Chapter 11
Ophelia curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn cradled in her lap, long since gone cold, as she absently watched a reality show. The android sat beside her with his perfect posture on the very edge of the cushion, frowning at the hijinks on the screen.
It was strange how quickly she’d adjusted to his presence.
She was surprised to realize she found him…
comforting. It almost made her sad that Logan would have to take him back.
She definitely didn’t have a quarter of a million dollars lying around to buy him with.
Her job at the flower lab didn’t pay nearly enough.
She sighed softly, raking her fingers over the popcorn despite her lack of interest in eating any.
“You are dismayed,” the android said. “This is because Sabrina stole Kelcey’s partner, thus dooming her to be removed from the island?”
She grinned at him, shaking her head.
“You need a name.” She set the bowl aside on the coffee table. “I keep calling you ‘the android’ in my head, and it doesn’t seem right.”
“You could call me Thirty-One. That is what the employees at the lab call me.”
Her nose scrunched. One of the women began shouting curses on the TV, and Ophelia snagged the remote from between them to mute it.
“Ah. They are resorting to violence.” He pointed as Kelcey grabbed a handful of Sabrina’s hair. “I expect the authorities will be on their way to apprehend her at any moment. Such actions are unlawful.”
She was helpless not to laugh at his observations. “Okay, really. You need a name. Something masculine but a little pretty—like you.”
He did a double-take at that, such a human gesture of surprise. They really did code him so intricately.
“Maybe… William? No, maybe not. Damon? Henry?”
He canted his head as she rattled off names, seeming uninvested in her decision.
“Hmmm… Samuel. You look like a Sam,” she mused, taking in the elegant planes of his face. “It’s a good name. What do you think?”
“Samuel,” he echoed, contemplative. “Sam. I am Sam?”
She beamed. “Yes, you are.”
Slowly, his smile grew to mirror her own.
“You can call me anything you want. Anything, and I will answer.” His gaze dipped to her lips, and her heart fluttered in response. “You could call me yours.”
She scoffed, turning away as her neck heated. “What a line.”
“I mean it,” he said somberly, dragging her attention back to him. “I enjoy being in your presence. I think I may be obsessed with you.”
“You’re a robot. You can’t be obsessed with people.”
“I am a robot.” He slid across the cushions until their thighs touched. “And I am obsessed with you, Ophelia.”
His dark eyes were dancing that familiar triangle—one eye, the other, her mouth. One eye, the other, her mouth. Her mouth. She swallowed hard, forgetting how to breathe.
“But I’m not your primary user.” God, her voice sounded tiny.
“I don’t care.”
Her heart stumbled a beat at that declaration. Was this more of his elaborate programming? Something to wear down her defenses against him as a skeptic, to make her think there was more to him than there possibly could be?
Was it working?
“Sam…”
He groaned, leaning in to capture her lips with his own.
A squeak escaped her as he loomed over her, crawling closer until her head was pressed against the arm of the couch.
He braced his hands on either side of her, straddling her lap, effectively pinning her in place as his mouth explored her own.
He was such a good kisser. That shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. His lips were soft and warm and talented, kissing her in a rhythm that explored every facet of her mouth. When his tongue flicked over her lips and teased at the seam, she helplessly opened for him.
The ends of his curling hair tickled her cheeks as he kissed her more deeply. His tongue was hot, wet, and velveteen in her mouth. It tasted like the citrus icing from her favorite cinnamon rolls. How odd that he would be so perfectly calibrated to her tastes.
Realization made her falter. Of course, he would cater to what she liked; Logan had programmed him.
Logan.
Her hands slid over the slippery white fabric of Sam’s uniform shirt, fingers finding the raised edges of the glowing lettering that declared him a pleasure unit.
She turned her face away with a gasp, the reality of what was happening hitting her all at once.
He tried to chase her, but she cringed away.
“Stop,” she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut.
He stiffened, and then in a ripple of movement, he was gone.
When she opened her eyes, he was back at the far end of the couch, watching her with a gaze that more wild predator than rigidly programmed machine.
“Why did you stop me?” he asked, his voice husky. “You were enjoying it.”
Her throat worked, but she couldn’t form words.
His eyes drifted over her. “You’re wet, aren’t you, Ophelia? Soaked for me.”
A disbelieving huff escaped her, and she straightened slowly, sliding over until she was pressed against the arm of the couch. Squeezing her thighs together, she realized he was right. Her panties were wet and sticky against her as she shifted nervously.
“Don’t you feel empty inside?” The muscles in his shoulders bunched as he leaned toward her. “Don’t you want me to fill you? Take away what aches within you?”
She stumbled to her feet, breathing unevenly. She couldn’t think when he was looking at her like that, talking to her like that. Like a terrified prey animal fleeing to its den, she bolted to the bedroom and locked the door.
With her back pressed against the smooth metal of the door, she panted, staring blankly into space. Her arousal was edging on painful. A part of her, a foolish, faithless part, wanted to go back out there and climb into his lap, taking everything he kept promising.
Logan wanted you to sleep with him. It’s not cheating. He’s not even real.
She banged the back of her head against the door softly.
Her nipples were tight against the lace of her bra, so sensitive that it was aggravating. A steady pulse thrummed through her clit, aching, aching.
With a low sound of desperation, she stormed over to the bed and slid beneath the covers.
Her hand slipped beneath the elastic bands of her pajama pants and panties, middle finger dipping into the overflowing slick between her labia to find her clit.
Her breath caught as she worked herself without preamble, rubbing frantic circles over the sensitive bud, trying to ignore the wet sounds that seemed cacophonous in the silence of her room.
Her eyes were glued to the door, her mind unable to stop picturing Sam fulfilling all the wicked things he was promising, which meant she noticed the moment the light filtering beneath the door was suddenly blocked off.
She was hyper aware of the small sound the hinges made as something softly pressed against the door.
He was standing there, right there on the other side of the door, probably able to hear every hitch in her breath and wet click of her fingers as she frantically worked out the sexual energy he’d stoked. That knowledge sent her over the edge.
Biting down on her lip so hard that it bled, she swallowed a moan as her pleasure crested. The spasms within her were violent, as though they were angry to be bearing down on nothing. Her back arched off the bed, and she couldn’t help the whine that escaped her throat.
When it was over, she sagged against the sheets, her eyes still fixed on the door.
Would he force it open? Was he going to tell her that he knew what she’d done, that he knew it wasn’t enough?
She would cave. God help her, if he came through that door, she was going to cave. All touching herself had done was make her more desperate.