Page 15 of Codi
He also has a noticeable bulge that makes me wonder just how big his dick is a little too often for my liking. He’s got to be packing, and I want to know if I’m right. Whenever he walks by, I try to remember the last time I had sex. Not just sex, but mind-blowing, so-good-I’m-gonna-pass-out, make-me-scream sex.
Since Lucas? Not once. It’s hard to bring men home when you’re a single mom, hard to trust anyone new under the same roof as your baby. My sexual escapades for the past five years have been restricted to the vibrator hiding beneath my mattress.
Let’s be clear: I’m not a saint, and I’m definitely not oblivious. Codi’s been looking at me too. Sometimes I catch him glancing at my hips, and he looks away quickly to pretend he’s not. At dinner one night his white irises glanced down for just the briefest moment to peek down my shirt. Lucas was eating, so I couldn’t call him out even if I wanted to, but all of this subtle attention he’s giving me has done wonders for my mood.
The cards and the quotes all tell men to treat women like princesses. But Codi makes me feel like a goddess in my own home, and he hasn’t even touched me.
I’ve definitely considered pulling him into my room and riding him like a stallion. Too many times, in fact. Hell, I was the one in Becca’s circle of friends who told her fuck society, fuck the rules, and fuck Oliver senseless. I have absolutely no qualms about that walking, talking chick magnet walking around my house picking up Lucas’s toys from the living room floor during his nap. And by the way he smiles at me, I think maybe Codi’s thinking about it too.
But I hesitate. I chalk it up to my dry spell and try to push those thoughts away. I want to, but I can’t do that to Codi. He’s too new, and he’s still damaged from whatever happened before we found him in the dumpster. Becca told me about their inhibitor chip, the software that basically makes sure an android does precisely what their owner wants them to do.
That doesn’t sit right with me. If I’m going to sleep with someone, I want them to want to sleep with me. Not because some program told him that he has to, but because he exists to please me. The more I see him interact with Lucas, and the more attached I see my son becoming, I begin to let myself believe it.
Codi would never hurt me. Not like men I’ve dated before. He’s incapable of lying or putting himself first. And he would never hurt my son. I owe him the ability to choose, to say no, to give him that same freedom I have. He deserves to be equal, not subservient—and not even because I’m ever so slowly allowing myself to trust him.
Everyone should have that. No matter what. And now that androids are a thing, they should have it too.
So I called the Tin Man shop downtown earlier in the week and scheduled repairs for Saturday—today, before I have to cover another nurses’s shift because she’s out sick.
“Are you ready?” I ask as I slip my favorite St. Morgan’s bomber jacket on, fluffing my hair a bit in the entryway mirror as Codi helps Lucas get his shoes on. Shoes are half the battle with a little boy, as any mother can attest.
It occurs to me just how natural it feels to allow Codi to do these small things I’ve never let anyone else do for us: cleaning up toys, helping with bathroom breaks, assisting with shoes. I’ve mothered Lucas myself for so long, I never expected how much I’d appreciate a man stepping up.
Maybe it’s because he’s more than a man; he’s an android. It hits me how easy it is to trust Codi with my son. If he weren’t bionic, I’d never allow this. But I’m reassured by Codi’s programming, his software, and his patience and calm.
For the first time, I literally don’t have to worry.
“I’m ready.” Codi wears jeans and a T-shirt that accentuates his broad chest with a graphic that says “Hardest Worker in the Room.”
“It’s a bit chilly.” I beckon him to my bedroom. Codi follows me, and I try not to choke when he lingers by the doorway, looking around like he isn’t sure he’s allowed inside with those sweet, bright white, puppy-dog eyes of his. This man is starting to do a number on me. Usually, mild-mannered and mind-blowingly sexy don’t go together, but he makes it work.
I chuckle. “You can come in, it’s fine. You’ve cleaned my room before.”
“That was different,” he replies before coming to stand next to me as I activate my smooth, automated closet door with a wave of my hand over its sensor. It slides open with awhoosh.
“Oh? How is it different?” I tease, pulling out a dark brown leather aviator bomber jacket.
“You weren’t in the room when I was cleaning it,” he says.
“I don’t bite,” I reply playfully. “Unless you want me to.”
Codi stares at me quizzically. “Why would I want you to bite me?”
“I—it’s—never mind.” I clear my throat, presenting the jacket to him. “Do you like it? Here, try it on.” I hold it for him, and he slowly slips his arms into the sleeves, looking in the mirror as I give it a pull here and a pat there. Really, I’m just finding excuses to touch him. “What do you think?”
“It’s very nice.” Codi moves his hands over the leather, intrigued. “Real leather.”
“Yep. That jacket’s about forty years old.” I can’t help but gaze at his reflection in the mirror, too, noting how I look standing next to him. The top of my head reaches his shoulder, just a little over. We look pretty good together. I smile up at him. “It belonged to my grandfather, and my dad after that. Now it’s mine.”
Surprised, he touches the jacket. “And you want me to wear it?”
“My gramps was a fighter pilot in the Ukraine War,” I reply. “My dad followed in his footsteps and was a pilot too. He died when I was little. Nothing dramatic like a plane crash or anything. Just got sick and couldn’t get better. My ma remarried, but I got to keep his things.” I rest my hands in my pockets. “It suits you. You should wear it. It’ll keep you warm.”
He leaves it unzipped, blinking at me. “I don’t get cold. I’m a bionic.”
I laugh a little, giving that beloved jacket one more smoothing over beneath my palms, toying with the lapels. “Still. I like seeing you in it.” We’re standing so close. My body tenses. How easy it would be to just make something happen?
I’ve made a mistake. I was trying to be kind, make him look natural. Everyone would be staring at him, wondering why the hell he’s walking around in the chill springtime without a jacket on. Instead, I’ve made him my number one weakness, standing there in my dad’s jacket like he belongs in a cockpit. He looks like a dream that I don’t want to wake up from.
