“Ava, can you not talk about sex right now?”
“Oh God, of course. I’m so sorry.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
She shifts, trying to find a comfortable place among the branches and hard soil. She shifts and every fucking time, she rubs against me.
“Ava, you need to stop moving,” I rasp out hoarsely.
She stills immediately. “Sorry,” she says quietly. She leans her head back against my chest and I hear her taking long, concentrated breaths as she tries to find peace in her mind. Enough so that she can fall asleep.
I concentrate on moving the blood from my dick into other areas of my body.
There’s one easy way to get Ava out of my mind, and that’s to think about the first time a girl saw my dick. She pointed and then screamed, stumbling up from the sofa where we’d been making out. Her father had burst down the stairs to find out what was wrong. We’d made up some story about seeing a mouse. She broke up with me the next day. Then there was the girl who thought she could give me a blow job, only she tried to go too fast and ended up puking all over me.
One by one I bring up all my teenage catastrophes until the throbbing in my cock subsides. I even pull out the worst of my memories—the one I keep locked away behind a concrete wall of shame and horror. The one where my attempt at sex ends in blood, pain, tears, and retribution.
My stomach churns as the screams of the girl and my mother mix together in an unholy chorus. You’re an animal. A curse. You should have died in the womb. You are my cross, my penance.
No, I’d never subject Ava to that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AVA
“I think I just saw a spider eat a bird,” I tell Rafe as I come back from the bushes after taking a pee. “Did I mention I hate the Amazon?”
He chuckles and hands me the water bottle. “I’m not a fan of it at the moment, either.”
I eye the water bottle. My mouth is dry, but the water isn’t super clear. It’s rainwater, which means it’s only as clean as whatever it fell on before landing in our bottle. Ugh. I try not to think about the things I’m ingesting as I swallow a mouthful.
“Drink more than that,” Rafe commands. “You need to stay hydrated.”
“You’re joking, right?” I peel a portion of my wet shirt away from my skin. “Every ounce of me is freaking hydrated at the moment because it won’t stop raining.”
“Drink it,” he says again, in a tone that brooks no argument.
Prick, I almost call him, but I choke back the word a moment later, conscious of our conversation last night. “Jerk,” I say instead, and he simply grins at me.
Rafe’s a bit sensitive about his big equipment. It’s a little surprising to me. Most guys with that big of a dick would probably relish the opportunity to whip it out and impress people. Rafe acts all scandalized at the thought of me even noticing it’s there.
And really, I’m good at tuning things out . . . but I’m not that good. It’s like a python lying in wait, and clearly visible through his wet pants no matter how much he adjusts himself or tugs his shirt down. I felt it against me last night while I tried to sleep.
Thing is, I’m probably exaggerating its size because his clothing is probably making things seem bigger than they are. Maybe that’s why I’m so fascinated and terrified at the same time. It’s like in horror movies, where they delay the reveal because the reality isn’t as scary as our imaginations.
Right now, my imagination is having Rafe walking around with a two-foot club between his legs. Which seems ridiculous, because—
“Here,” Rafe says, appearing out of the corner of my eye.
I jump a little, startled out of my thoughts. A hot blush steals over my cheeks as he holds a health bar out to me.
“Eat this,” he says.
Is that a health bar in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? I stifle my insane laughter and take the bar from him. “It’s from a dead guy,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “Do I have to?”
“It might be the only food we have for the next week.”
Well, that answers it. I guess I have to. I unwrap it and when Rafe makes no move to eat the second one himself, I snap it in half and offer him one portion. “I need you to stay strong, too, just in case someone needs to wrestle a gator.”
A ghost of a smile touches his face. “Alligators are shyer than you think.”
They weren’t the only ones. I take a bite of the bar and gag on the flavor. Peanut butter granola. Dry. Stale. Terrible. I eat every bite, though, and lick the crumbs off my filthy fingers. Rafe does the same, and then we wash it down with more rainwater.
“Breakfast of champions,” I say dryly. “Nummy.”
He brushes off his long fingers and I think for a hungry moment that he should have let me lick them clean. That’s the stomach talking, though. He’s probably touched all kinds of unsavory stuff out here in the jungle.