Page 41 of Skyn
He pulls me out of the tiny lab room and walks me to another side of the beach. Ben is holding me tight at his side, like I might slip away. The wind is picking up slightly, drawing my attention to the fluttering edges of a canvas yurt, with lit torches all around.
“Is this where you live when you come here?”
“No. The mannies just constructed this. I’m very sorry… My neuro-link needs a little work.”
“I need you to build me a kill switch,” I say.
“Done. I can buildyoua neuro-link if you want,” he says.
A neuro-link would connect me to my own little uncanny-valley murder robots. It’s a little too big for this mine girl.
“I’d like to remain a little bit of a mystery,” I say, ducking inside the yurt.
The scent of old cedar and faintly damp canvas makes twilight feel more intimate than it has any right to be. The floor was strewn with overlapping rugs, each one in varying shades of red and gold, worn and faded, as if trying to convince me they’ve been here forever, even though their edges still curl from being hastily laid out. In the center, a low table sits cluttered with mismatched candles—none of which are lit but give the illusion that something romantic just popped off before I got here.
Above, the domed ceiling stretches high, the taut fabric rippling with every gust of wind outside.
He pulls me to him. “Keep your secrets, then, wife.”
A large, low-slung bed takes up most of the room, though its sheets are far too white for a place like this, practically glowing in the moonlight. He catches me looking at it.
“You know,” he whispers, his voice thickening, “I think what they’ve taught us about desire…it’s all wrong. They say it’s depraved to want someone—to want to fuck someone the way I have wanted to fuck you since I slipped that black dress over your shoulders. But I think it’s natural. The way I respond to you.”
“Brave hypothesis, Doctor.” I swallow hard, my throat tight, my hands itching for something to do. I reach for the yurt flap, moving to tie it closed as if I can shut out everything that’s unraveling right now.
“Do you want to know something else?” His voice is low, barely more than a murmur, and yet it lands heavy on my skin.
I nod but don’t move. His hands, warm and rough, palm my hips. He’s not tentative, not asking—just taking. I think back to how I once begged Josh to touch me, how desperate and shameful that felt, and here Ben is, relentless, as if he’s compelled. If I’m honest, he hasn’t stopped wanting me since he first saw me.
“God, you’re intoxicating. You’ve brought me to my knees.” Then he actually does it—drops to his knees in front of me like it’s some kind of holy prayer. His hands grip the back of my thighs, and he nuzzles into my belly. His utter surrender makes me throb in my panties.
He lifts one of my legs, draping it over his shoulder; his rough cheek brushes the tender flesh of my inner thigh. Ben licks right there like I’m a plate with leftover sauce. I almost lose my balance, and he grips my hips. He presses his lips to my… What is it? Honeymoon muscle? Sucks lightly, then harder. His tongue traces the soft crease at the juncture of my thigh. He bites where he licks, and I moan.
He makes up for the bite by inching closer until his nose is pressed against the soaked center of my panties.
His tongue flicks over my clit, teasing through the fabric, each stroke sending sparks racing up my spine. Then he grips my hips and sucks—hard—drawing me into his mouth even with the wet cotton between us.
Before I can catch my breath, he hooks a thick finger under the edge of the fabric and slides it aside. His mouth finds me again, bare now, and now he is sloppily sucking my clit and making wet, greedy noises as he licks me clean with his rough tongue.
My knees feel like spaghetti noodles, and I hold his shoulders. I’m afraid my throat is closing; I can’t catch my breath as he guides me into the heat of his mouth, grounding me in sensation. His palms slide over me, stroking, circling, until his fingers—metal-warm, thick—slip inside of me.
I choke on a gasp.
He withdraws slowly, his fingers slick, glistening, and holds them up between us like proof. “Love,” he says through rasping breaths, “is messy.”
“Ben—” I gasp, but he doesn’t respond. He puts my leg down, and his hand clamps around the backs of my thighs, securing me against him when he lifts me over his shoulder.
He strides toward the bed with a singular, unstoppable purpose. I feel the strange, thrilling edge where his flesh meets metal, the contrast sharp against my skin.
His hold tightens—as if he thinks I might run. As if I could.
The dummy. I never would.
His grip may be firm, but the trap he’s set is tender. I’m caught. Fully.
He lowers me, slow and controlled, until my back lies flat against the cool sheets. He’s between my legs before I can catch my breath. His hands move to my hips, and I can’t think as his gaze locks onto mine, dark and unreadable. “Can you take all of me?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh, but I want to try. I want to die trying.
