Back home, water is a resource youreuse: wash, rinse, siphon it back into the filtration system, then pass it on to the next unlucky bastard in line. But this? This is excess in a way that almost feels illegal.
The mannies poured something into the water—oils? salts?—and my skin is so slick, I’m convinced I could slip clean out of my clothes like a greased eel. Two of them washed me with aggressive efficiency. And Hank guarded the door. When I turned to look at him, he tried to smile, but it was too wide, like he’d just remembered that teeth existed and wanted to show them all at once. Every inch of me feels too good, too smooth, like I’ve been marinated for my husband’s consumption, which, honestly, might not be far off.
I clutch the towel around me and step into the bedroom.
Ben is lying in bed like some kind of trap, his massive frame stretched across the sheets, dark skin gleaming in the dim light. He’s propped up on his elbows, watching me, his expression unreadable.
And I am doing actual math.
A man that size, that broad, with shoulders that look engineered for holding on to, with arms that could hoist me up like I weigh nothing—what would it feel like to straddle him? Not just a hypothetical curiosity but a real equation with actual physics involved. A hard calculation of angles and leverage. This man has me out here doing mental geometry.
This isnothow I react to Josh.
Josh never took up space like he was entitled to it. Josh never once made me think I needed to sit on him to see how our bodies lined up.
“I’m picking up a heightened heart rate and increased cortisol and estrogen. You are either afraid that we may have intercourse, or you’re excited that we might.”
“You need to get your sensors fixed.” I laugh too loudly, trying to play off whatever the hell is going on with my body. “Fear and desire are about a thousand miles away, buddy.”
“Not…always,” he says a little softly. And now I’m thinking about the kinky Hunter-Prey sex he must be having somewhere. “Look, Fawl, I would like us to be friends. If you can live without ‘skinship’ for a time, I will make sure your time here is…as comfortable as possible.”
“Friend,” I say, testing the word out, “are you impotent?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Or are you in love? Is that why you won’t consummate…?”
He looks away. “I am physically capable, yes, and love…love is…messy.”
I’m not surprised to hear him shy away from such a primitive word. Of course. Machines don’t muck about in emotions. Love is for people down in the mines, those of us who still cling to our old wiring.
The mannies oil and lotion my body, pulling and squeezing on my hips. All this is in full view of Ben, who watches with languid interest as his neuro-linked bot massages the inside of my thigh.
“Lot of liquids involved,” I agree, but my pulse shoots up. There’s something about how he looks, something fragile in a man who is supposed to be unbreakable.
The corners of his mouth pull up again “Messy.” He nods, and the word is thick. “I was engaged. What we had was neat. Clean-cut.”
I would personally not enjoy the love of my life calling our relationshipclean-cut.
Josh and I were a practical arrangement, a logical equation. But there was love, right? Stability plus shared ambition equaled a future. He was never the kind of person to grab my face in the dark, to kiss me until we were breathless, to make me feel this heaviness low in my belly.
Butclean-cutis diabolical.
“So, what will you do with a skin bride you won’t touch?”
His brows knit together. “Do not let anyone call you that. It is a hurtful word up here. You are not my skin bride but my wife. And I intend to treat you like one with full rights,” he replies, voice low. “In this room, we’ll be equals.”
I almost laugh at that. Could we ever really be equals? Ben is a man designed to conquer armies, shatter bones, and, it seems, fight a smile. And I’m a soft-bodied anomaly in a world of titanium efficiency. But the way he says it, with such quiet intensity, makes me believe he means it.
A bot zips in with a bundle of soft clothing, and Ben lifts and drapes the items over his arm. Without a word, he steps closer. The fabric shimmers as fine as water and as rich and blue-black as the night.
“Equal,” he says again. His voice is steady and low, trying to convince me he means no harm. But my breath still catches at the tentative touch of his metal fingers on my upper arms. He lifts the midnight-black silk slip over my head. The material falls through my raised arms and whispers over my skin like liquid. The contact sends a shock through me, tightening my nipples under the silk. I instinctively draw back, and he pauses.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re shivering. That’s all,” he notes, devoid of mockery.
“I’m not cold,” I manage. I hate how breathless I sound, but it’s impossible to control it with him all huge and radiating heat while standing so close to me.
His eyes linger—longer than necessary—at the hollow of my throat.
“Remarkable,” he says. His tongue moistens his lips. An embarrassing flush creeps up my neck, and I struggle to maintain eye contact, but his unwavering gaze makes me feelmorethan naked. For a covetous moment, I think,is this the way he looks at whoever he loves? God, I would be drunk from it.
He moves behind me and adjusts the gown’s bodice, and I suck in a breath. I realize then that nobody touches me. When did I become okay with never being touched, even by Josh?
