Page 100 of Smart Ass

The room spun, hazy and indistinct, awash in rapture.

The bot pushed inside him again, like it was chasing something. Like it needed just a little more.

Ben let his head flop, every muscle lax, while it used him.

No, not the bot.

This was Max.

This was Max whose breathing was ragged. Who was moaning and gasping as he watched the bot fuck roughly into Ben’s limp body.

Ben heard himself whimper. He was growing too sensitive. Overstimulated.

And he fucking loved it that Max didn’t stop. That Max wasn’t going to stop until he chased his own pleasure, heedless of Ben’s discomfort.

The bot sped up, and with it Max’s throaty groans.

Ben almost came again when Max’s sounds culminated in a strangled shout.

The bot gave one final thrust, then stilled inside him. Ben hung in the bots’ embrace, utterly spent and deliriously happy.

The bots started fussing over him, opening the cuffs, but he barely noticed. He was still floating. Flayed open, and feeling so damned close to Max that a tear spilled down his cheek.

He ignored it.

He ignored, too, all the mushy-gushy stuff that was burning in his chest, threatening to slip past his lips.

The bots carried him to the couch, wrapping him in cozy blankets. Max started humming, his voice sinfully rich like chocolate and bourbon, enveloping Ben and holding him tight.

“That was amazing,” Ben whispered, feeling a little punch-drunk and weepy with just how good everything was.

“For me, too,” Max confided, speaking without breaking the melody.

Ben grinned like a fool. Pleasing his Dom—his mainframe computer Dom who didn’t understand tactile sensations—made him happier than he had words for.

Well, he probably did have words. But they were those teeny-tiny scary words that he wasn’t going to say.

He was pretty sure Max knew, though, by the way the robots tucked his blankets around him again when Squeaky trundled in with his hot chocolate.