"Good," he said. "Come here."
I crossed to him, and he guided me to stand between his knees, his hands settling on my hips. The contrast was visceral—his hands warm and firm, my skin hypersensitive and trembling.
"You're going to stay standing," he said. "You're going to watch everything I do. And you're not going to look away. Understand?"
"Yes."
His right hand slid up my ribs, stopping just below my breast. "Tell me what you're feeling."
"Exposed."
"What else?"
"Aroused."
"How aroused?" he probed.
"I've been aroused for forty-eight hours," I admitted, voice breaking. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about this. About you."
His hand moved higher, thumb brushing my nipple. I gasped, the sensation electric, overwhelming.
"This is what you need to understand," he said, voice low. "Your arousal isn't weakness. It's honesty. Your body is telling you what your mind won't admit."
"What won't it admit?"
"That you want to be out of control." His thumb circled again, and I couldn't stop the sound that escaped. "That surrender isn't defeat. It's relief."
His other hand slid down my stomach, stopping just above where I desperately needed him to touch.
"Ask me," he said.
"Please."
"Ask me properly."
"Please touch me."
"Where?"
I forced the words out. "Between my legs. Please."
His hand moved lower, and the first brush of contact made my knees buckle. He caught me with his other arm, holding me steady.
"Watch," he commanded.
I looked down and saw his hand against me, fingers moving with deliberate precision. The sight alone was almost enough to undo me.
"You're so wet," he observed clinically. "Your body knows what it wants even when you can't say it."
His fingers slid through the arousal, finding the exact spot that made me gasp and arch into his touch.
"Stay still," he said.
I tried. I couldn't. My hips moved involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"Aethelreda." His voice was firm. "If you can't stay still, I'll stop."
The threat of losing this—of losing him—was enough. I locked every muscle, trembling with effort.
"Better," he murmured. "That's control. Real control."
His fingers moved in slow, maddening circles. Not enough to push me over the edge. Just enough to keep me suspended there, desperate and shaking.
"Tell me about your last relationship," he said.
The shift was so sudden I almost couldn't process it. "What?"
"You told me you ended it after eight months. Why?"
"I don't—" His fingers pressed harder, and I lost my breath. "I don't see what that has to do with—"
"Answer the question."
"Because he wanted more than I could give," I gasped.
"What did he want?"
His fingers slid lower, and I felt him at my entrance. Not penetrating. Just hovering. Promising.
"He wanted me to need him," I managed.
"And you didn't."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" His finger pressed inside, slowly, and the sensation made my vision blur. "Because needing someone gives them power to hurt you."
"And you don't let anyone have that power."
"No."
"Except right now." His finger moved deeper, and I couldn't stop the moan. "Right now, you're completely vulnerable. I could hurt you. I could stop. I could make you beg until you shatter."
"Yes," I sobbed.
"But I won't. Because this isn't about power over you. It's about giving you permission to be powerless." His thumb found my clit while his finger moved inside me, and the dual sensation was overwhelming. "Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"What do you understand?"
"That I've been trying to control everything because I thought it would keep me safe. But it just kept me alone."
"Good." His fingers moved faster now, more pressure, more purpose. "You're close, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to come?"
"Yes," I begged. "Please."
"Then ask me for permission."
Oh God.
This was it. The ultimate relinquishment. Not just surrendering my body but admitting—out loud—that he controlled even my release.
"Please," I whispered. "Please let me come."
"Louder."
"Please let me come," I said, voice breaking. "I need it. I need you to—"
"I know what you need." His fingers curled inside me, hitting exactly the right spot while his thumb maintained perfect pressure. "And I'm giving it to you. Come, Aethelreda. Now."
The permission shattered something inside me.
I came so hard I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel. The orgasm ripped through me—violent, complete, devastating. Not just physical. Deeper than that. Psychological. The walls I'd spent thirty years building cracked wide open, and for the first time in my life, I felt utterly, completely real.
Meric held me through it, his free arm steadying me as my legs gave out completely. His fingers gentled but didn't stop, extending the climax until I was sobbing with the intensity of it.
And when it finally subsided, leaving me trembling and gasping, he withdrew his hand slowly and guided me to sit on the platform.
I couldn't look at him.
I'd just come apart in front of him. Begged. Cried. Surrendered so completely I didn't recognize myself.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
I forced my eyes up.
His expression was unguarded for just a second—something raw and almost vulnerable flickering across his face before he controlled it.
"That," he said, voice rough, "was real surrender. Do you understand what you just did?"
I shook my head, unable to speak.
"You gave yourself permission to want something. To ask for it. To receive it without guilt or shame or the need to control the outcome." His hand brushed my cheek—so gentle it felt like a different person. "That's what power looks like."
"I don't feel powerful," I whispered. "I feel destroyed."
"I know. That's the paradox." He handed me my clothes, turning slightly to give me space to dress. "You're destroyed in the best possible way. And when you rebuild, you'll be different."
I dressed slowly, my body still trembling, hypersensitive. Every brush of fabric felt too much. My mind was struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
When I was clothed again, Meric guided me to the seating area. The same chairs. The same processing ritual.
But I felt different.
He sat across from me, leaning forward slightly. "What did you learn tonight?"
I took a shaky breath, trying to find words for something that felt too big for language.
"I learned that I've been afraid of the wrong thing," I said finally. "I thought vulnerability would destroy me. But staying in control was what was killing me."
"What else?"
"I learned that asking for what I want isn't weakness." I met his eyes. "I felt powerful when I begged you. I felt powerful when I came. Not despite the surrender. Because of it."
Something shifted in his expression—pride, maybe. Or something deeper he wouldn't name.
"Your Core Lie is cracking," he said quietly. "Control doesn't equal safety. It equals isolation. Power is the choice to be vulnerable with someone you trust."
"Do I trust you?" I asked.
"You're starting to." He leaned back slightly, and I saw the professional mask reassembling. "The next session will build on tonight's work. We'll go deeper."
"When?"
"Seventy-two hours. Integration Period."
"That's three days."
"Yes."
"I don't want three days," I said before I could stop myself. "I want—"
"I know what you want." His voice was gentle but firm. "And patience is part of the methodology. You need time to process what just happened."
I nodded, not trusting myself to argue.
He stood, and I realized the session was over.
"Vigdis will escort you back," he said.
But as he moved toward the door, I saw it—just for a second.
His hand, resting against the doorframe, was trembling.
So slight I might have imagined it.
But I didn't imagine it.
Because Meric Solvang-Lykke, who'd just brought me to the most devastating orgasm of my life with perfect clinical control, was shaking.
And I understood, with sudden, terrifying clarity, what Vigdis had been warning me about.
His control was the one thing keeping the entire structure from collapsing.
Which meant he felt this too.
Vigdis met me at the top of the stairs. She took one look at my face—flushed, tear-streaked, visibly undone—and said nothing. Just walked beside me through the Observation Wing, through the boundary doors, back to Suite 3.
At my door, she paused.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I don't know."
She nodded. "That's normal after a breakthrough session."
"Vigdis," I said quietly. "What happens if the Praxist can't maintain the distance?"
Her expression hardened. "That's not your concern."
"But if he couldn't—"
"Then the methodology fails. The client gets hurt. And everything the Institute stands for collapses." She met my eyes. "Which is why it can't happen."
She left me alone with that.
I entered my suite and closed the door, leaning against it as my legs finally gave out completely.
I slid to the floor and sat there, back against the door, replaying the session in my mind.
Not just the orgasm—though that had been transcendent.
But the moment after.
When Meric had touched my cheek with such gentleness, it had felt like a different person.
When his hand had trembled against the doorframe.
When I'd seen, just for a second, the crack in his armor.
I pulled my knees to my chest and admitted the truth I'd been avoiding since the moment I'd arrived at this Institute.
I wasn't just surrendering to the Praxis.
I was falling for the man who wielded it.
And that—that specific, dangerous, boundary-violating want—was going to destroy us both.