TANGIBLE LOVE
SIX MONTHS AGO
VOSS’S QUARTERS — 10:38 PM
His cock was already hard before she appeared on screen.
This was becoming a problem. A physiological constant. His body had learned the schedule—every night, same time, same encrypted server, same woman in a mask who called him her Newton and made his ears turn colors that didn’t exist in nature.
He didn’t know her real name. He didn’t know where she lived. He didn’t know anything about her except that she was brilliant and beautiful and she danced for him every night and refused to take his money.
The light blinked green.
Hypatia24 is online.
She was in red tonight. Crimson. A dress made of something thin and silky that clung to every curve. Her mask matched—rubies and garnets framing those enormous brown eyes. Her hair was black, a waterfall of ink over bare shoulders.
“Hello, my Newton.”
His cock throbbed against his zip. “Hello.”
“You’re shirtless. Good. I like when you’re shirtless.” She settled into her chair, crossing those long legs. The dress rode up her thighs. “How was your day?”
“Operationally adequate.”
“That’s code for boring.”
“That’s code for I spent fourteen hours restructuring shell companies and my eyes are tired.”
“Then don’t read. Just watch.” She stood. The dress swirled around her ankles. “I’ve been working on something new. A dance. I want you to see it.”
“I always want to see you.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day.”
“It’s a statement of fact.”
“It’s a compliment. Accept it.”
She moved.
There was no music—or music he couldn’t hear. Just her body, slow and hypnotic, her hips rolling, her arms flowing, her spine curving in ways that made his throat close. She danced like she was touching someone. Like she was touching him. Her hands traced her own throat, her own breasts, her own hips, and he felt it like she was in the room.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
She smiled. “You never say fuck.”
“You never dance like that.”
“I’ve been practicing.” She turned around, her back to the camera, and slid the dress off one shoulder. Then the other. The red silk pooled at her feet.
She was wearing nothing underneath.
His hand was on his cock before he realized he’d unzipped his trousers. She turned back to face him—bare, completely bare, her body curved and soft and golden in the dim light of her grey room. Her waist was tiny. Her hips were full. The dark triangle of hair between her thighs made his mouth water.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“You’re naked.”
“I noticed.” She sat back down, crossing her legs, her arms draped over the back of the chair like she wasn’t completely exposed. “Are you touching yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to.”
He stroked himself slowly, his eyes fixed on the screen. She watched him watch her. The silence stretched between them—not awkward, but charged, electric, the kind of silence that meant they were both doing the same thing.
“Spread your legs,” he said. The words came out rough. Unfamiliar. He’d never said anything like that before.
She spread them.
She was wet. Glistening. Her fingers found her clit and began a slow, teasing circle. Her head fell back. Her moan was soft and breathy.
“Faster,” he said.
She went faster.
“Slower.”
She went slower.
He didn’t know why he was saying these things. He didn’t know where the words were coming from. He just knew he wanted to watch her, wanted to see her fall apart, wanted to be the reason she came.
“I’m close,” she gasped. “Isaac—I’m close—”
“Come. Now.”
She shattered. Her back arched, her mouth opened, her release gushed over her fingers. He watched every second of it, his hand flying on his cock, his bollocks tightening—
He came with a groan, spilling across his stomach, his chest, his desk. His vision blurred. His ears roared.
For a long moment, there was only breathing. His. Hers. The static hum of the server connection.
“Holy shit,” she breathed.
“That’s—an accurate summary.”
“I think I blacked out for a second.”
“That’s a vasovagal response.”
“Did you just diagnose my orgasm?”
“It’s a medical phenomenon.”
“You’re a medical phenomenon.” She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, her smile dopey and satisfied. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, my Newton.”
“Goodbye, Hypatia.”
She logged off.
Voss sat in the dark, covered in his own release, his heart pounding, his mind racing. He cleaned himself up. Showered. Dressed. Composed himself into the grey-sweater-vested, white-shirted, statistically precise treasurer the club expected him to be.
He didn’t understand what was happening to him. He’d never felt this before. Never wanted this before. He was a man of control, of systems, of variables that behaved—and this woman, this impossible, brilliant, chaotic woman, had reduced him to something desperate and aching and completely unfamiliar.
He didn’t know what to call it.
He just knew he’d be back tomorrow.
Then he walked out of his quarters.
The common room in the Sons of Ash clubhouse had been baby-proofed.
Voss stared at a plastic corner guard on the coffee table and felt something deeply wrong settle in his chest. Not the familiar wrong of unprocessed trauma or social ineptitude—he had spreadsheets for those—but the specific wrong of watching a motorcycle club’s headquarters become a crèche.
“Why,” he said flatly, “is there a juice box in the gun cabinet?”
Luna looked up from where she was systematically dismantling his Rubik’s cube. “Because bad men can’t have juice. It’s the rule.”
“That’s not a rule.”
“I made it a rule. I’m the princess.”
Voss opened his mouth. Closed it. The tips of his ears went pink.
Across the room, Tank was holding his infant son Alexander at arm’s length like a bomb that might detonate. The baby was screaming. Tank’s face was granite carved into panic.
“He doesn’t like me,” Tank said.
“He’s three months old,” Rose said, not looking up from her phone. “He doesn’t like being alive.”
“You said he liked me last week.”
“That was gas. You were warm.”
“Rose.”
“Terrence.”
Luna tugged Voss’s sleeve. “Smooth Princess, why is Alexander crying?”
Voss pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s likely the Oedipus complex. Castration anxiety. He perceives his father as a rival for the mother’s attention and resources.”
The room went silent.
Tank’s brow furrowed. “The fuck is an Oedipus?”
“Freud. Psychosexual development. Your son is jealous of you. He believes you’ll mate with Rose and produce competing offspring. It’s in the book.”
“What fucking book.”
“The book. The one with the pages.”
“Voss.”
“I can send you the PDF.”
Tank looked at Rose. Rose looked at the ceiling. Alexander screamed louder.
“Voss,” Tank said, very slowly, murder lurking at the edges of his calm, “are you telling me my infant son wants to—have sex with his mother?”
“No. That’s a gross oversimplification. He wants to eliminate you and possess her. It’s developmental. Most children grow out of it.”
Sydney appeared at Voss’s elbow, slinging a heavy arm around his shoulders. “Mate. Mate. Stop talking. Right the fuck now. For everyone’s safety.”
“I’m providing relevant psychoanalytic context—”
“You’re telling a hundred-and-forty-kilo man his baby wants to kill him. That’s not context. That’s a fucking eulogy.”
Across the room, Grimm didn’t look up from where Rain was curled against his side, reading. “He’s not wrong, though.”
“ORANGE BLOSSOM,” Luna shrieked, abandoning the Rubik’s cube. “ORANGE BLOSSOM, I DREW YOU A PICTURE!”
Grimm caught her as she launched herself at his chest. The drawing was a purple stick figure with red hair and what appeared to be butterfly wings. “It’s you,” Luna explained. “You’re flying. Because you’re a princess.”
“I’m a grown man.”
“You’re a princess grown man. Accept it.”
Grimm looked at Rain. Rain’s eyes were sparkling. “Accept it,” she said.
A beat. “I accept it.”
“GOOD,” Luna said. “Now where’s my juice?”
Hound was on the floor, being used as furniture again. Tara was perched on his back, discussing wedding seating arrangements with Scarlett. Hound’s face was squished against the rug. “I can’t breathe.”
“You don’t need to breathe. You need to decide between the salmon and the beef.”
“Both.”
“You can’t have both.”
“I’m the size of a bloody refrigerator. I can have both.”
Scarlett, radiant in her post-wedding glow—three months married and still insufferable—tapped her pen against her planner. “Axle had both at our wedding.”
“Because I’m the President,” Axle said from his chair, not looking up from his phone.
“You’re the President because you threatened to burn down the restaurant if they didn’t give you both,” Scarlett said.
“That’s negotiation.”
“That’s arson with extra steps.”
Axle’s lips twitched. “Same thing.”
Sydney squeezed Voss’s shoulder, still not releasing him. “See? Look at them. Hitched. Settled. Scarlett’s already got that glow—bet you fifty quid she announces a baby by Christmas. Grimm and Rain can’t keep their hands off each other. Hound’s getting married in two months. Tank’s got two kids now. That leaves me, you, Raze, and Doc. The scale is even. Four bachelors against four old married couples.”
“I’m not a bachelor,” Raze said from the corner, sketching something in a notebook.
“You’re literally unmarried.”
“I’m married to my art.”
“That’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You cried at a dog advert yesterday.”
“The dog was LOST, Raze. He couldn’t find his way HOME.”
Doc looked up from where he was restocking a medical kit. “I’m not a bachelor. I’m emotionally unavailable. There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not,” Sydney said.
“There’s really not,” Scarlett agreed.
Voss shifted under Sydney’s arm. “Excuse me.”
“What?”
“It’s not like you’re seeing anyone. Besides, you like being alone.” Sydney pointed at him. “You’re our forever bachelor. Our constant. Our emotional north star of solitude.”
A muscle in Voss’s jaw flickered.
His mind betrayed him immediately.
Brown eyes. Dark, enormous, peering through a bejewelled mask. Black hair that fell in waves over bare shoulders. A voice like smoke and sin calling himmy Newtonlike she’d invented the nickname just to watch his ears turn red.
His cock throbbed.
He was a grown man. A professional. The treasurer of the Sons of Ash Motorcycle Club. He had offshore accounts in seven countries and a standing invitation to a private server where a woman who called herself Hypatia24 danced for him and called him beautiful and refused to take his money even when he—
“I need a break,” he said.
“You’ve been here twenty minutes.”
“I need a longer break.”
He extracted himself from Sydney’s grip, grabbed his laptop, and walked to his quarters without looking back.
SONS OF ASH CLUBHOUSE — THE NEXT MORNING
Voss emerged from his quarters at 6:47 AM.
He was showered. Dressed. Composed. His sweater vest was grey. His shirt was white. He had slept approximately two hours and felt entirely functional.
The common room was already chaos.
Scarlett was on the couch with a cup of tea, her feet in Axle’s lap. “You look different,” she said when Voss walked in.
“I don’t look different. I look the same.”
“You look like you got laid.”
“I didn’t get laid.”
“You look like you got laid in your dreams.”
“I don’t dream.”
“Everyone dreams, Voss. It’s a biological function.”
“My biological functions are none of your concern.”
Axle looked up from his phone. “You’re defensive. You’re never defensive. Who is she?”
“There is no she.”
“There’s definitely a she,” Hound said, wandering in with Tara under one arm like she was a rugby ball. “Your ears are doing the thing.”
“My ears don’t do a thing.”
“They’re doing it right now,” Tara said. “The red thing. The ‘I’m hiding something’ thing.”
“I’m not hiding anything. I’m standing in the common room drinking coffee.”
“You’re not drinking coffee,” Rain pointed out from where she was curled in Grimm’s lap. “You’re holding an empty mug.”
Voss looked down. The mug was empty.
He had forgotten to pour coffee.
He had never forgotten to pour coffee in his entire adult life.
“Fuck,” he said.
The room erupted.
“HE SAID FUCK!” Sydney vaulted over the back of the couch. “VOSS SAID FUCK! SOMEONE WRITE THIS DOWN! DATE IT! TIME STAMP IT!”
“She’s real,” Grimm said, his pale eyes glinting. “She’s real and she’s got him so twisted he forgot his caffeine ritual.”
“I don’t have a caffeine ritual.”
“You have a seven-step caffeine protocol that you outlined in a PowerPoint presentation last year,” Doc said. “I still have the slides.”
“That was for operational efficiency.”
“That was for your caffeine addiction.”
“It’s not an addiction. It’s a dependency.”
“That’s the definition of addiction,” Raze said from his corner, not looking up from his sketchbook. “I’m quoting your own presentation back at you. Slide four. ‘The Neurochemical Foundations of Habitual Stimulant Consumption.’”
Voss’s ears went from pink to deep red.
Knuckles, who had been silent this entire time, raised his hand like he was in a classroom. “I just want to say I’m happy for you, Voss. Whoever she is. You deserve to be happy.”
“I’m not happy. I’m irritated.”
“That’s his happy,” Sydney said. “That’s the closest he gets.”
Voss turned on his heel and walked to the coffee pot. He poured a full mug. Drank it in three swallows. Poured another.
Behind him, the betting pool had already started.
“Fifty says she’s a hacker,” Sydney said.
“A hundred says she’s a librarian,” Hound countered. “He’s got a thing for order.”
“A librarian wouldn’t make him forget coffee,” Tara said. “I’m going with dominatrix. Look at him. He’s a sub.”
“I am NOT a sub,” Voss said without turning around.
“The ears say otherwise, sweetheart.”
Voss drank his second coffee. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out.
Hypatia24 (Private Server):Did you try my idea?
His thumbs moved before his brain could stop them.
Voss:Yes. It worked. The account is clear.
Hypatia24:Told you. I’m a genius.
Voss:You’re an anomaly.
Hypatia24:That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I’m blushing.
Voss:You’re not blushing. You don’t blush.
Hypatia24:You don’t know that. You can’t see me right now.
Voss:Are you blushing?
Hypatia24:Wouldn’t you like to know, my Newton.
Voss:Yes. I would.
A pause. Three dots. Then:
Hypatia24:I’m blushing. My cheeks are pink. My chest is pink. I’m thinking about you calling me beautiful last night and I haven’t stopped thinking about it for eight hours.
Voss stared at his phone.
His ears were so red they were practically glowing.
“What’s on your phone?” Sydney asked, suddenly directly behind him.
Voss shoved the phone in his pocket. “Nothing.”
“Your ears are purple.”
“They’re not purple. Purple isn’t a physiological ear colour.”
“They’re a colour that doesn’t exist in nature. You’ve invented a new shade of red. Scientists are going to name it after you.” Sydney grabbed his shoulders. “Who is she? What’s her name? Is she real or is she a spreadsheet?”
“She’s not a spreadsheet.”
“AHA! SHE! CONFIRMED!”
The common room descended into chaos.
Voss stood in the middle of it, his hand still in his pocket, his fingers wrapped around his phone, and thought about brown eyes and black hair and a voice that called him beautiful.
He was in trouble.
He was in so much fucking trouble.
And for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to calculate his way out of it.
