“Does it hurt when I touch you?”
I take a beat to try and figure out how to respond to that. I should be honest with him; I shouldn’t be hiding things when mybraincould literally be forming new pathways…and when he could stop it.
“I’m turned on,” I blurt out.
His brow raisesjust enoughfor me to know it surprised him.
“Is that so?”
Jesus. He didn’t have to say it like that.
“I’ve been wired up since last night,” I admit. “I thought it was just lingering effects, but…it didn’t go away with sleep. Now I’m wondering if it’s related to the fact that you came in and were touching me while I was connected to the translator.”
He frowns.
Then, before I can stop him, he reaches up and flicks my shoulder hard.
At first, it stings—nothing serious, just a little pinch.
Then—
I curl forward, letting out a shuddering breath as my pussy clenches. “Oh my god.”
“Did that hurt?”
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “That’s the problem.”
“Describe what you’re feeling.”
My body starts to unclench…but it isn’t easy. I flex my fingers, take a deep breath, then exhale.
“Pelvic contraction,” I mutter, not able to look at him even as I keep the language entirely scientific. “Localized warmth in my stomach, breasts, and hands. Held breath…sweating..”
“Mmhm,” he nods along, then begins to take notes on a datapad he seems to have produced out of nowhere. “Go on.”
“I’m not like—it’s not because I’m attracted to you or anything.”
His eyes dart up, then back to the datapad. “I would assume.”
“It’s not permanent, right?”
He sighs and puts the datapad down. “We have no way of knowing. You experimented with new technology…and now we have to find out what the consequences will be.”
“It doesn’t feel fair that I could have fucked myself up with somethingI made,” I groan. “I’ve been over and over the specs, the data?—”
“You tried it on yourself after a failed test.”
I go completely silent.
He’s right.
“Look,” he murmurs. “I…”
He pauses, then he moves his right arm to roll up his left sleeve. I blink, not sure what I’m looking at—because beneath the fabric of his shirt, his forearm is a lattice of uneven scarring in deliberate, curving lines. His smooth blue skin mingles with electronic parts and a sheet of silver metal, clearly painful.
“As bio-engineers, it is our job to play god,” he says. “We all get arrogant at times and we try things we shouldn’t. At least—as far as we know—your mistake hasn’t left you permanently disfigured.”
I bite my lip. It feels good. I stop. “You did that to yourself?”
