Cyborg Nation by Kaitlyn O'Connor (e novels to read TXT) 📕

He gave her a reproving look as he righted her—as if she’d dove toward the thing on purpose!

Pushing her back so that she plopped down on his knee, which was behind her, he caught one wrist and straightened her arm. “Hold still,” he said, a thread of irritation in his voice as he picked up the scalpel he’d dropped.

Bronte shot to her feet, or rather tried. He hooked his other arm around her waist and held her, giving her a look that dared her to move. She would’ve jumped to her feet again anyway except that the second time, he grabbed the sleeve and slit the excess fabric before she had time to try to snatch her arm back or jump to her feet.

“Oh,” she said weakly when she realized he was only trying to cut the suit down to size.

He sent her a dry look as he caught her other arm and cut the end off of that sleeve. Feeling more than a little sheepish, she lifted her leg and placed it across his opposite knee when he’d finished trimming the sleeves. He sent her a look, but instead of pointing out that she could trim the pants legs as easily as he could—which she belatedly realized—he merely pinched the fabric up and trimmed the material off just above her ankle.

“I can do that,” she said uncomfortably as he reached for her other leg.

He ignored her, grasping her ankle and lifting her leg. The move overbalanced her. She made a grab for him as she felt herself tipping backwards and clawed three furrows across his chest before she managed to hook her hand around his upper arm and catch herself. Fortunately, it wasn’t deep enough to draw blood, only to raise welts. Feeling a little nauseated, she checked under her nails for skin anyway.

He was glaring at her when she looked up from examining her nails. The look made her uneasy, especially after what had happened the last time she’d hurt him. Reaching over, she rubbed her fingers over the welts soothingly and leaned down to blow on them for good measure. “Better?” she asked hopefully when she straightened again.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. Shaking his head, more as if from disgust than in answer to her question, he caught her waist, as if he meant to set her away from him. Instead, he paused once his hands had settled on her hips. He seemed to wrestle with himself.

“We are not accustomed to being around women … only other soldiers like ourselves,” he said haltingly and then frowned. “Disputes are often settled with fists, especially when there is no officer around—and no danger of ending up in the brig as disciplinary action. Not one of us would harm you—not intentionally. Beyond the fact that we are under orders to bring you back safely—and it would mean our lives if we failed—we do not make war on women.” His gaze flickered over her. “But you are human....”

Frowning, she looked away from him.

He caught her face and made her meet his gaze. “Frail compared to us—even our women. In the heat of battle....” He broke off and shrugged. “You were wise to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible, but you do not need to hide. No one will come after you. No one will turn their anger on you. The next time, just return to the cabin and wait for the argument to resolve itself.”

She gave him a look of disbelief. “But you....”

Something gleamed in his eyes at the reminder, but she didn’t think it was amusement. “I did not say you did not have to concern yourself that there would be no consequences for your actions, only that you need not be afraid that we will hurt you.”

He almost seemed to shrug. “You are in no less danger aboard this ship in that respect than you would be in any other if you were to find yourself among men—human men—who have not touched a woman in a very long time.

“Men, I might add, who have no mate waiting for our return and little prospect of finding one.”

Bronte stared at him in disbelief. “Well! If you think the prospect of being gang raped by three men is any less of a threat than being beat up, you certainly don’t know a damned thing about women!”

He closed his eyes, as if seeking patience.

Or maybe not. His eyes were blazing when he opened them again, and not with anger. “I never said anything about rape, Bronte. Believe me when I say you would be more than willing. I know exactly how to touch you and where to touch you. There is nothing about human sexuality that I do not know. I could give you more pleasure than you ever imagined possible and when I took you, you would be begging me to.”

Bronte opened her mouth to dispute that despite the fact that his words, in and of themselves, without a single touch, had made everything inside of her go warm and liquid and quivery. His lips curled, as if he was waiting for her to issue the challenge trembling on the tip of her tongue. It gave her pause.

She still had to fight the urge to issue the challenge, not because she doubted for a moment that a denial would be a challenge to him but because she had an insane urge to see if he could do what he claimed.

And she was suddenly absolutely convinced that he could.

He lifted a dark blond brow when she said nothing. “You do not want to test it?” he asked pensively.

Bronte shook her head. Looking mildly disappointed, he set her away from him and rose. “I felt honor bound to warn you,” he said as he paused at the door, “that I can not guarantee you will arrive at our destination untouched. In fact, I am as certain as I can be that you will not.”

She glared at the door after he’d