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The first time that she enters his room at night, it's on cat feet so quiet that John would not even know she was there if not for the squeaky hinge on the door, and he goes from the deepest sleep that he's been able to manage since childhood and into full wakefulness before his heart has time to beat twice. His hand is under his mattress, finding the gun that is always loaded with the safety that his always off, and he's flipped neatly off the mattress to crouch beside the bed without creating any answering sound in return. A year ago he would not have been able to do that. A year ago several people that he cared out--that he loved--had not been dead, and Derek the only one returned. John nearly fires the bullet straight into her pretty, blank face before he realizes that it's her.
"Cameron." He lowers the gun. The face becomes maybe not-so-blank in the eerie way that she sometimes seems to emulate expressions without seeming to move, like maybe she's disapproving. "What are you doing in here?"
"It took you one-point-three seconds too long to get out of the bed," she says by way of answer. The same way that her face shows emotion in waves just below the surface, making John want to put the pads of his fingers against her skin so that he can feel them and assure himself that he's not losing his mind, her voice is only toneless to those who do not spend time listening to her speak. "I could have killed you before you retrieved the weapon."
She could kill him right now and he would not be able to stop her, John thinks but does not say. He starts to thumb the safety back into a locked position on the gun, realizes that there is little that he can do to harm her even if the weapon does go off accidentally, puts it back into place all the same because it still makes him feel better to do so.
"But you didn't," he says instead. And you won't, is for the empty air alone.
Cameron tilts her head to one side, scrutinizes him for a moment, and leaves without another word. John has the suspicious feeling that what he has just witnessed is the closest thing that a Terminator ever comes to surprise.
*
The second time, John doesn't know that she's there at all until he feels her fingers against his throat. He thrashes awake in less than a second, knowing without needing to see that the warmth of skin only hides the cold of steel underneath, and takes at least three seconds longer than that to recognize the dark, almost-shaped eyes that are watching him in the dim light from the security bulbs outside. John puts his hand against Cameron's wrist and feels no pulse, knows that his is rushing like a trapped sparrow against the pads of her fingertips. He cannot remove her hand until she is ready for it to be removed. He doesn't try.
"How long," John starts, and then swallows. "How long too long was I that time?"
"Over four seconds," Cameron answers in an even voice before she releases him. She sounds accusatory as she ghosts out of the room without saying anything else. John was not aware that a machine could feel anything akin to human disappointment, but maybe his machine is different from the others.
*
He's awake for the third, sitting up in the bed in the dark, watching the slight dancer shadow move down the hallway. Cameron pauses in the doorway when she sees that she will not be able to sneak up on him.
"You oiled the door." John doesn't know whether he means to sound irritated or amused. "When did Mom leave you time to do that?" Sarah has been keeping Cameron increasingly busy over the past few weeks, and the ever-present line of worry between her eyes that is as much woven into John's memories of her as is the color of her eyes or the shape of her mouth. He doesn't know if she understands why she really ought to be worried. God, he hopes that she doesn't.
"She sleeps. I don't." His machine is also capable of a faint undercurrent of pride, when someone knows how to listen for it.
"And you're making sure that I don't, either?"
"You are under too much stress." Cameron steps across the room towards him. "It is making you sleep too deeply."
John was not aware that decent sleep was a symptom of having too much going on in his life, and he scowls at her. "Your solution?"
He still remembers how she had laughed and smiled when she had not been ready for him to know what she was, how she had coyly stretched out across his bed in a tank top when she had been trying to distract him from Riley. He knows how well she can imitate a girl ripe and warm. It's still a shock when she slides onto the bed with those long gazelle's legs, straddles his hips and takes his face into her hands. Her lips are warm; they taste like cherry lip gloss, something sweet and cheap and indicative enough of teenage girl to send a message straight to John's dick that his brain can't keep up with fast enough to override. His lips part for her tongue automatically and he can feel the strength thrumming through the fingers on his jaw before he puts his hands against her hips, reluctantly pushes her back. Cameron rocks back onto her heels with a grace too liquid to be entirely believable as human or machine.
"What are you doing?" John stops and licks his lips. He can taste the gloss, still; he can also taste a little bit that is just her.
"You need to relax," Cameron answers him in all seriousness. She's just about to tilt her head to the side again. John's starting to think that that is as close to calling him an idiot as Cameron will ever get. "Exhaustion is affecting your performance. It's dangerous."
"I don't need sex." John clamps his lips shut around the words before he gets too loud and wakes up the entire house. That's a definite head-tilt happening, right there.
Cameron slides from his lap and then from his bed so smoothly that John doesn't realize that she's even left him until she's standing next to him. "Sometimes you do," she says, and leaves his room without another word.
John lays back in his bed and tries to sleep, tries to imagine his future self fucking Cameron, wonders if she feels as real and as whole to him as she does to the John that he is now, when she's sprawling across his lap and he swears that he can almost feel a pulse fluttering beneath the lab-cultured skin.
*
The fourth time, John goes to her. Cameron has a room, just in case someone should stumble by the house and then wonder why John Baum's sister has nowhere she claims as her own in order to sleep at night. It's nearly as sterile and devoid of personality as a hospital, but there are clothes on the bed, a dresser and mirror and a rug on the floor. John has seen her dancing in there, a few times. She's always turned away; he doesn't know if she doesn't realize that he's a presence or simply does not care. It always seems more like the room of a real girl when she's dancing in there.
Cameron does not sleep, but John has known for a very long time that she needs a set amount of time to be by herself each day, whatever it is that she might be doing or thinking then. So he knocks against the closed wooden door, not even sure if Cameron is inside or if she's patrolling the perimeters of the house, and has barely allowed his hand to fall when she opens it and looks at him. No tilting of the head tonight.
"Cameron." John falls silent without quite knowing what else to say, because come-on lines are surely stupid when he's talking to a robot even if he were to know any to begin with--even if he has not known for longer than he's known that she dances that Cameron might be a robot, but there's no "just" about her at all.
"Sometimes you do," is all that Cameron says before she steps to the side and allows him entrance. She stands still, so that John is the first to move, to put his hands against her waist, to pull her close against him. Cameron is too graceful and quick on her feet for John to tug her, so that he gets no sense of how heavy she is, it is only the real girl that stands before him. She tilts her head back and has her lips parted for John before he even has a chance to touch her; she doesn't make a sound as he kisses her. John does not know if that's better or worse, if he would bolt from the room if she actually started to make the low, breathy sounds of desire from the back of her throat or if that would be a guarantee that he would never leave again.
She shivers like a girl. When he slides his hand up beneath her tank top--the same one that she wore when she draped herself across the length of his bed like something to be plucked, and John wonders how much of his he's actually in control of, and how much she's had in the palm of her hand since the beginning--brushing his fingers across her flat, firm stomach, the first upward curve of her breast, the skin trembles, and she leans further into him. There is no mistaking the metal strength in her hands as she places them against his lower back. She massages the line of his spine for a moment before her hands move lower, on his ass and thighs, startling him until he remembers that she had all but said that she has fucked his future self before, more than once. Cameron knows what he likes, then, probably better than he knows it himself; he pictures her writhing underneath the man that he will be and can't quite erase her china-doll expression at the same time. It's enough to break the spell, and he pulls back.
"Do you want this?" John keeps his forehead pressed against Cameron's and drags her hair through his fingertips. She smells like shampoo and there are little beadlets of sweat at her temples, from where the house is old and the air-conditioning balky.
"I don't do anything that I don't want," Cameron answers him without blinking.
"Sometimes you do," John echoes back at her before he extricates himself from her grasp, knees shakier than he would like. Her hands flex for a second, refusing to let him go, before she stops being metal long enough to be a girl again and lets him walk to the door.
The coldest water that he can manage in the shower doesn't wilt his erection; John finally takes himself in hand and masturbates himself to an orgasm so hard that it nearly buckles him, imagining Cameron beneath him and above him, a gleam in her eyes and on her parted lips that is unmistakable.
*
There is rarely only two people within the house; this is both blessing and curse. There is Mom or Derek there to look at him sideways, watch him as he flushes and squirms and finds his cereal to be the most interesting thing in the world. He blames stress. He blames lack of sleep. Neither of these things are easy to argue with.
Since John and Cameron are rarely alone in the house, though, there is no way for John to do anything but watch as Cameron walks her silent patrols from one room to the other, as she cleans the guns or even in those rare instances in which she dances in the house's public spaces, rarely even bothering to move furniture out of the way rather than simply gliding around it as though her heavy metal as found a way to defy gravity. If John did not know better, he would think that a machine was deliberately teasing him.
It doesn't take him very long to realize that he does know better, actually, that he's known that Cameron is more than the sum of her parts for a very long time and that she is entirely capable of teasing him until he gives in to what she wants. What she wants. John's not certain how much teasing she has to employ against his future self before he sways to her. He's not certain that he wants to know.
It's nearly two weeks, and John can only bring himself to be grateful for the fact that it's hot water that the house runs out of rather than cold, before someone who might know something about anything turns up in San Francisco, and Mom and Derek go to find out if that something of anything could be dangerous to them. John does not go. He does not offer, and sees something of a tightening around Derek's eyes and in Mom's mouth, but justifies it by telling himself that they would not have allowed him to walk into something that has such a high probability of being a trap, anyway. And Cameron is there to stand guard, should a trap come to them. It's what she's good at.
"John." He looks up from the kitchen table, across which he has scattered the pieces of every gun that Mom and Derek did not actually take with them. He recognizes her voice immediately; before his hand even has time to tighten around the one gun that he is refusing to disassemble, just in case. She has her head tilted to one side. John wonders what he managed to do that would cause her to give him her idiot look when he has not even yet spoken.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"Come with me," Cameron says, voice lower and softer and almost girl-like without crossing the line into making John certain that she's deliberately faking. She turns and leaves the kitchen without another word, nearly sweet lilt to her voice doing absolutely nothing to mask the fact that what she's giving him is an order. John can feel his eyebrows going up. That does not stop him from rising from his seat and following her automatically.
In the living room, Cameron turns to make sure that he has followed her, and her eyes fall automatically to the weapon that he has in his hand. John doesn't even remember deciding to take the gun with him. He doesn't like that fact.
"Sorry," he says as he puts the metal down on an end table. "Forgot that I had it." He's the only one in the house who apologizes to Cameron, as naturally and as matter of course as if he were talking to another human being.
The very slight tilt of the head again, a way that her lips thin towards the edges that makes John think that she might be smiling. When Cameron shifts her weight away, John sees why she has brought him into the living room, and why she has waited until they are alone in the house. It looks like a piston. There is no mistaking the object that is affixed to the front of it, and John doesn't know whether he's a little turned on or whether it would be a very good idea for him to leave the house, um, now.
"Cameron--" he starts, but she's in his arms by that point, and he can't fathom the moment when his hands settled down around her waist but they're there, he's traded one weapon for another without quite knowing when or how. Her mouth doesn't taste like gloss; she tastes like her, like nothing else but her, and as John swirls his tongue through her mouth he doesn't taste anything at all like metal. "Cameron." There's a protest that he's supposed to be making here. He's supposed to be saying words like "human," and "consent," and "programming," while all he's thinking is girl, girl, girl.
"We have done this many times before," Cameron says as she leans back and then starts to pull his shirt up and over his head. John finds himself lifting his arms up over her head to help her, even though his mouth is still moving through protests. He suspected as much for a long time now, that at some point in the future he's going to crack and stop just looking at her high, curving breasts and long, long legs.
"Can you tell me no?" He hopes like hell that she can tell him the truth, too, and that this will not be one of the times when she chooses to lie.
Cameron stops with his shirt in her hands and regards him for so long that John cannot see her doing anything other than giving his question every ounce of her scrutiny. "John," she tells him in the you're-an-idiot voice that it's probably a good thing only he can recognize, otherwise there would probably be far more fights between herself and Derek that mostly ended with Derek pointing a gun at her face and her eyebrow curved up very slightly to ask him what the hell he thought he was going to do with that. "This is not the first time that I have told you 'no'."
And, as always and every time that she brings up the future, John can feel the shadowy specter of the man that he will be hanging over them both, watching, judging, making his plans. He doesn't know that person, he's not certain that he even wants to, it's easier to pull Cameron to him and pretend that she's entirely human. That's she's real has not been a question for months now, longer than that. The soft curve of her breasts and the way that her breath hitches in the back of her throat when he runs his thumb over the nipple to feel it stand up and suckles at the skin just below her ear is different from the way that Riley did the same only by degree. John does not want to think about Riley right now, but he still jumps when he feels Cameron's hand close around his wrist to still him.
"We have done all of this before," she tells him as she untangles the limbs that have become wrapped around one another as though they were already making love, manages to keep her fingers twined around his through some kind of boneless alchemy that John cannot quite manage to comprehend. He doesn't realize that she's leading him over to the machine that clearly has only one purpose until he's being pushed back against the floor with a warm and willing girl in his lap, and something in John's brain sort of short-circuits after that and lets him know that he's basically going to let Cameron do anything and everything that she wants to him at this point. He feels a little drunk, more than a little disjointed from his body. He feels like Cameron might have had a point about his running on fumes for too long, especially since he doesn't so much as jump at the feel of her unbuttoning his pants and sliding her hand inside. His cock was already half-hard; her fingers are long and slim and graceful like her legs.
"Cameron, Cam." John bites off everything that he was thinking about saying. He's going to do anything at all that she asks of him, and he knows it. "Do you know what you're doing?"
He's not certain that machines can laugh when they're not pretending to be human. All this time that he's spent with Cameron, and he's still not always sure what he sees in her eyes. She only repeats, "We have done this many times before," before she's pushing him down to the living room floor and grabbing the cushions from the couch--it's not as though they're actually attached to any of this furniture, and John expects that they'll be moving along again before much time is allowed to pass, but he still intends to never, ever bring that couch up again--so that she can guide them beneath him. John kicks off his shoes, tugs his pants and underwear down his legs. He's breathing too fast; he can't believe that he's agreeing to do this. The mystery of why his future self might have done it so often as to become routine is solved when Cameron matter-of-factly turns back towards him and pulls her shirt over her head. Her bra follows into a pile in the corner only a few seconds later. There is no artifice to the gesture, no attempt towards seduction, and John stares at her.
"You're beautiful," he says softly.
Cameron pauses for only a second to look at him. "This form has almost perfect symmetry," she responds. That's not what John meant, but she's pushing at his hip, and he thinks that that's his cue to turn over, make himself as comfortable as he can across the cushions that are acting as an unwieldy perch. Across which he's draped like something to be viewed, something to be taken. John shivers, not because he wants to get up and call a halt to this. Everything that we have done here is something that we have done before.
If that's the case, then John really hopes that in the future he has managed to stop jumping so goddamned hard when he feels Cameron's finger, covered in something slick and cold, pushing at the entrance to his ass. "Fuck!" he exclaims, starts to turn. Cameron puts her hand against the small of his back. It's the barest fraction of her strength, making him wonder if he puts this kind of effort into pretending to be a real girl in the future, too.
"Sex of this type without the use of lubricant is not pleasant for either party," Cameron says calmly, like she's reciting from a book. One, John knew that, he's been busy but he's not a complete stranger to porn, and two, so far as he can tell at this moment, the other party is a...never mind, he doesn't want to know about the possibilities for sentience in the fucking piston that Cameron has set up.
"I know." John turns back over, crosses his arms so that he can rest his forehead against them. "You just startled me." He doesn't jump again when he feels Cameron's finger return at his entrance, slicker even than before, pushing slowly and inexorably past muscles that unequivocally do not want her there.
"You must relax, John." Cameron's voice at his back is lower, softer; a husky note that convinces John beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Terminators would never be caught out at all if they cared to hide themselves coloring her tone.
John can't help the startled laugh that emerges from his throat. "That's--" Cameron's finger is inside of him and then she's added a second, stretching him out amidst a pressure and a--a heat, the further that she goes, making John a little glad that he's turned so that she cannot readily see his face and, no, really, he might not be willing to tell anyone else that this is happening, ever, but it might be a good idea if he scotch-guards the couch before he allows anyone to sit on it again. "That's kind of funny, because this is one of the last things in the world that I would expect to relax me."
"We have--"
"Done all of this before. I know." However much lubricant Cameron is using, John still wants to tell her that he doesn't think that the entire bottle would be enough. Her fingers that are long and slender like her ballerina legs slide deeper inside of him, making him hiss, and then suddenly Cameron is brushing up against something deep inside of John that makes his entire body jerk and turn warm. He shivers, barely manages not to swear. "We've done all of this before," he whispers half to himself. Maybe now he understands a little bit more of why his future self thinks that this is so unbelievably cool, if Cameron can just--just change her angle a little bit. John's erection had been wilting beneath him at the unexpected and uncomfortable intrusion that was Cameron's fingers, but that is becoming less and less of a problem by the moment. John shivers and feels his body finally starting to achieve that relaxation that Cameron was after so badly. She slides her fingers in and out of him slowly, expertly, adding more lubricant every couple of seconds as it is needed. He's scissored a little further open at each pass, and each time she just barely manages to brush against that sensitive and newly awakened place inside of him, not with anywhere near the pressure that John wants her to apply to it. He doesn't even realize that he's slid back to try and meet her again on one of her thrusts until he feels the cushions beneath him move.
"Cameron." Her name spills past his lips unbidden, nearly a plea. He doesn't think that her programming covers this; he doesn't think that he's anywhere near the one in this room still in control any longer. "Come on, do that a little harder, come on." The "please" is swallowed back down his throat before it came get too far. This time.
"You are sufficiently relaxed to avoid injury or discomfort now," Cameron whispers to him as she withdraws her hand. She's not breathing hard, John would know that she were faking it if she was, but that low and fuck-me note is still there. He looks back over his shoulder at her as she kneels beside the machine that has, he guesses he's a little past the point of polite euphemisms, a manufactured cock affixed to the end. It doesn't look nearly as pliable as Cameron's fingers are, and it's sure as hell bigger. John tries to remind himself that underneath Cameron's skin is a skeleton of titanium, much harder than anything produced in any sex shop. It doesn't help.
"Well, I was," John answers her as he starts to feel that relaxation curling up and away from him like dew burning beneath a hot rising sun. He starts to push himself back, stops. They have done this many times before.
"It will not harm you." Cameron startles him by crossing abruptly in front of him, kneeling down and taking his face into her hands. He can't taste any trace of metal in her mouth, but she feels as though she wants him, far more than any human girl that he has ever experienced. "I will not harm you."
I know that, John doesn't say. Cameron is gone again before he can. He can hear her behind him, starting the machine that is actually surprisingly quiet for something as fierce as it looks. John doesn't know why he was expecting it to sound like a lawnmower or whatever, and he can feel a faint blush of color curling up his cheeks. He still nearly jumps out of his skin as the dildo at the end of the piston enters him, slowly and inexorably. John feels as stretched open wide and warm as he is at all capable of being in his entire life, and it's still too big, there's a burn that comes closer to pleasure than he would have thought possible overtaking his entire body. I will not harm you. He tries to make himself relax. And then the dildo reaches his prostate the same way that Cameron had been doing with her fingers, a deeper and less glancing touch but still not quite the angle that he was looking for, not quite enough, and John tips his head down even further onto his folded arms and all but arches his back like a cat. The dildo retreats, enters him again, measured and impersonal. John neither recognizes nor is capable of controlling the sound that comes out of him.
"Cameron, come here," he manages when he has his breath back, before the object filling him up, retreating, and then returning again less than a second later has a chance to take it away again.
"I have to control the speed." She sounds so much like she's arguing with him over the necessity of homework that John could almost laugh.
"That's--oh, fuck--Cameron, I can tell you right now that that's not fast enough. Fix it and come here." It's probably a little past the point of issuing orders when he's the one sprawled out over the couch cushion and getting--the part of John's brain that still can't believe that he's actually doing this still wants to skitter away from naming it, but what's happening here is that he's getting well-fucked and thinks that it might be one of the better experiences of his entire life. The machine abruptly increases in speed, without giving him any more depth. John groans and curls his hands about the edges of the couch cushions so that he will not thrust himself back and against the piston to increase the pressure, though he thinks that that moment will not be far off. When Cameron kneels down in front of him again, he reaches for her blindly, tangling his fingers through her hair so that he can pull her forward and onto his mouth. It's her tongue that parts his mouth, it's her teeth that clack against his with a force bordering on painful, so that John's hand could fall away from her hair entirely and it would not make any difference. When they break apart, John drops his head down between his shoulder blades while Cameron's hands remain on the spaces where his shoulders join his neck, her thumbs resting upon his pulse points. He must feel unimaginably delicate to her like this, something that could be broken with nothing more than a quick flex of her arms.
John cannot imagine how he thought that Cameron's fingers were too big to possibly take after several minutes of the machine entering him; he also can't imagine how he ever thought it would have been impossible to be more pliable and boneless after she was done, when he now doesn't think that he could move even if the house itself fell under attack. With every not-quite-oh-please brush against his prostate, John's balls tighten even further. His cock is already so hard that it aches, arching up towards his belly and leaking pre-come from the tip. Even finding his breathing falling in rhythm to the fucking machine, John takes himself in hand, but Cameron stops him with a soft grip upon his wrist, tugging his fingers away.
"You've got to be kidding me," John grits. He thinks that he's going to explode. Cameron has left her jeans on, for now, but her bared breasts are directly in front of his line of vision. John imagines taking each one of them into his mouth in turn, how they would feel. If she would squirm and whine like a human, or if he would have to learn how to read signals entirely of her own making. If she would like it if he gripped her hard enough to leave marks; she's already said that she does not do anything that she does not want.
"Just a little while longer, John." He looks at her, but her pupils are not dilated with lust, her face is not flushed with fresh blood rising into her cheeks. He's the one who's trembling in the deceptively light grip that she's keeping on his wrists.
"You're kind of being a bitch right now," John says, and lowers his head as a shuddering gasp makes his entire body move. He can't stop himself, he finally arches back against the machine, pulls back forward when the one in front of him will not allow him to go as far as he wants.
"I'm never cruel."
He can't stop himself from smiling, even if it twists a little at the end. "Never." It's too much, it's too much, he's either got to come or he's got to lose his mind, and it's going to be really hard to be the supposed savior of mankind if it's the latter. "Cameron." He can hear the whine in his voice. He's really beyond caring all that much, at all. "Please."
Something sparks in Cameron's eyes, something so close to human-by-accident rather than by design that it makes John's breath catch in his throat and causes him to doubt what he saw. She releases his wrists and stands so abruptly that he's left teetering for a moment, unsure of his balance alone; there are red marks etched into his skin, not deeply enough to become bruises. John takes a breath and rolls himself off of the cushions, onto his back and onto the floor. He watches the truly absurd sight of the machine pistoning itself on nothing more than the air for a moment before Cameron switches it off, starts to come back to him. The silence in its absence makes John's ears whine.
After several seconds that stretch out like taffy, John reaches up, pulls Cameron down on top of him with a thumping noise. She doesn't 'oof' like a normal girl probably would at finding her balance upset like that, and there's an extra solidity to the way that she settles down across his hips, one more reminder that there is more to her than flesh and bone. John unbuttons her jeans, urges her back up so that she can shimmy the denim down her thighs while she watches him with large, dark eyes. He's so hard, and she's so warm, and it's so easy to take her by her hips and nearly slam her back down onto his erection as soon as she's nude and as available to him as he has been to her since the day that they met. She rolls her head back on her neck and arches her back once John is buried into her up to the root of himself; for several seconds he has no other option but to sit with her straddling his waist, living in the feel of her being warm and tight around him, so real that he doesn't want to know what else she might be, not now, not yet. When he sits up, his hands find her waist and the small of her back instead of her hips, a place where he can cradle her rather than tug and own. She's heavier than Riley was, in spite of the fact that she's lithe and warrior-like against all of Riley's soft womanhood, and John cannot stop himself from sitting up, pressing his face against the side of her neck for a moment as they start guiding each other into a synchronous rhythm. She smells like shampoo; that's real. So is the sweet, cheap perfume from the mall that she has dabbed behind each of her ears, blood oranges and the light, white flowers that John can never remember the name of. John licks the skin, bites the place where the blood runs closest to the surface.
And Cameron...if she's lying, then she's the most beautiful liar that John has ever met in his whole life. Her head falls back even further to turn her neck-back-chest into one long and beautiful line, baring herself to him, while they rock back and forth into each other and John takes each of her breasts into his mouth in turn the way that he has wanted to do since the day that they met.
"John." She has never said his name like that. She doesn't say his name like that. "John, John, fuck me, John."
The sound that emerges from John's mouth does not have words as he tips them both over so that Cameron is now the one on the bottom as he thrusts into her. They're staring into each other's eyes so hard and deep that John wants to curse his own need to blink. His human weakness. Her nipples still rise hard and ready into his hand when he massages her breasts, and she still kisses him back when he cannot stop his mouth from meeting hers. John is so ready, so close to losing control and clawing at her like an animal, but he needs to know if she can. His hand finds the place between her legs in time to each of his thrusts, rubs her just so to make her keen and arch against him. He's only doing that for a few moments before Cameron shudders hard and tightens around him; it's enough to send John following after her within sixty seconds on a flash that makes the entire world tighten inwards until it's only the two of them. John's elbows give out and send him down and on top of her. Their faces are close enough together that John can see the tiny drops of sweat that decorate her hairline. He pushes the few stray strands out of her eyes and feels her turn into the touch.
"How much of that was real?" John asks, even though he swore to himself that he wouldn't. "How much of that was programming?"
Though she could easily push him off and away and the cooling sweat across them both is becoming uncomfortable, Cameron captures his wrist in her hand and says evenly, "I don't do anything that I don't want to do."
End