She couldn’t get pregnant. She couldn’t give him a disease. She wouldn’t tell him no and her body could be unhinged to fold and bend in ways that were both obscene and perhaps illegal. She could literally suck-start a hoover, if necessary, and were it possible for a garden hose to house a watermelon, she had no doubt she could do it.

She was forever ready, always warm, always willing, could be programmed to use a thousand different voices — she had memorized every translation of the Kama Sutra and had it in a readily accessible database for her usage.

She knew every position, every nerve point, every part of him that could possibly be considered an erogenous zone.

She was beautiful, long-limbed, perfectly proportioned (the Golden Mean is a lovely thing), more than a little mischievous…

So why, then, would he possibly choose someone else?

She couldn’t figure it out, either.

All of the programmers in the world had never managed to program the notion of jealousy within a machine.

They hadn’t met Eve.


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