The silk of her dress was a heap of crimson ruins on the floor, and Isolde was draped across my workbench, her back arched, her breasts heaving. My tools—precision screwdrivers, brass calipers, fine-tipped tweezers—were pushed aside, clattering against the mahogany. I had her thighs pinned wide, my hands gripping her hips with a strength that bordered on desperation. I was inside her, the friction of our bodies creating a heat that threatened to warp the very metal in the room.
"Faster, Thaddeus! Stop thinking about the rhythm and just give it to me!"
She screamed the words, her head tossing back, her golden hair sweeping across the scattered gears of a dismantled grandfather clock. I didn't speed up. I couldn't. My mind was a whirlwind of calculation, a desperate struggle to maintain th
