Cyborg Nation Kaitlyn O'Connor (books to get back into reading TXT) 📖

Bronte sent them both drop dead looks, stalked over to the bench beside the dining table, and sat down. Fuming with the realization that they had both been well aware of what was going on in the cabin and hopeful they were next in line, it took all she could do to focus on her book enough to at least appear to be reading it.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the two exchange a questioning look before they turned and focused on their instrument panels. No! she thought angrily. Bronte is not on the menu tonight!

Assholes! Horny brutes! Cyborgs! She thought furiously.

How dare they just expect her to spread her legs to accommodate them! As if she gave a damn if they had blue balls! “Go fuck yourselves,” she muttered under her breath as she resolutely turned to the beginning of her book, ignoring the startled glances Jerico and Gabriel threw at her over their shoulders.

Chapter Seven

Gideon glared at the door as it closed behind Bronte, outraged that she had implied she had had no idea it was him pleasuring her. “Who the hell is Buster?” he muttered, punching his pillow hard enough with his fist that it ruptured and stuffing whooshed out the hole in a small, snowflake-like cloud. Waving the particles away, he flopped back down on the bed and dropped the pillow over his face.

She could not confuse the prowess and superior dexterity of a pleasure bot with a mere human! He did not believe that for one moment!

Was Buster her pleasure bot then, he wondered?

Contempt curled his lips. The superior models like himself had evolved. Anything she might have would be little more than a bumping, grinding toy!

She had said that just to insult him, he decided.

What he did not understand was why she had wanted to insult him. He had pleasured her, thoroughly. He might not have utilized that particular programming before, but he had only to access his internal CPU to know that it was functioning correctly. His cock had certainly performed correctly.

Frowning, he tried replay. That was not functioning, however, because the growing, biological brain cells within his skull were beginning to interfere with some of the functions of his CPU. Giving up after a moment, he tried to access the memory cells and discovered that they produced only random recorded images. He remembered everything fairly clearly up until the moment he had begun to finesse her nipple, per protocol, with his mouth and tongue, and then he remembered what she had tasted like, the way the tight little bud had felt against his tongue, the way she had moved against him, and the little sounds of pleasure she had made in her throat. Beyond that, he discovered he could not recall a single thing except the way he had felt.

Prod his malfunctioning memory though he would, he could not recall that he had carefully sought out and located each nerve bundle and properly stimulated it. He could not recall her shaking with need as the pleasure built inside of her, although he could recall that he had been. He could not recall her begging him either, which made him wonder what had prompted him to proceed with penetration. Per protocol, he was not to invade her body until he either readily identified the signs that the female body was nearing its peak, or until the female identified imminent crisis by demanding he penetrate so that she could achieve orgasm.

The only thing clear in his mind at the point of penetration was the sense that he was about to explode and a sense of desperation in him to feel her body close around his flesh and pump inside of her. His balls had felt as if they were on fire and at the same time as if they were lodged in his throat, choking him.

His cock hardened and stood up as that memory washed over him, and with it the memory of the convulsions that had gripped him as his cock expelled the fiery fluids from his body into hers. He had felt totally drained afterward, weak as he could never recall feeling in his memory.

Trying to ignore the fresh ache in his cock and painful tightening of his balls, he groaned and rolled onto his belly, grinding his teeth and reaching down to adjust himself when the movement brought him excruciating pain.

It did have the desired effect, however, of making the swelling in his cock go down.

His programming, he realized, had blitzed, short circuited, malfunctioned …. Something had happened, for he had failed to perform … somehow. Otherwise, she would not have given him that look of loathing when he had made sexual overtures the second time.

She would not have insulted him!

She would not have stalked from the room.

She would have welcomed him to fuck her again!

“Damn it to hell!” he ground out as it dawned on him that her notable lack of enthusiasm at his performance meant she would not welcome him the next time he tried either.

Sleep eluded him for the first time in his memory. Ordinarily all he had to do was to compose himself comfortably and he dropped instantly from awareness into rest mode. Either because he could not seem to dismiss the thoughts rambling about in his mind, or because his ego was still stinging, or because his body—undisciplined confusion of biology and mechanics that it was—wanted more of what it had already had, he could not achieve the composure he needed to sleep. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge defeat, he continued to struggle for rest until about three quarters of the way through his rest period, when he finally slipped under.

Everything else might have been malfunctioning, but his internal clock worked fine. When his time was up, his eyes popped open. Feeling as if he had been run over by a tank, he got up to shower and change.

Bronte was seated in the dining area he discovered as he emerged from the