Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(14)

Skinner leans forward to get in Williams's face. "We all knew that  getting into it. This isn't some glorified World War I bullshit where we  didn't know what to expect."

Williams shoves at Skinner's shoulder, and I place an arm between them before the two hotheads make a shitty situation shittier.

"I'm allowed to say what I think," Williams grumbles, shaking both of us  off and staring down at his hands. "I'm allowed to say what we're all  thinking. There ain't no fucking curse that's going to come because I  spoke the truth."

Less than ten minutes later, we find out he's wrong.

Williams gets sent home in a box.         

     



 

So do the rest of them.

Suddenly time both speeds up and slows down, and a second later I'm on  the ground holding on to Alex, and he's trying to talk but the only  thing that comes out of his mouth is blood.

There's too much blood. Mine. His. It's all one bitter, metallic mess.

I try to understand what Alex is telling me. I try to understand his  dying wish, try to comprehend his last word, but there's too much blood.

There's always too much damned blood.

It's not the first time I've woken up in a pool of sweat.

But it's the first time since those early days in the hospital that someone's been there when I wake up.

I don't remember the nurses well, but I'm pretty sure none of them  looked like Olivia Middleton, kneeling on my bed, wearing only a tiny  white T-shirt and pink boxer shorts. What is it with her and pink?

And then I comprehend that she's here. In my bedroom.

I comprehend why she's here.

The dream. I was yelling, and she came to find out why.

"Get the fuck out," I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and  rolling out of bed on the other side before she can touch me. "Get the  fuck out!"

"You were screaming," she says calmly as she climbs off the bed and  turns to face me, the king-size bed separating her from my sweaty,  amped-up self.

"Of course I'm yelling. It's goddamned war."

It takes me a second to register my words, and I run my hands over my  face, trying to wake up. Trying to see anything but Alex dying.

"Get out," I say again.

"How often does this happen?"

I ignore her and move toward the sideboard, where I pour myself a glass of whatever's in the closest bottle.

"Water would be better," she says. "You're soaked with sweat; the alcohol will just make it worse."

"Yeah? Water would be better? Water will fix it all?" I ask snidely. "You don't know a fucking thing, Goldilocks."

"Nice," she snaps. "Really original. And I don't mind the occasional bit of profanity, but you're starting to get repetitive."

I toss back the whisky, relishing the burn. I pour another, wondering  how many it will take this time. How many drinks to numb the pain.

Cool, slim fingers wrap around my wrist. "Don't."

I jerk my hand away and push her back. Not hard, but enough that she stumbles a little.

A tiny, decent part of me starts to reach out to steady her. To  apologize. No, to beg for forgiveness, because Paul Langdon is not the  type who takes out his issues on women.

But she's too close, and her presence is so wrong, and instead of  apologizing, I turn my back to her and place my hands on my head, trying  to take deep breaths when really all I want is to slide into  nothingness and never come back.

"Paul."

"Don't," I snarl. "Just because I played nice and let you ramble on  about your childhood pet over pot roast doesn't mean you get to come in  here in your minuscule pajamas, trying to wipe my damp brow and comfort  me on shit you know nothing about."

"So then tell me about it," she says, her voice all calm reason, pissing me off even further. "Or tell someone."

Right. Never heard that advice before.

It's not the advice that pisses me off; it's the fact that for the first  time ever, I'm tempted. For the first time, I want to lay my head on  someone's shoulder and let them stroke my hair and tell me that it will  all be okay. I want to share the monsters inside me.

And that's not the worst of it. Creeping in around the pain of seeing  Alex die again, infiltrating the misery of that day, is another kind of  awareness: that I'm wearing nothing but boxers, and that Olivia is in  little more than underwear.

For anyone to be around me after one of the dreams is dangerous. But to  have her, with her smooth skin and the lingering scent of the perfume  she wears, invading my space when my blood is already pumping and I'm  mad and turned on and ready to punish someone-anyone, starting with  myself-well . . .

I turn around again to resume pouring my second drink, but she's moved  toward me again, plucking the glass from my hand. Her breasts are  against my biceps, and my edginess ratchets up another several notches.

"Leave," I say. My voice is raspy. For God's sake, leave now. I turn my head just slightly to watch her reaction.

She continues to watch me, her expression unreadable. "Or what? You physically throw me out?"

"It's a distinct possibility." The safer one.

"I'll leave when you promise to talk to someone about the dreams. What if you start easy? Write it down on a piece of paper."         

     



 

Yeah, that'll help. A fucking diary.

"I'm going to count to three," I say, grabbing the glass back out of her hand and reaching for the bottle. "One."

"Paul."

"Two," I say, never raising my voice. I toss back the shot, pouring another even as the one I just had still burns my throat.

She tries to grab for the bottle, but this time I'm prepared and move it out of reach. Except now we're standing chest to chest.

Her eyes flare briefly. Annoyance? Arousal?

"Three," I say slowly.

For a second, neither of us moves. Then I grab for her with the ruthless  quickness of a soldier and fist my hand into her silky blond hair  before she can step back.

Her eyes go wide, and for the first time since I've met her, she looks scared.

Good.

She should be.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Olivia


Just like the first time, the kiss is meant to punish.

But if the kiss the other day was about testing each other, this one is about domination.

Paul is winning. My mind is fully aware that I've invaded his space and  his privacy, and this tortured man thinks that his mouth on mine is  teaching me some sort of lesson.

And it's a lesson all right. A lesson in want. Because if my mind  registers that the kiss is savage, then my body is a glutton for it. The  feel of Paul's lips rubbing roughly against mine sets off a chain of  fireworks through me.

His fingers tighten in my hair as the other hand snakes around my waist,  jerking me toward him until we're chest to chest. The thin fabric of my  T-shirt does nothing to diminish the sensation of being against his  bare chest-which, by the way, is even more ripped than I expected. I  know it's dark, but I'm pretty sure we're talking eight-pack.

Even when Ethan and I were in the early,  just-discovering-each-other's-good-bits phase back in our teens, I've  never been what one might call lusty. Maybe sensual on a good day, when I  have the right lingerie and am having a good hair day. But it's never  been electric. I've never wanted to lose myself in another person.

Not just any other person. Paul. The one guy I absolutely, positively should not want. But I do.

The fingers in my hair tighten, tilting my head back as his lips move  from my mouth to my jaw, his teeth grazing there just before his mouth  moves down to my neck.

I shouldn't let him. I really shouldn't let him.

But instead of pushing him back the way my brain demands, I hear myself  moan as my fingers move helplessly on his shoulders. He sucks on the  sensitive flesh beneath my ear before pulling back just enough to stare  down at me.

"Tell me to let you go," he says.

I open my mouth to do just that, but no words come out. Not when we're  chest to chest, hip to hip, and the skin on my neck is still damp from  his kiss.

His eyebrows go up in smug realization. "No?" he asks, his voice husky as he bends down and nips my earlobe. "You like this?"

I gasp as his tongue finds my ear.

"What about this?" His hand moves from my waist to my breast, and the  thin fabric of my T-shirt does nothing to disguise my response.

He smiles against my neck, and I hate him then. But not as much as I hate myself, because I don't push him away.

I let him slide his warm hand under my shirt to palm my breast, hot skin  against hot skin. I let his other hand release my hair so that both  hands are on me, his thumbs moving over my nipples as I do little more  than pant.

And then, God help me, when his mouth returns to mine I kiss him back like I'm starving.

"You want me?" he asks against my mouth. "You want my hands on you?"

Little alarm bells are going off in the back of my head. There's no  warmth in his words. No kindness, or even desire. He's playing some sort  of cruel game in which my body is definitely the playing board. And I'm  a willing participant.

Paul's hand slides down my stomach, moving under my shorts before resting against the thin, damp fabric of my panties.