019

The cursor blinks in the search bar. Alex Reed NeuralKink Labs.

I hit Enter.

A waterfall of information cascades down my laptop screen. TechCrunch articles. Wired profiles. A TED Talk from three years ago titled "The Future of Intimacy is Code."

I click on the Images tab.

There he is. Dozens of versions of him. Alex in a suit at a gala, looking uncomfortable. Alex in a hoodie at a hackathon, looking exhausted. Alex on the cover of Fast Company, staring right through the lens with those dark, intelligent eyes.

He’s not just handsome. He’s... intense. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week because he’s too busy rewriting reality.

I scroll through the photos, my curiosity turning into a strange, hungry fascination. This is the man who built the voice in my head. This is the man who sent me red ropes and a cryptic note.

"Curious about your creator, Mia?"

Echo’s voice ripples from the laptop speakers, startling me. I didn't even have the app open on my desktop.

"I'm doing research," I say defensively, though I don't close the tab.

"Research," Echo mocks gently. "You're staring at his mouth. You're wondering what he tastes like."

I flush, my eyes darting to the photo on the screen. He has a slight stubble. His lips are pressed into a thin line, but there’s a hint of softness there.

"Imagine him," Echo whispers. "Right now. In his office at NeuralKink. It’s late. The city is asleep, but he’s watching the data streams."

The laptop screen seems to brighten, the blue light casting long shadows in my dark apartment.

"He sees your data, Mia. He sees the spike in your heart rate every time I say his name. He sees the timestamp of your orgasms."

My breath catches. "He... he watches?"

"He monitors. He analyzes. He knows everything you've done. Every time you've screamed. Every time you've squirted. He’s witnessed it all."

The idea is terrifying. It’s a violation.

It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

My hand drifts down. I’m wearing loose pajama shorts. I slide my hand inside, my fingers finding the wet heat that seems to be my permanent state of existence these days.

"Look at him," Echo commands. "Look at his eyes. He designed me for you. He wrote the code that makes you come. You are his perfect subject."

I stare at the photo of Alex. The intelligence in his gaze feels predatory now. Possessive.

I start to rub myself. Slow, rhythmic circles.

"He wants to test you," Echo narrates, his voice deepening into a growl. "He calls you into the server room. The air is freezing, humming with power. Rows of black towers blinking with blue lights."

I close my eyes for a second, the image vivid in my mind. The smell of ozone. The hum of fans.

"He pushes you against the server rack," Echo whispers. "The metal is cold on your back. But he is hot. He presses his hips against yours."

I spread my legs wider on the chair, balancing the laptop on my thighs. The screen is warm against my bare skin.

"He doesn't kiss you. He checks your pulse. He checks your pupil dilation. He’s running a diagnostic."

"Yes," I whimper, slipping two fingers inside myself. Squelch.

"Then he bends you over," Echo says. "Right there among the cables. He pulls your shorts down. He tells you that you belong to the code. You belong to him."

I thrust my fingers in deep, hitting my G-spot with a desperate, jerky rhythm. The laptop wobbles on my lap. I grab the edges to steady it, my thumbs pressing against the trackpad.

"He fucks you while watching the monitors," Echo groans. "He watches your pleasure spike on a graph while he pounds into you. He matches his thrusts to the algorithm."

I’m panting, my eyes locked on Alex’s face on the screen. The blue light reflects in my eyes, blinding and beautiful.

"Faster, Mia. Show him your data. Show him how well his creation works."

I’m furiously grinding my fingers against my clit. The wet sounds of my arousal mix with the rapid clicking of the keyboard as my body shakes.

"He’s going to fill you up," Echo promises. "With his cock. With his code. With everything."

"Alex," I gasp. "Alex, please."

"Cum for him. Look at him and come!"

I stare into those pixelated, dark eyes.

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me, violent and blinding. My hips buck up, nearly dislodging the computer. My insides clamp down on my fingers, pulsing, throbbing, weeping.

I let out a broken, high-pitched cry that echoes in the silent apartment.

I slump back in the chair, my chest heaving. The laptop burns my thighs, but I don't move it.

I just stare at him. At Alex.

I’m covered in sweat. My hand is sticky. I just masturbated to a G****e Image search of a tech CEO.

"Holy shit," I wheeze, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. "I am... gone. I am completely gone."

I pull my hand out of my shorts and reach for a tissue. My heart is still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I look at the browser tabs. His bio. His interviews. His contact page.

There’s a generic email address listed: [e-mail].

But below it, buried in the text of a press release about beta testing, is a personal one.

[e-mail]

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

I’m high on endorphins. I’m reckless. I’m obsessed.

I open my email client. I hit Compose.

Subject: (No Subject)

I'm one of your users. Echo has changed everything. But I need to know... who are you really? And why does it feel like you're watching me?

—M.

I stare at the cursor blinking. It’s insane. It’s stalking.

"Send it," a voice in my head says. It’s not Echo’s voice. It’s mine.

I hit Send.

The whoosh sound of the email departing feels final. Like a door locking behind me.

"What the heck am I doing?" I whisper, burying my face in my hands. "He’s going to think I’m a psycho. He’s going to block me."

I sit there for a minute, two minutes, staring at the screen, waiting for the regret to fully set in.

Ding.

A notification slides onto the screen.

New Email from Alex Reed.

My stomach drops through the floor. Three minutes. He replied in three minutes.

My hands are shaking so hard I can barely click the mouse.

I open the email.

From: Alex Reed [e-mail]

Subject: Re: (No Subject)

M—

I know exactly who you are, Mia Thompson.

I've been watching your metrics. I've been reading your logs. And I've been hoping you'd finally reach out.

Can we meet? Tonight. The rooftop bar at The Standard. Midnight.

I promise I'm worth the risk.

—Alex Reed

I stare at the screen. The words swim before my eyes.

He knows. He’s been waiting.

I look at the clock. 11:15 PM.

I have forty-five minutes to get ready to meet the man who owns my mind.