One

"Come closer," B.G. Grantham said to his employee.

Though Eric Berne was dressed, his boss was not. The notoriously reclusive physicist lay facedown on a black leather massage table—his long, lean body gleaming with oil. Eric knew it didn't bother B.G. to be naked. His employer's reserve had never been physical. It didn't need to be. From his broad, straight shoulders to his narrow feet, his every sinew was perfectly conformed. Had B.G. wished, his image could have been used to hawk men's cologne.

He's the Greek ideal, Eric thought, flashing back to his days at U.C. Berkeley—mind and muscle both at their peak.

Because he was an avid swimmer, B.G. had taken to removing his body hair. As Sylvia, the pretty blonde masseuse, pushed her hands slowly down his spine, nothing spoiled his sleek, athletic lines.

Eric fought an urge to lick his lips.

"Yes?" he said, shaking himself from his fugue and stepping within arm's reach. "You have an assignment for me?"

"Of a sort," B.G. said, then groaned as Sylvia took his butt in her hands and squeezed.

The masseuse was his latest find, hired away from an exclusive spa in nearby Victoria. Though B.G.'s staff usually went through a longer vetting process than Sylvia had, Eric could understand why he'd made an exception for her. Her hands were magic, her gift for intuiting what sort of touch would spur the greatest pleasure formidable. It was as if she'd been born to please. Naturally, this fascinated B.G., whose lifelong study of pleasure—what caused it, what heightened it—neared obsession.

Now his legs shifted slightly, languorously, betraying his enjoyment as much as his groan. The change in position bared the lower bulge of his balls, full and sexually flushed. For the last three months, B.G. had withdrawn from everyone on his staff, devoting himself to mental labors until he had to be reminded to eat and sleep. Eric could tell that phase was over and that B.G.'s appetite for sensual indulgence—always considerable—had been heightened by abstinence.

Once again, B.G. was taking his place as the erotic fulcrum around which Mosswood revolved. Once again, he'd decide who would be pleasured and who would not. Sylvia seemed to sense the change, her body humming softly with interest. She stood at the head of the table, and her front brushed B.G.'s back as she reached down.

She was a lovely woman—naked, of course—with slight, high breasts and nipples as tight as pencil erasers. Her hair was so short it clung to her head like a feathered platinum cap. Eric had reason to know those locks were just as soft as they appeared. She was an odd creature in bed, more comfortable with giving pleasure than in taking it. The few times they'd had sex—while B.G. was caught up in work—she'd given the impression that she wasn't completely there, as if she were perpetually waiting for someone else to appear. The effect was disconcerting, and explained why her status had been so quickly changed from plaything to staff. Competence was what B.G. valued most in an employee. In a sexual partner, however, a desire for the rewards he meted out was all important. Ironically, Sylvia wasn't greedy enough to suit B.G.—a problem Eric suspected he'd never have to worry about.

He did wonder, though, if he'd ever get used to being able to desire a woman even as his mouth was watering for a man.

Eric had been attracted to both sexes since he was young, a quirk in his makeup he'd been lucky enough to accept almost as soon as he'd figured out what it was. His parents had been open-minded, his circle of friends liberal. Before taking this job as B.G.'s sexual major domo, he'd thought attraction ought to be a one-gender-at-a-time affair. Serial mono-sexuality, so he thought, would keep his feet on the ground.

He should have guessed his old friend would be beyond any rules at all. The world of the quantum, B.G.'s favorite playground, knew few limits. Consequently, B.G. saw no reason why he should invent limits for himself.

"You've been here, what, three years now?" B.G. asked, his voice altered by a combination of sensual enjoyment and the pressure of stroking hands.

"About that," Eric agreed.

"And we've met in this chamber at least twice a year."

Reflexively, Eric looked around. The room in which he stood was shaped like a pyramid, great blocks of softly polished greywacke narrowing rank by rank to a central point. Blue pinprick lights underlit each level, enhancing the impression that this place was both old and new, a juxtaposition B.G. loved.

The quantum realm, he liked to say, can't tell the difference between all times and none at all.

Then again, since some of his employer's beliefs verged on the crankish, he might have been trying to test the validity of "pyramid power."

"Yes," Eric said, fighting a smile, "we always start our adventures here."

Copyright © 2004 by Emma Holly