That went both ways. She wanted nothing to do with them. But she did miss the simple act of sharing a conversation with someone. She had no one to talk to here. No one who gave a shit what she thought.
She shifted to her back, mirroring his position beside her. Despite the shade from the trees, the air felt unusually hot for autumn, clinging to her skin and making her sweat. Damn global warming.
“Greenland has melted beyond saving.” She threw the random thought into the humid breeze.
“Ah.” He caught it with a smile in his voice. “The tipping point debate.”
“If you look at the science, there’s no debate. The ice sheet has lost so much mass over the last two decades that even if global warming ended yesterday, the arctic island won’t recover.”
He turned slowly, stretching and shaping his body around hers without touching. “What are we going to do about it?”
“We, the human race? Nothing. There isn’t enough intelligence or concern on this planet to fix it. Future generations will have to use advancements in technology to adapt to the changing environment.”
“How?”
“They’ll modify their DNA. It’s the only way they’ll be able to inhabit a world our species isn’t designed for.”
“Designed? You believe in a higher power? Intelligent design?”
Oh, she had plenty of opinions on that. Her mouth ran away from her, and for the next few minutes, she stood on a soapbox and outlined everything she speculated on the subject. By the time she realized she was rambling, she couldn’t take it back. She’d engaged him in a conversation, doing precisely what he wanted.
The thing was… He listened. Actually kept his arguments to himself so that he could hear hers. Was this some kind of ploy to engineer personal information from her?
Except she hadn’t revealed anything confidential. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.
Was she being naive?
Lifting on an elbow, he regarded her intently. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
Without access to a phone, Internet, or friends, all she had was time to sit around and think about shit.
She met his eyes, breaths defensively taut. “You want to argue my points? Bring it on.”
“Nope. I’m not an expert on climate change or God.”
“Then where is your expertise? What do you know?”
“I can offer some factoids on testosterone.” He bent his head toward hers, making her heart skip. “I’ve read a lot on the subject.”
She didn’t like where this was headed. Anything related to men and their bodies was dangerous territory. But she sucked it up and gave him her ear.
“A man’s testosterone peaks at puberty.” He brushed a wayward lock of hair from her face. “It declines immediately after then plateaus as he ages. Unless he gains weight. Fat pushes testosterone levels into a downward spiral. But you know what doesn’t?”
“No.” She didn’t want to know. Not with that heated look in his eyes.
“Sex. Studies have shown that a man’s testosterone increases the morning after intimacy. More so in unmated males, those who are actively hunting. Their testosterone boosts exponentially—we’re talking upwards of three-hundred-percent—the morning after sexual activity. Interestingly, masturbation doesn’t yield the same results, which suggests there’s a socio element to hormone production.”
Fascinating. Also, disturbing. Especially with him angled so close to her.
He engaged in sex last night. Not intercourse, but oral sex. Did it count if he didn’t come? Was his testosterone in the red zone when he woke?
“Is that why you raped me this morning?”
“Despite what you think, I’m in full control of my baser needs. Case in point…” He dipped his head, hovering his face an inch from her heaving chest. “I want to cover these raised nipples with my tongue and tease them into hard peaks through the shirt. When the fabric becomes too damp and itchy, I want to strip it away and feel you against my lips—your soft skin, the pounding of your heart, the vibration of your moans. What would you do…?” He paused. Breathed in. On an exhale, his voice shifted from seductive to pensive. “For a…?
Uncertain, she flattened her back against the ground and curled her fingers in the grass. “For what?”
“For a Klondike bar?”
She stared up at him and blinked. “Sorry?”
“It’s a square of ice cream with chocolate—”
“I know what it is.” She gritted her teeth. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Depends on your answer.”
“God, you’re so…” Unpredictable. Gorgeous. Perplexing. She sniffed, trying to hold onto her annoyance. “Strange.”
“What would you do for one? Would you lick that tree?” He nodded at the barky, moss-covered trunk a few feet away.
“I don’t know. Maybe?” She couldn’t remember the last time she tasted ice cream.
“Would you finish our jog without clothes on?”
“No.” Not willingly.
“Would you sing?”
“That would be awful for everyone.” She made a face. “But I can rap.”
“Right now.”
“What?” She sat up, forcing him to lean back.
“Rap me a song, and I’ll get you a Klondike. Hell, I’ll get you a whole box.”
“Three.”
“Three boxes?”
“The variety packs. All different flavors.”
He rolled his lips to hide a smile. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Absolutely.”
This rich boy wouldn’t know a good rap song if it smacked him in his white ass. So she opted for something satirical with a little cheese and a lot of groove.
Closing her eyes, she loosened her shoulders, rocked her head, and hummed the opening rhythm of “Welcome to Chili’s” by Yung Gravy.
Only the intro was in Spanish, which she sang embarrassingly off-tune. But when she jumped into the rap, she was fire, popping the P’s, rolling the R’s, and hitting every word with a kick in her hips.
After a few lines, she leaped to her feet, catching the beat with her whole body. He rose in her periphery, and she turned away, focusing on the lyrics.
Until his masculine heat covered her back. Bold hands glided over her shoulders, down her arms, moving with her. He moved with her.
She shivered and rapped out the next verse. By the time she reached the chorus, his voice was in her ear, saying the words with her, nailing the beat perfectly.
Holy shit, he knew this song? Why was she surprised? It was popular in America. But still…
She turned, facing him without losing the tempo. But she was no longer dancing, her body restrained in the intensity of his stare. He faltered over some of the words but knew the rest. They didn’t bounce or sway, didn’t blink or break eye contact for a single second.
The moment held them in a peculiar other world where a woman and her rapist rapped in a trance.
When had he drifted closer? Was she leaning into him? No, they weren’t touching. But she felt him all over, against her skin, in her song, humming through her blood.