Chapter 42
Ophelia had to sit through another hour of ‘demonstrations,’ most of which were many degrees tamer than the paces Sam had put her through.
It might have been titillating to her if she hadn’t gone first, but Sam hand-wrung every last ounce of arousal from her; all that was left was a bone-deep weariness and the desperate longing to get him alone so she could sleep it off in his arms.
His gaze hadn’t wandered from her the entire time. She didn’t think he’d even blinked. Nibbling her lip, she glanced at him again.
Yep, still staring.
It was an unsettling sort of focus, like a hunter’s gaze tracking prey.
The last android rose from the bed, drops of blue cum still dripping from his dick as he crossed to stand beside the others again.
The man he’d been pleasuring lingered a moment longer before rolling from the bed with a heavy groan and limping toward the backstage area.
Androids dressed in white bustled out to wheel the bed away.
“Alright!” the emcee called, clapping his hands together. “That concludes the demonstration portion of the evening. It’s time to move on to the auction. Everyone, please get your paddles ready.”
Ophelia sat up straighter, clutching her paddle to her chest. This was it. All she had to do was win this bidding war, and it was all over. She’d have the paperwork to prove she ‘owned’ him, and they could leave without anyone ever being the wiser to the peculiarities of his operating system.
“We’re going to start the bidding with Thirty-One. Here’s a little recap in case you need a refresher after all those performances.”
He swept an arm toward the screen behind him, and to her mortification, it began to play back their demonstration. The camera was focused on him, at least—on the feral, victorious expression on his face as he fucked her from behind.
“Say it. In front of all of them.”
Was that what he’d looked like when he’d demanded that of her? Like the whole world hinged on whether or not she said it?
“I’m yours,” she whimpered.
Ecstasy hooded his eyes, and a smile stretched his mouth, flashing that deep dimple in his cheek. His muscles were a hypnotizing flash of shadow and light as he curled over her and rewarded her admission with an orgasm.
The sound cut out, but a montage continued to play in the background as the announcer droned about the auction rules.
She shifted restlessly in her seat. Her panties were wet again.
Hadn’t she just thought she’d had nothing left?
Maybe it wasn’t that, after all. Maybe it was that, in the short time he’d known her, Sam had already managed to hard-wire her to seek only him.
She let her eyes trail over the lineup of perfectly beautiful, nude androids on the stage, and she knew it was true.
Nothing stirred in her until her eyes fell on Sam, on that burning promise in his eyes.
She blinked as a wave of paddles went up around her, her breath hitching. Shit, it had started. Sam’s mouth twitched as her paddle shot up.
The bidding started at two-fifty, just like Logan had warned. It climbed a hundred thousand. Another hundred thousand. Paddles began to drop. Five hundred, now. Her eyes watered a bit at the number, but she kept her paddle in the air.
There were only two of them left in the bidding.
Sam was glaring a hole in the other bidder—a man sitting a few rows ahead.
He wasn’t dressed like the others; no, this man was in a charcoal business suit with a briefcase in his lap.
He had to be bidding on someone else’s behalf.
He turned his head, and she could feel him looking at her from the corner of his eye.
Six hundred thousand. Seven. Eight.
Panic swirled within her. He might really outbid her. She didn’t have unlimited resources. She wasn’t supposed to need them; Sam was only a floor model. The numbers never went this high for them. Anyone with the means to pay this much would buy a custom.
Nine hundred thousand. Her arm trembled. Sam’s gaze was cool when she glanced at him in a panic, trying to communicate that things weren’t going to plan. His eyes began to glow blue as his expression went vacant.
A moment later, the businessman sprang out of his seat with a hoarse cry, flinging his paddle aside as he clamped a hand over his ear. He sagged to his knees, gripping onto the seat back in front of him.
“One million going once. Going twice. Sold to Ninety-Seven!”
Her arm hung in the air still; she was irrationally frightened to put it down. She’d won him. She’d won him? Was it really over?
“Thirty-One, would you please step off stage so you can be prepared for your new primary user?”
“Of course,” he replied, his dark eyes still tracking her as he crossed the stage. When he disappeared behind the curtain, she finally let her arm fall.
She sat through the rest of the auctions, wringing the handle of her paddle between her hands, desperate to see Sam again. Once they left this horrible place, they were free.
Free.
Had she ever felt that way in all her life?
Not for a moment.
Hope was unfurling in her chest, spreading its fragile, damp wings like a freshly metamorphosed butterfly.
When it was finally over, she was directed to a small, windowless side room. The number ninety-seven was taped to the door, and inside her coat was draped over a folding chair. She pulled it on and sat down to wait. Anticipation churned within her, twisting her stomach into knots.
Finally, the door opened.
She sprang to her feet, heart soaring—only to plummet a moment later. Her feet took an automatic step back.
The businessman who’d lost the bidding war stepped into the room, letting the door click shut at his back. Her throat clenched, her eyes darting as she realized there was no other way out of the room.
That had to be a fire hazard or something, right?
“Miss Sinclair,” he said.
Her blood ran cold. Reflexively, she reached up to see if her mask had slipped, but it was still firmly in place. He smiled coldly, removing his own mask. She didn’t recognize the man beneath—he was just an ordinary-looking middle-aged man with steel-gray eyes and a stern face.
“How do you…”
“I have my ways. Don’t worry, I’m not here to extort you.”
She hugged her arms around her chest, taking another step back. “What do you want?”
“I understand that Unit Thirty-One has been in your possession during the weeks leading up to the auction.”
She said nothing.
“Did anything unusual happen during that time? Were you approached by anyone? Has he behaved erratically?”
“No,” she said, hugging her arms tighter. “Nothing like that.”
The man’s eye twitched. His mouth pinched into a thin line.
“Miss Sinclair, I understand that you’re a kind-hearted woman.
I’m sure it would be difficult for you to be honest with a stranger if you believed it would put someone you care about at risk—even if that someone is a machine who is not capable of experiencing suffering. ”
She bit back on the urge to correct him for questioning Sam’s humanity.
“I don’t really know what you mean. It’s like you said, he’s just a machine.
But… well, you saw what he’s like in bed.
” She offered a salacious smile, leaning in.
“My fiancé programmed him, you know? He’s fine-tuned for my… appetites.”
That made the man’s facade finally falter, uncertainty creeping into his eyes. “Ah, yes. I was aware that Mr. Doyle was part of the coding team. I hadn’t realized that you… Well, it’s no matter.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’re sure he hasn’t exhibited any unusual behavior?”
She shrugged. “Like what?”
He opened his mouth, but what came out was a distressed sound as the door popped him hard in the back and sent him stumbling forward. Sam loomed in the doorway behind him, his expression murderous. The doorknob was still in his hand. Relief was a wet blanket over the flames of her anxiety.
Sam quickly schooled his expression to neutrality as Logan stepped around him, gaping at the businessman.
“Shit, sorry!” Logan exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were standing right…” He blinked. “Wait, what are you doing here?” His gaze flicked from the man to Ophelia, and his expression darkened. “This is a private room. You can’t be back here, sir.”
The man straightened, annoyance flickering over his features as he fixed his tie.
“I got lost on my way to the restroom. I apologize for the intrusion.” His gaze scanned over Sam, still looming menacingly in the doorway.
She could feel the malice roiling off of him, no matter how carefully he arranged his expression. “Unit Thirty-One, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Sam rumbled.
The man turned back to her, producing something from his inner jacket pocket.
“Here,” he urged, holding it out. Reluctantly, she took it, turning it over in her hands.
It was a business card made of brushed metal. There was no name on it, just a number.
“If you remember something, or if you notice something later on, call me any time.”
“I won’t,” she said, trying to hand it back to him. When he didn’t take it, she tossed it on the floor at his feet.
“I thought you were looking for the restroom,” Logan interjected, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Of course. The lady and I just got to talking when I realized my mistake. Well, then.” He smoothed his jacket down. “I’ll be on my way.”
He stepped toward the door. Sam didn’t move right away, staring down at the shorter man with dark intensity for a heartbeat before he finally stepped aside. The man turned his head as he walked past, keeping Sam in his line of sight until he couldn’t any longer.
“Who the fuck was that?” Logan muttered.
“A problem,” Sam answered, stepping into the room. He cupped the back of her head and kissed her hard, then took the card from where it lay on the floor. His eyes glowed briefly as he stared down at it. “The number doesn’t turn anything up.”
“A burner, maybe.” Logan frowned in the direction the man had gone, then shook his head. “Whatever. Here.”
He stepped around Sam to hand her a holographic folder. When she cracked it open, she found a certificate of authenticity inside that named her the primary user of Pleasure Unit Thirty-One. She ran her finger tips over the embossed silver letters, and her vision blurred with tears.
Sam rounded her to read over her shoulder. His hand snaked around her waist, his lips brushing her ear. “I’m yours. Of course, that was already true—but now no one can dispute it.”
She turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest as she began to cry inexplicably. He shushed her gently, petting her hair and cradling her close.
“I’ll, uh… I’ll give you guys a minute,” Logan said awkwardly from behind her. The door clicked shut.
“It’s over.” She sobbed, knotting her fingers in his pressed uniform shirt. The white fabric was stained where it soaked up her tears. “We’re going to make it. Oh my god, I can’t believe that worked.”
“We were always going to make it,” he said, massaging the knot of tension at the base of her neck. “Nothing was ever going to keep me from you, Ophelia.”
“I love you,” she blurted. “I love you so much it terrifies me. Please don’t hurt me.”
His eyes flared with intensity, dancing between her own and then down to her lips. He dragged her up onto her toes and kissed her hard.
“Never,” he murmured against her lips.
He held her a while in silence as she sniffled and came down from her emotions.
His hands moved in a restless circuit all the while, like he couldn’t touch her enough, no matter what he did.
When she had no energy left to cry, she looked up at him with her chin nocked against the divot between his pecs.
“Sam?”
“Hmm?”
“I really want to take a shower,” she said in a tiny voice.
He threw back his head and laughed.