Unshackle (Deliver #7) - Pam Godwin Page 0,40
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.
When had they stopped singing?
The canopy rustled above them. She couldn’t think.
A locust buzzed in the grass. She couldn’t look away.
His fingers floated through her hair. She couldn’t breathe.
He touched her face, the bruised skin around her eyes, her cheek, her lips.
Push him away.
Her hands landed on his bare chest. Solid bedrock encased in hot skin. Beautifully built. Flawless definition. Carved and sanded with divine precision.
His palm cupped her jaw. So gentle. So goddamn nice.
Get rid of him.
Her head tipped, slanting into the touch as if