Smart Tissue Autonomous Robot (STAR) A robotic arm with an articulated suturing tool and a force sensor to detect the tension in the surgical thread during operation. The arm is equipped with cameras that create a three-dimensional image, to guide the robot as it deploys the tool, and also a thermal-imaging device to help distinguish between similar-looking tissues. The robotic arm is controlled by a computer program with a repertoire of stitches, knots and maneuvers that permits the arm to plan and carry out a procedure, known as anastomosis, which involves sewing together two parts of a bodily tube.
Source: Children’s National Health System
Matt collapsed on me, yet he still had the mindfulness to support himself on his elbows, depressing the cushion on either side of my face.
But our bodies were pressed together. That was the crucial point.
Meanwhile, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his narrow hips, encouraging him to give me more of his weight.
His labored breathing at my neck sent sparks along my skin, reigniting the embers still so close to the surface.
He loved me.
He loves you.
…
…
…
God, universe, if there’s anyone out there, please don’t let me fuck this up.
It wasn’t that I considered myself a fuck-up. It’s just that I wanted this, him, us, so badly. I wanted him to be my person, because he felt so right. He didn’t feel perfect, but that just made him feel even more right.
I squeezed him tighter, not wanting the moment to end. I was equal parts thrilled and terrified by the possibility of what would happen next.
“Marie,” he whispered against my hair.
“Yes?” I closed my eyes, bracing.
“You’re holding me too tight.”
“Oh, sorry.” I loosened my arms, having to use a mental crowbar in the process.
Taking a deep breath, Matt lifted his head and immediately kissed my mouth, encouraging me to lift my torso so he could slide his arms beneath me.
We kissed. For a long time. We kissed for so long, I became aware of our surroundings again. The dark room, the velvet couch, the still-sparkling glasses of champagne, the glass wall overlooking the dance floor, and the sounds of Cyndi Lauper over the speakers telling me that girls just want to have fun.
I must’ve been mad. Just a glass wall separated us from hundreds of people, a mere four-digit code separated us from Kerry and Marcus. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. Because he was still kissing me, and he loved me, and everything about him felt like the perfect combination of heavenly and sinful.
When he pulled away, his gaze lowered to my mouth, and the look in his eyes was decidedly smug. With impressive fluidness, he lifted himself and turned to the side. Immediately, I felt the loss of his body. I mourned it even though my muscles, especially in my legs and hips, were beginning to cramp.
“Your lips are swollen,” he said, discarding the condom, then returning to lie next to me on his side. Matt smoothed his palm from my thigh, over my hip to my chest. Pausing in its upward trajectory, he fondled my breast. His eyes watched his hand, and the possessiveness in his gaze felt more intoxicating than the four cocktails with dinner. “That’s why I stopped kissing you,” he muttered.
“What?”
“I stopped kissing you because your lips are swollen. They must hurt.”
I breathed out an incredulous breath. “Who are you?”
His eyes cut to mine. “You know me.”
“Do I? Because, I have to be honest, I wasn’t expecting . . . that.”
“What were you expecting?” he asked carefully.
“I don’t know. But the dirty talk was a surprise,” I admitted, tracing his collarbone with my finger, deciding I’d start with the dirty talk rather than jumping straight to, YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH ME????
Since when?
Tell me everything.
Leave nothing out.
The side of his mouth hitched, again smugly, and his eyes returned to his hand on my breast. “You said yourself, I’m full of surprises.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You didn’t seem to mind.” More smugness.
“I didn’t. I don’t. I approve.” The words tumbled from my mouth because I couldn’t say them fast enough.
That made him smile, just briefly, then he swallowed. I watched his profile as the smile melted away and the lines of his face grew stark. He seemed . . . distant. Or rather, reluctantly present but ready to leave. Enigmatic. Like he couldn’t decide what to do next and not knowing what to do next was a foreign state for him.
I covered his hand on my breast with mine.
“Matt,” I whispered.
“Hmm?” He didn’t look at me, his eyes were still perusing my body. It was as if he was trying to memorize the sight of me.
I reached up with my free hand and cupped his jaw, tears stinging my eyes as I admitted, “I’m so in love with you.”
Matt’s gaze darted back to mine and he blinked, breathing the word, “What?”
“I love you.” I also blinked, because my eyes were overflowing with tears. “I love you so, so much.”
Why are you crying, Marie?
I didn’t know.
I honestly had no idea.
Feelings? Whoremones? Maybe a nearby, but as of yet unseen onion?
“You do?” he asked, sounding so entirely stunned, I physically ached for him.
From what I could see through the blurriness of my tears, Matt appeared to be overwhelmed by both thoughts and emotions. Eventually, he released a sudden breath and gathered me in his arms, burying his head in my neck.
I huffed a laugh, returning his embrace, giving in to the euphoria of loving him, and knowing he loved me in return. What that meant, what came next, would have to wait. I was having difficulty breathing. He was holding me too tight.
But, honestly, I didn’t mind.
We dressed. We left. We went back to my place. Matt did two things on the way.
He texted Marcus and Kerry, letting them know we’d left and that they would have to find their own way around tomorrow.
He kissed me. A lot. On my neck, face, shoulders, arms, hands, wrists, fingertips, and sometimes mouth. But he did so gently, like he was still concerned about my lips.
We were kissing as we entered my apartment, as he reached for the light switch and turned it on, as I reached for it immediately after and turned it off.
“Marie—”
I slid my hands under his shirt, whispering, “Let’s make love in every room.”
He made a grunting noise. Actually, it was more of a groan-grunt of helplessness. “Yes. We definitely will. Multiple times. But first,” he caught my wrists and held them between us, “first I want assurances.”
“Assurances?”
“Promises. Or oaths. Vows will also do.” Though his words struck me as silly, his expression was stern.