Two
JENNA
“Argh! You piece-of-shit arsehole! Why?”
As the couplers on the latest prototype fail to engage—again—and B.O.B.’s shiny new enhancement falls limply to the floor with a dull thud—again—I restrain the urge to kick him.
Firstly, violence never solved anything.
And secondly, the last time I kicked him, I broke my toe.
But that’s what happens when you build state-of-the-art robotics that could pass for a human being in a pinch. Occasionally you forget they’re not real and kick them in the shins.
Maybe if I wasn’t so good at my job I wouldn’t have. Of course, if I wasn’t so damn good at my job, BioAID wouldn’t have recruited me. And by “recruited”, I mean kidnapped at gunpoint and forced to sign over my life’s work.
B.O.B.
My Bio-Organic Body.
Creating affordable prosthetic body parts for the world’s most vulnerable citizens—people like my little sister—that’s where my heart lies. And not just limbs either, legs, arms, hands, feet. I wanted to make artificial organs too. Hearts, lungs, kidneys. And yes, even cocks.
B.O.B. is the culmination of my life’s work. Countless hours of research and development, endless cups of coffee, and sleepless nights. Dinners missed, dates broken. And on the rare occasions I did make it home from the lab, a cold, empty bed waiting for me in my apartment.
Sad to think not much has changed really.
Except I didn’t get into this gig to build sex-bots.
I wasn’t able to help my little sister beat lung disease, and I saw what her death did to my parents, how it ripped them apart.
But imagine the lives that could be saved if people didn’t have to wait on transplant lists.
Imagine if hospitals everywhere had a steady supply of whatever they needed to help their patients.
No more waiting to find someone with a perfect blood match. No more waiting for someone else to die and hoping they were a donor.
More people living their lives the way they want to.
At least, that was the dream.
Until BioAID’s CEO, a nasty little pervert named Rowly Thorne, decided that instead of helping heal humanity, my robotics would be much better off making him bank. As sex-bots. A basic B.O.B. sells for thirty-five grand. A customised model sells for upwards of seventy.
Why? Because my robots are the only kind in existence that function much like a human being does, and they can be programmed to do pretty much anything. Even kiss. With tongue.
B.O.B. 2.0
The Battery-Operated Boyfriend.
Picking the bot’s new cock up off the floor, I let loose another growl of frustration. “Why aren’t you working?”
I have to give the board a demonstration in fifteen minutes, and if I can’t fix the problem, I’ll have nothing to show them, which is not a situation I want to find myself in again.
The last time I failed, they took away my outdoor recreation time for two months. Figured I needed to focus more on my work than my tan. In retaliation, I tried escaping again. As retribution they added an extra month to my punishment.
I should have known I wouldn’t get far. I might be able to hack my way through most security systems, but I suck at being sneaky. They caught me before I’d even hit the call button for the elevators.
And then they changed my security, adding bio-identification to the main entry so I couldn’t hack my way out again.
That was over a year ago.
Even if I could hack the bio-identity bullshit, why bother?
It’s not like there’s anyone left to miss me. My family are all gone, and as for friends, well, I never really had any of those to begin with. No girl gang. Certainly not a boyfriend.
Work always came first.
I’m forty-two years old and completely alone. But I don’t have time to wallow in my doldrums. I have work to do.
Always fucking work.
Sighing, I turn the attachment over in my hands. I can find no good reason for it not to work. My top lab techs have been working on these damn things for months, perfecting them, I thought.
Crouching down, I inspect the connection site instead. Poke around in his groin. To anyone watching, it would look like I’m giving him a blow job. The observation has been made before. Usually right before I fire someone.
“Maybe you have a loose wire,” I muse. “Or maybe the connector is faulty.” I scratch my head, thinking through the problem. “It could be a software issue, I suppose. There has to be a reason the—”
The door to my personal quarters opens and closes. It’s quiet, barely discernible over the hum of the air filtration system and soft lounge music playing on my stereo, but it’s there.
Someone is there. Behind me.
Someone who shouldn’t be there, because I gave everyone the day off today. Like I always do on demonstration days.
Slowly, I push up off the floor and try to remain cool and casual as I look around for a weapon, but there’s nothing. Even if I was strong enough to remove one of B.O.B.’s arms on my own, it would take too long. The intruder would be on me before I even opened the access port.
As I turn around, I try not to think about the fact I’m wearing nothing but my underwear and a tank top.
And not even my cute underwear but my dodgy-as-fuck, stretched-out cotton underwear I keep around in case of an emergency.
Like this morning when I realised I hadn’t done my laundry for two weeks and this was the last pair of clean undies I owned.
Frankly, the tank top has seen better days too. I swear, last week the hole sitting just above my right breast was the size of a pinhead. Now it’s more like a gaping tear and threatening to flash my nipple to the world.
I didn’t think much of it when I got dressed this morning. Probably because I knew it was coming off again before lunch.
Honestly, I look more like I just crawled off a deserted island than the award-winning biomechanical engineer I actually am.
“Who are you? What is this place?” he says, then nods at B.O.B. “And what the fuck is that thing?” Deep and commanding, the intruder’s voice sounds like he routinely gargles gravel. It’s hot as fuck and—
Daaamn. He is hot as fuck.
When I face him fully, I can’t help the breath I suck back as my gaze catches his, the one that sticks in my lungs before shuddering out of me again.
Velvety and rich, his dark eyes roam around my room, taking everything in—my dresser, the open door to my bathroom, the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, the bed.
Then he settles his gaze on me. His expression is curious. Cautious… yet interested.
Aroused.
I’m confident I know what he’s feeling, because I’ve been studying micro-expressions for years, programming them into my bots to make them more realistic, and I’m very good at what I do.
I’ve studied that look down to the minutest detail.
I’m intimate with it. I’m turned on by it. I feel my cheeks heat.
“Well?” he demands, snapping his arms out in front of him like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be doing something other than staring at my tits. And that’s when I notice the gun he has trained on me.
I haven’t had a gun pointed at me in a long time. Not since I was brought to this hellhole.
What do I do?
I can’t remember.
What do I say?
My mouth feels dry. My feet have frozen to the floor, and no sound is coming out of my gaping maw.
“Look at me,” he says, his tone softer than before but by no means less commanding.
I am totally freaking out, but I can’t not look at the gun in his big hands. And my brain is going crazy imagining that soft voice whispering filthy things in my ear, and those big hands all over my body as he fucks me hard and—
Oh my God, I am losing my mind.
But this is what happens when you’re not allowed to leave the building for months at a time, and even then, only under guard. Not to mention the fact I’ve not had sex with another human being in… I don’t even remember how long.
Years. It’s been years.
Shit like that makes a girl slightly insane.
Shit. For all I know, this guy is here to kill me, and what am I doing? I’m desperately trying not to squeeze my thighs together and give away the fact he’s making me horny as hell.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to feel his tongue in my pussy right now.
Sweet Jesus, Jenna. Get a grip.
Swallowing hard against the crazy fear/lust combo clogging my throat, I’m almost positive that’s the only thing stopping me from screaming right now. And what did he ask me? My poor brain is overwhelmed, confused. Irritated.
I’m supposed to demonstrate B.O.B.’s latest upgrades in less than fifteen minutes’ time. Or else. Except none of them work, I’m completely stressing out, I’m tired, and now I’m being held at gunpoint by some random guy I can’t stop undressing in my mind. I’m so close to tears it’s embarrassing.
And I’m not a crier.
I’m just so exhausted.
“Miss? I’m going to put the gun away, okay?”
I didn’t realise I’d stopped looking at the hot killer guy until his voice drew my attention again. And… wow. He really is sexy.
There really is something wrong with me.
My mystery man is of average height and a stockier build than most of the men around here, scientists and security guards alike.
I tilt my head slightly, narrow my gaze on his clothes.
It’s definitely one of BioAID’s uniforms, but it’s a little tight across his chest, shoulders, and thighs, almost as though it belongs to someone else.
His black combat boots aren’t regulation either, not that many would notice.
Fascinating.
His ill-fitting uniform has the advantage of showing off his physique. His musculature is impressive, as is the bulge in his trousers.
But… that can’t be right.
Not unless he has two—
Leaning forwards, I narrow my gaze on his crotch as realisation dawns, and my shoulders tighten in anger. Cocking one brow, I snarl, “Is that a bionic penis in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Sexy killer man is a thief.