Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(8)

"Those should be fine," he says, his tone just as pleasant. "I don't need working legs to play board games."

I feel a stab of pity. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. That, and I need  to remember why I'm here. I'm supposed to help him mend so that I can  start to mend. So I can prove to myself that I'm not some sort of  monster.

I see my hand on his elbow before I realize I've moved, and I know he's  not expecting the touch, because even as he tenses up, I've pulled him  around to face me. Not all the way, but it's enough. I stifle my gasp,  but barely.         

     



 

I was warned that Paul Langdon was crippled. I came prepared for that.  But in all of our email conversations, Harry Langdon seems to have  forgotten to mention the ragged scars running along the right side of  his son's face.

Everything makes brutal sense now: why he's been hiding in the shadows, why the hostility and bitterness roll off him in waves.

He throws my arm off with a curse, and I expect him to turn away from me. Maybe even push me back.

Instead, he faces me fully, letting me see him head-on, and the way his  eyes betray nothing-not even wariness-almost breaks my heart. It's like I  can actually see him shut off his human side.

We stare at each other for several seconds, both of us barely  illuminated by the last bit of daylight coming in through the window.  His eyes are a fierce color of light blue that look almost gray,  especially when framed by thick lashes. His hair's too short to get a  good sense of its color, but it's somewhere between blond and brown.

Finally my eyes land on his scars. Now that I'm prepared for them,  they're not as bad as I originally thought. Three raised lines run down  the right side of his face, the shortest going from just below the outer  edge of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, as though it-whatever  it was-just missed taking out his eye. The second is longer, running  from the hair near his temple to the middle of his cheek. The last is  the longest and ugliest, intersecting the other two as it runs from the  corner of one eye and stopping just short of his lip. The straight lines  of his lips are unmarred, but his mouth may as well be disfigured too,  because I doubt he's used it to smile in a long, long time.

Finally, finally I let my eyes meet his, my stomach feeling a little  jerky when his gaze locks onto mine. He lifts his eyebrows as though to  say, Well? It's clear he's been through this scrutiny before and knows  what to expect.

I'm guessing most people try to pretend nothing's amiss. The kind ones  likely express pity-maybe even ask gentle questions under the idiotic  misconception that he'd want to talk about it with a complete stranger.  The cruel ones run.

I don't want to be part of either group. I want Paul Langdon to see me as different.

So I do the unthinkable. As in really, truly horrible, and yet somehow I sense it needs to be done.

Wordlessly I bend my head, fumbling again with my purse.

"Mace won't protect you," he says with a sneer.

I ignore him as I go about my original task and pull a twenty out of my wallet.

"What's this?" he asks, staring at the bill in my outstretched hand. I  feel an odd surge of victory at the confusion on his face. For just a  moment I have the upper hand.

I give a little rueful shake of my head. "A dollar in the hat's not  nearly enough. You should really think charging more for the first  glance. Twenty dollars, at least."

Silence stretches between us, even though his expression doesn't change.

My mouth goes dry as he studies me. It's a risky move, and I know it.  With someone else-anyone else-it would be unbearably cruel. And yet  somehow I suspect that this sort of in-your-face acknowledgment of his  scars is exactly what Paul Langdon craves.

Then with a strangled snarl he swipes at my hand, but neither one of us watches the bill flutter to the ground.

Whoops. So it's possible that I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't know that this is what he craves.

My pounding heart demands that I take a step back before I get  backhanded by the livid guy in front of me, but I keep still, standing  toe-to-toe with a beast of a man who looks as though he'd like nothing  more than to physically throw me out of his secluded lair.

"Get out," he says, mouth barely moving.

I lick my lips nervously, noting the way his eyes follow the motion of  my tongue, and I finally accept that in spite of myself-in spite of the  fear-I'm ridiculously attracted to him. Attracted in a fierce,  animalistic way that I've never felt ever.

I found Ethan attractive, of course. I mean, we dated for like half of  my life. And Michael . . . I don't want to think about Michael.

But nothing in my limited sexual experience compares to the magnetic pull this guy has on me.

I ignore his demand that I leave him alone.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask, as though he hasn't banished me from  the room. "A cup of soothing tea? A turkey sandwich? Maybe sunglasses to  protect yourself from all that happy sunshine you're exuding?"

His eyes flash again, this time in puzzlement. I give him a  fake-sympathetic smile and pat his arm. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie. Were  your bear growl and caveman antics supposed to send me running away? Did  you expect that I'd faint at your glower?"         

     



 

He opens his mouth, probably to bellow at me again, but I simply lay a  finger over his lips the way one would hush a petulant child, even  though this bold, tough-girl routine is as foreign to me as it is to  Paul.

But I'm apparently not the only one who can do the unexpected, because  instead of pushing me back or turning away, his fingers curl around my  wrist until he's grasping my arm hard enough to hurt. Without warning,  his tongue flicks over the tips of my fingers, and I gasp, trying to  snatch my hand back from the sweetly erotic stroke.

He's toying with me.

I know it's only manipulation, of course, but damned if I'm not turned  on by this sick game I'm playing with a totally messed-up guy I don't  even know.

Both of us are breathing too fast, and I feel a surge of panic.

It was never like this with Ethan. That was always comfortable and easy.  It wasn't like this with Michael, either. That was simply forbidden. It  was an escape, and a transgression I continue to pay for.

Paul's eyes continue to hold mine until very slowly he releases my hand  and pushes me back. "You're clearly incredibly stupid, in addition to  being bitchy, so let me be more clear. Get the fuck out of my home. I  don't want you here."

I shrug, taking a step toward him, and feel oddly gratified when he  takes a step back in response. "I'll leave," I say in a low voice, my  eyes never leaving his. Surprise flicks over his half-handsome,  half-contorted features, and I press on. "Yup, I'll leave."

He narrows his eyes "What's the catch? Double your pay?" he asks with a sneer.

"No. I'll leave. In three months, as agreed." I lean in just a little,  letting my eyes focus on his mouth. "Better get used to me."

I make it as far as the door before I realize my mistake. No, Paul makes me realize my mistake.

He grabs my wrist a second before pushing me back roughly. My shoulder  blades hit the door a half second before his mouth descends on  mine-hard. I let out a startled yelp, my nails digging into firm, broad  shoulders that feel like granite beneath my hands. His leg might be  damaged, but his upper body is most certainly not.

This kiss isn't about want, and it's definitely not about romance.

This kiss is about power. He's trying to scare me off.

I've never really thought of myself as having a temper, but something  about this guy has definitely set it off. Anger flares, and I sink my  teeth into his bottom lip. Not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely  hard enough to tell him to back off.

But instead of releasing me, he growls and moves closer, pinning me  against the door with his body as his tongue slips into my mouth.

Oh wow.

My fingers tighten again on his shoulders, and it's not to push him  away. It's like some dark, savage part of me is released by the taste of  him, and instead of wriggling away and slapping him, I do the  unthinkable. I kiss him back.

He freezes for a moment when my tongue shyly touches his, and he starts  to pull back, but my hands go to the back of his head and pull him to  me. When our lips meet again, it's an all-out battle as our tongues  tangle, each trying to take control. We're like two sex-starved animals  who need each other to survive.

It's ridiculous. It's wrong.

And I don't want it to stop.

It's only the vibration of Paul's phone that has us jerking back,  staring at each other in bewildered confusion. I raise a shaky hand to  my lips before I catch how vulnerable the gesture is, and instead lift  my chin and give him a defiant look.

His eyes rake over my body. "Get out."

I give him a condescending look. "Please. If I ran away from every tepid, boyish kiss, I'd never have made it past junior high."

I walk away from his enraged scowl, confident I've won this battle, but  at a very, very high cost. Because I have a serious lady boner for the  guy I'm supposed to work for.