Page 36 of Smart@ss Cyborg

She startles when I carefully dab the edge of her pillowcase to her upper lip and swipe it under her nose.

Embarrassment colors her brain and she lowers her eyes, but she doesn’t hide for more than a moment. She clears her throat and pushes her pillow aside. “I’m sorry I wasn't friendly to you or even very nice to you. It was like… if I let myself like you, I was dishonoring Joel.”

Hearing her admit that she hasn’t been very nice to me and hasn’t wanted to let herself like me… It feels as if I've brushed against a bed of stinging coral—then rolled in it. I clear my throat. “And... how do you feel about me now?”

With a silent sob that shakes her whole frame, she speaks as if she’s admitting a terrible secret. “You’re good! You’re really weird, but you’re really good too. More than once I’ve caught myself thinking that if—if I’d never met Joel, I would be so happy with you! As it is, now that Joel is—now that he’s gone, I’ve got to move on.” Agitated, she draws her discarded pillow back toward herself and strips it of its outer casing. “Somehow. And you’re here, and you try so hard…” She shakes her head, her skull contents deeply troubled. “Want to hear something awful?”

Before I can reply, she shares, “In some ways, you’re better to me than Joel was. And you do things that make me want tolikeyou. And it hurts so much. What do I do with that?” she asks brokenly.

I pull her back into my arms, sideways this time, and hold her securely. “You are mine now. Both of you.” I pet her belly.

She leaks more saline.

Eventually she grows calmer.

“I’m due any day,” she says, apropos of nothing.

“Due where?”

“To—to have this baby,” she says, bringing her hand atop mine over her stomach.

How peculiar. “You could give birth any day?” I ask. “What day will you choose?”

“I don’t choose. It will happen when it happens. It could start now or it could be a couple more weeks yet. God only knows when it will happen. But I’m ready.”

“What shall I do to prepare?”

Idly, she pets along my arm. “There’s nothing you can do yet, as far as the birth. Or if there is, I don’t know it. I don’t know a lot about childbirth. I figure when the contractions start, I’ll head to the hospital and they’ll walk me through it.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable until you give birth?” I ask.

She meets my gaze, her lashes wet with tears but her eyes full of determination. “I want you. Right now.” And she takes the hem of her night dress in her hands and pulls it up over her head.

My eyes lock onto her body—all the luscious curves she’s bared tome. Practically begging for my attention is her front. Her mammary tissue forms a pleasantly rounded eminence on either side of her chest. Without thought, my hands greedily reach for her globes and I instinctively begin to knead them.

Earlier, she described herself in a negative-sounding fashion. But Becky is beautiful. She must not see herself like I see her.

“You expressed unhappiness with your form,” I manage to growl through a haze of wanting. “But I’m overcome with desire for you. You, with your allegedly uncomely aspects, arouse me to the point of distraction,” I say to her nipples. With supreme effort, I manage to drag my eyes away from them so that I may search her face. “You are the only one who has ever stirred a mating urge in me.”

Eyes shining, Becky catches me by the hair again and our mouths meet, and she licks her tongue over my lips.

Titillated, I must gasp because suddenly she has access to the inside of my mouth and she darts her tongue between my lips.

Groaning, I catch her by the hair and do the same to her—but with more force. More hunger.

Folding her arms around my neck, she teaches me how to stroke our tongues, lets me chase her mouth and conquer her until our breathing grows erratic and our movements become somewhat frantic.

Kissing me more shallowly than I’d like, she manages to speak. “I need the fan on!” she pants between my lip presses.

“The fan?” I wheeze. I couldeather.

“I’m hot. I need air…” she escapes my hold. My eyes narrow as I watch her body wiggle while she fiddles with a contraption on the dresser beside the bed. I begin to stalk her.

The thing she’s fiddling with suddenly begins forcing airflow on us.

Eyes slitted against the gale, I’m not deterred. Seeing her bare posterior has me attempting to mount her.

Laughing breathlessly, Becky pushes me off her and begins pulling pillows into a formation of some sort. She has an abundance of them, and I reflect that if it is the male’s job to hunt meat and the female’s job to build a nest—then my mate has proven her prowess.

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