers. She whimpers at the loss, her pussy clenching weakly around the emptiness. My hand is soaked—fingers, palm, wrist. The clinical part of my mind notes that she came harder than I've ever felt before.

I'm gentle now, soothing. My clean hand strokes her stomach, her ribs, calming. I can feel her diaphragm heaving, her heart still racing but gradually slowing.

"Shh," I murmur. "I've got you. You're okay. You did so well."

She can't speak. Can barely breathe. She's completely non-functional, destroyed in the best way.

I lean over her, kiss her forehead, her wet cheeks. Taste her tears.

"I love you," I whisper against her skin. "You're mine. Do you understand? Mine."

She manages a tiny nod. Her hand fumbles for mine, grips it weakly.

I pull her up—she can't sit on her own—and gather her against my chest. Her head drops to my shoulder. She's still shaking, still crying softly.

"That was..." she tries. Can't finish.

"I know."

"No one else... could ever..."

"I know." I stroke her hair. "Only me. Only us."

We stay like that for long minutes. I hold her while her breathing slowly returns to normal. While the trembling subsides. While she comes back to herself.

Finally, she pulls back enough to look at me—or rather, to turn her face toward mine.

"How did you... I've never... that was..."

"Your body doesn't have secrets from me," I say simply. "I can feel everything. So I can give you everything."

"God." She laughs weakly. "I couldn't even think. I couldn't... there was just... sensation. Nothing else existed."

"That's what I wanted. You, feeling nothing but what I give you."

She kisses me—messy, grateful, worshipful. "I love you. God, Lettie, I love you so much."

The words tumble out ragged, slurred with exhaustion. I feel them as much as hear them—her breath against my lips, the vibration in her chest.

"I love you too."

I wish I could tell her that her voice is the only thing that makes me feel seen. That in a world of vibrations and echoes, her words are the only ones that feel like they're meant for me and me alone. But I don't. Some truths are too vulnerable even for us.

She holds me tighter. I feel her heartbeat finally slowing toward normal. She's exhausted, wrung out, completely spent.

After another few minutes, she murmurs into my neck: "I have an idea. For you."

I pull back. "What?"

"Give me a week." Her voice is rough, hoarse from screaming. "Maybe two. I'm working on something."

"What kind of something?"

"A way to make you feel what you just made me feel." She cups my face. "I think I know how to do it."

My heart jumps. "Susan—"

"Do you trust me?"

I think of the past two and a half minutes. The way I held her in impossible pleasure. The way she surrendered completely.

"Always," I say.

She smiles—tired but genuine. "Good. Because I'm going to give you the world."

I believe her.

---

We clean up slowly. Susan's legs are shaky—she has to hold onto the examination table while she dresses. I find her clothes, help her with her buttons because her hands are still trembling.

"I'm going to feel this tomorrow," she says, half-laughing. "I can barely walk."

"Good."

She laughs again, then winces. "I think I pulled something. Multiple somethings."

We finish dressing. Lock up the office. The drive home is quiet but comfortable. Susan's hand rests on my thigh the whole way—not sexual now, just connection.

Claiming.