That was a sound of pleasure. He was bringing her pleasure. The sensation was oddly addicting. It did not feel like having sex with the pleasure droid that measured his effectiveness. This was… this was his purpose fulfilled at last.
Heavy-lidded, he switched feet, tenderly rubbing his thumb over her stiff tendons until they eased in submission.
He wanted to give her more, wanted to hear more of the sweet sounds she could make. Suddenly, he was hungry for her consent, desperate for it. This was what he had been made for.
For her.
CHAPTER 7
Ophelia rousedwith a surprisingly languid feeling, given how much she’d cried the night before. Her eyes were sticky and swollen, but otherwise she felt as though she’d just had the best sleep of her life. The TV was still on, the channel taken over by a bubbly middle-aged woman who was showing a number of cheap-looking, neon jewelry pieces available by text at extortionate prices.
She yawned, stretching her legs and enjoying the crackle and pop of her joints as her tension released. Something skimmed over her ankle, and she yipped, trying to scramble away to no avail. The comforter was tangled around her legs, trapping her, and the back of her hand cracked against the coffee table as she tumbled off the couch.
“Shit!” She cradled her bruised hand to her chest as her eyes watered, glaring up at the white-suited figure still seated on the couch. “What the hell?”
The android blinked down at her, expression completely unrepentant. The morning sun made his skin glow with golden light, and he looked more like a sex god than a robot.
“Why have you thrown yourself on the floor?” he asked.
“Because you grabbed my leg like you’re the monster under my bed and it scared the crap out of me?”
His impartial gaze drifted to the hand she held clutched against her chest.
“You are hurt.” He bent down and grabbed both sides of the comforter still wrapped around her, using it to haul her back onto the couch as though she weighed nothing at all. “Let me see.”
He was surprisingly gentle as he took her hand, inspecting it with a tenderness that made her heart flutter stupidly. The anti-droid groups were right; Automata was getting too close to playing God. Her brain couldn’t distinguish between machine and man. A toaster had never given her butterflies.
“It didn’t break the skin, but the vessels beneath are damaged. You will bruise. Would you like a painkiller?”
“Huh?” She’d been lost in the way his dark eyes flashed russet as the sun hit them sidelong.
“A painkiller? Do you have any here in the apartment?”
“Oh—no, it’s… it’s just a bruise. Don’t worry about it.”
“Very well.”
He released her hand, his thumb brushing over his fingers as she pulled away. Wrestling her way out of the nest of the comforter, she rose to her feet and tucked her hands against her roiling stomach.
Her eyes fell on the entryway where Logan’s shoes were still missing. “He didn’t come home.”
“No, he did not.”
For a long while, she stared at the door, adrift in an ocean of despair. She turned away, folded up the comforter, and began cleaning the apartment.
Cleaning was something she could control in a world of unrelenting chaos. The entropy might swirl unchecked in theworld beyond her door, but here in the safety of her apartment, everything existed at her mercy.
The android watched in silence as she moved around the apartment, wiping down every surface with disinfectant wipes. She poured powdered bleach in every sink until the smell was so strong that it made her eyes burn, scrubbed the spotless toilet, and wiped every speck of lime off the glass walls of the shower.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she collided with the android in the hall. He caught her as she swayed on her feet.
“What are you doing?” She twisted out of his grip, frowning up at him.
Why did he have to be so tall?
“You are cleaning surfaces that do not appear to be dirty,” he said.
“So?”
