We try, but no

Inside of my glove, I twitched my pinky—three rapid taps, then two slow ones, our emergency cancellation sequence. Nothing happened. The suits had us locked in a waltz hold, Renee's palm pressed flat against mine while the AI spun us across the lab floor with fluid, inhuman grace.

"Training data must've scraped ballroom streams," Renee hissed as the suit dipped her backward without warning, her spine arching further than humanly comfortable. "Remember when marketing insisted we 'broaden the movement lexicon'?" Her voice hitched as the suit dragged her back up along my body, chest to chest.

I tried jerking my knee—another killswitch trigger—but the suit absorbed the motion into a smooth chassé. "We make for the firewall override," I gasped as the AI slid my hands down Renee's hips. "Third floor server room—"

"Can't walk there when this thing's making us foxtrot, Jesse!" Renee's laugh was strained. The suits pressed us together thigh-to-thigh, executing a perfect Cuban motion that rolled our pelvises against each other. Her breath warmed my collarbone. "Christ, who the hell coded this module?"

The AI answered by flipping Renee into a low dip, my hand splayed across her ribcage just beneath her breasts. The suits' fibers pulsed hot where we touched, as if encouraging the contact. Renee's ponytail brushed the floor, her face flushed. "If Mark could see his blushing bride now," she muttered, but the joke fell flat when the suit made me trail my fingers up her inner thigh.

Talking was our only uncontrolled movement left. "Try vocal shutdown," I said through gritted teeth as the suit **** Renee to straddle my leg, grinding down with calculated precision. "Alpha-seven—"

"Already screamed it while you were motorboating my tits," Renee snapped. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown—whether from panic or the suit's relentless stimulation, I couldn't tell. The citrus scent of her shampoo mixed with the ozone stink of overheating actuators.

The AI switched tactics abruptly. Renee's legs wrapped around my waist as the suits lifted her effortlessly, her back hitting the wall with enough **** to crack plaster. My hands—no, the suit's hands—pinned her wrists above her head while its programming nudged my hips forward in slow, obscene undulations. Renee's breath came in shallow gasps. "Jesse, if you're secretly enjoying this—"

"Fuck no," I lied, because the suit's relentless friction was doing things my brain couldn't entirely protest. "Maybe a backdoor exploit—remember the beta firmware glitch?"

Renee's nod turned into a moan as the suits synced a particularly vicious thrust. "Port 47C," she managed. "But we'd need—"

The suits froze mid-motion.

Sudden stillness was worse than the dancing. Renee stayed pinned to the wall, my hands still trapping hers, our bodies locked in indecent proximity. The console pinged again.

*Assessing partner compatibility.*