Page 35 of Smart@ss Cyborg

Silently she nods.

I pat her hand, then return it to her person so that I may rise and sweep the pile of cactus thorns into my palm and discard them in the trash bin.

Brushing my palms over the bin, I ask, “What is the next task that needs completion for this day?”

“This day is done,” Becky says. “Animals are taken care of. The dishes are washed. The house is clean. You took care of the Oryx you brought back so that I wouldn’t have to choke down anymore fish. Thank you,” she adds, voice thick.

“You are very welcome!” I tell her, feeling suffused with warmth and pleasure. “Is it time for bed then?”

Face beginning to take on a look of quiet determination, Becky nods.

***

When we’re lying in bed, me in my boxers, her in her night dress, Becky draws me close to her and takes my face in her hands. For a moment her thumbs stroke along the sides of my face, petting over my beard in a way that feels appreciative or admiring. Pulling in a shaky breath, she leans up and fits her lips to mine.

Bonding us.

Her lips are soft and feel—incredible. She tilts her head, and her exhales warm my cheek. Her fingers spear into my hair, holding me in place.

I feel a reaction detonate in my midsection. Of their own volition, my hands rise and cup her neck. Our mouths pressing against one another make sounds that enflame me even more.

Becky tenses and pulls back from me. Her pupils are very large and make her eyes startlingly dark. “Do you want to… have sex?”

“I want to hold you in my arms,” I confess.

“Oh.” She blinks at me. “Well… what if I want sex?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

I stroke down her back again, considering her. “How would you like to be serviced?”

She covers her face with one of her hands. She splays the other over my chest, a halting motion or an intensifier for my attention. “We have to call it something else. Humans call it making love.”

“I would love to make love with you, Becky.” My hands slide along her sides, then stop. “Do you need to mourn first?”

She lowers her hand from her face. “What?”

“For Joel,” I say. “From the scent trail, I know you visit his grave often. Every morning, I believe. But many evenings as well, if my receptors are correct. You grieve there, don’t you?” I study each of her eyes, feeling something twist in my chest as her pupils shrink and her eyes begin to glisten.

“Yes,” she replies, her voice cracking.

I pet her shoulder comfortingly, staring into her face. “I know that you grieve in other ways too. Nightly. The ducts in your eyes leak their saline solution every night once the lights are turned out.” Even if I couldn’t see in the dark, I could smell the saltiness of her tears. Could aurally detect the hitch in her breath as she silently muffles the occasional sob. Feel the shaking of her body when she isn’t successful. “Is there something I can do to comfort you while you grieve?”

“H-hold me,” she rasps, her voice thick with tears.

My own throat tightening with emotion, I draw her into my arms.

My urge to mate with her cools, but only somewhat. I shift uncomfortably, gripping her tighter, her stomach a hard melon between us.

“I've been keeping you at a distance,” she admits, speaking into my chest. “Trying to distance myself from feeling anything for you.”

“Loyalty to your dead mate,” I murmur, rubbing her back.

She pulls back from me, and sucks in a watery breath that makes her nose bubble. It's unsightly, and I'm surprised that I don't feel disgust, but I don’t. Rather, I feel… compassion. Feelings of affection and concern. I want to bear her burdens. And I feel a measure of pain that she feels pain.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and nods.

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