Oh, he loves Hypotheses, all right. His eyes flare just a little. “Fine,” he says, in the tone of a man humoring a child. “Let’s hear it then.” He raises a brow, waiting. “Convince me.”
I lean in and whisper in his ear, smearing the oil over my thin shirt. “The dampeners skew the results of your research,” I say.
That gets his attention. “My results are airtight.”
“Your dampeners remove the most important tool you have to be a great scientist and lover: your guts.”
“You sound infirm,” he says, shaking his head.
“You will not innovate without passion,” I say, folding my arms. My shirt is now an oily mess.
He looks horrified. “Okay, yes, all the insipid radio dramas will tell you that you have tofeelto be truly in love, but why do you posit I can’t be an objective scientist with the dampeners?”
“You think the dampeners make you more…efficient,” I go on, “more focused. But Ben, science isn’t efficient.” I search his face. “Innovation and love are both messy, driven by instincts—by feeling.”
His eyes narrow just a fraction. “And you think dampeners keep me from that?”
“Not just from that,” I say. “They keep you fromyou. From your questions, the ones that wake you up at two in the morning because you can’t let them go.” I let the words settle. “There is so much passion in genius, Ben, and I think…you want to feel that. I think you need to.”
“Passion?” he repeats, half mocking. “Passion’s for lovers and radio dramas, not for empirical analysis.”
“Right, I expected as much,” I say, leaning in again. “Take the dampeners off, just a little, and watch your work improve.” I let the words hang, waiting. “That is my hypothesis of dampeners.”
“And if taking the dampeners off doesn’t work to improve my work or win her?” he asks.
“If all else fails, then do something unexpected.”
And then I kiss him.
It’s supposed to be quick, just a light press of lips to make a point, but the moment our mouths touch, something happens. A shift in the air, a recalibration of gravity.
Ben doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, but I feel the way his body reacts. The blue dots in his pupils flicker. His fingers flex at my sides and squeeze my hips.
I pull back, ready to make some flippant remark about spontaneity, but?—
He doesn’t let me go.
“You should take care. They made us machines because first we were beasts.” His growl is so low, it sounds like he’s talking inside my chest.
One of his hands cups the back of my head; the other presses firmly against my lower back, holding me there, chest to chest, breath to breath.
Then, finally, barely above a whisper, he says, “A glitch.”
My pulse thuds hard against my ribs. “What?”
His grip tightens just a fraction. “I can’t seem to let you go.”
He’s so close, still smelling of that clean oil and sharp citrus that makes my head swim. The raw physicality of it catches me off guard. Whatever this is, it’s entirely—alarmingly—unscripted. His gaze lingers, following the stain on my shirt. The oil has seeped through, turning the thin fabric translucent, clinging to my skin. His gaze drags lower, to where the cool air has pulled my nipples into stiff, aching peaks, barely concealed.
Something inside me pulls tight.
His body betrays him as he hardens against my stomach, thick and undeniable, pressing into the space between us.
I swallow hard.But the dampeners… I want to ask.
His hands snap open sheepishly, and I step back. I feel a sudden, inexplicable need to occupy my body. I busy myself tidying the terrace like a bot, folding the towels more times than necessary. From the corner of my eye, I see him slip a sapphire robe over his shoulders. He moves with a casual elegance that makes it hard to focus on anything else, and for a moment, I’m too distracted by the front bulge of it all to remember that all of this is for the love of another woman.
Chapter12
