My heart nearly gives out at that, bashing itself against the wall of my chest, as though every last capillary I own just put in its two weeks. Tentatively, I shift closer between his parted knees, reluctantly widening my stance. He scoots his chair back, turning his whole body to face me, his free hand nudging me between his knees as he leans toward mine. His touch is deliberate, both strangely clinical and intimate, as his fingers begin a slow trace up my thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“There’s a fascinating simplicity to capillarity,” he continues, his voice steady, somehow both nerve-racking and reassuring. “Similar to your blood network, it’s the reason a plant can transport water from its roots to its leaves high above. The reason mercury rises in a thermometer.”

My asshole clenches at the memory of the thermometer he’d inserted in it all those weeks ago—which only exacerbates the lingering sensation of the thick cum that had surrounded it not even an hour dried. My eyes stay trained on the straw as my heart continues to thrum in my neck.

“Diagnostic test strips also harness the power of capillarity,” he says, his voice taking on the sensual quality of a whisper while retaining every bit of its bass. “A drop of blood, placed on the test strip, migrates along the tiny channels, interacting with specific chemical reagents to reveal valuable information about our health.”

The home tests that marked the beginning of this insane first session flash in my mind, the heightened activity of yesterday converging with this one.

“The same principle applies to ink pens,” he explains, his voice a low, horribly soothing cadence. “Capillary forces draw the ink from the reservoir to the tip of the pen, ensuring a smooth, uninterrupted flow of ink onto the paper.”

I swallow, fighting the urge to look away from his squared gaze as the damning image of my name on his contract fills my head. Placed there by my own hand.

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