His breathing is harsher now, and I know he's testing his own limits.
My fingernails scrape lightly at his wrist, reason demanding that I push him away. His fingers move, brushing against me, and my head falls back helplessly.
Paul's breath is hot and fast against my neck as one finger slides its way under the elastic, finding me hot and slippery.
"Christ," he mutters.
Another finger joins the first, and I'm still gripping his wrist, but this time with no intention of pushing him away. His fingers toy with me, experimentally at first, and then more confidently as he figures out what makes me squirm and gasp.
My orgasm is upon me embarrassingly fast, and he seems to know it, because in those last seconds he pulls me close with one arm, the pads of his fingers moving faster and faster against me until a hoarse cry rips from my throat as I shatter.
As I ride through the aftershocks, I start to lean into him, just until my legs stop shaking and I catch my breath. But he pulls his hand out of my shorts and steps back before I have the chance. I still can't think straight, so it takes me a second to register what's happening.
Paul wipes his hand-that hand-against his boxers with a sneer. "Well, that was easy. Makes one wonder who's working for whom."
There's a dull roar in my ears. Oh my God. This isn't happening. I am not being flat out rejected by the guy I just let finger me. A guy I work for.
He reaches for his glass, taking a long swallow of his drink as though nothing happened.
The realization feels like ice water in my face: he doesn't want me. He never wanted me. I let myself think this was a midnight liaison driven by animal attraction, when really he was making a point in the cruelest, coldest way possible.
"You're a monster," I whisper.
He turns to face me, his expression betraying nothing. "You expected anything else?"
"Why?" I ask, trying to keep whatever pride I have left, lifting my chin and meeting his eyes.
Paul shrugs, and his indifference is worse than the sneer. "I was bored. You were begging for it."
I close my eyes. The truth of his statement hurts worst of all. I did beg for it. I absolutely should have pushed him away, and I crossed more lines than I care to think about at the moment.
But I'm not the only guilty party. I open my eyes again, searching his face for even a tiny bit of remorse. Nothing. Maybe he really is as dead inside as he looks, as he wants everyone to believe. Maybe I'm doing little more than babysitting a statue with a sadistic streak.
And yet . . . who was that guy who was so obsessed with my running technique that he forgot he was supposed to be injured? Or the guy who shared his billion-dollar whisky with me while we read by the fire? Or the one I coaxed into conversation over dinner?
There has to be a human being left under the cold savage. I just don't know how to reach him . . . yet.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, not caring that it betrays my nerves, and take a step backward, then another, my eyes never leaving his. Letting him know that I'm not running away, that I'm not leaving his house just because he played my body like a fiddle and then mocked me for it.
For the first time in my life, I feel myself acting entirely on instinct, and although it feels an awful lot like playing with fire, it also feels oddly right.
"You know where to find me if you want to talk," I say gently. "About the dream."
His eyes narrow at the change in topic, and I feel a little surge of victory creeping in on top of my shame. I'm right. That whole terrible kiss and everything that followed wasn't just about humiliating me. It was a red herring. I got too close to his secrets by waking him up from his dream, and he used sex to distract me.
It won't happen again.
I head toward the door, turning my head just slightly to deliver my parting question. "Who's Alex?"
He makes a growling noise, ducking his head as he braces both hands on the dresser, his breaths coming in shallow gulps.
I pause for a second, giving him a chance to respond to my offer to talk, even though I know he won't. I'm right, of course. He says nothing.
I slip out of the room, closing the door quietly before leading forward and resting my forehead against the wood for just a second, trying to catch my breath. My thoughts.
What the hell am I doing?
I can't actually be helping the guy. I don't even know if it's possible to help someone who doesn't want to be fixed. But that's not what really has me all wound up and on edge.
It's that deep down, I know that the reason I came here in the first place was the naive assumption that helping Paul would be helping me. That I could somehow fix whatever is broken and rotten inside me.
I want to fix the part of me that cheated on the boy I loved. I want to fix the part of me that could betray someone I cared about more than anyone. But . . .
And what if Paul has the right idea? He might be a callous son of a bitch, but at least he's honest with himself about being a barbarian. At least he's not pretending that he can ever be anything else. So what if he's right and we aren't fixable?
I slowly make my way back down the hall to my own room and curl up on my side.
Sleep doesn't come.
Not for a long time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Paul
Olivia doesn't go for a run the next morning.
Did she leave?
No. Not yet. I would have heard Mick bring the car around, and I would have heard the suitcases being clumped down the stairs.
But she might be upstairs packing.
The thought fills me with . . . what, exactly?
I should be satisfied.
Getting rid of her is exactly what I was after last night when I kissed her with all the finesse of a werewolf. I meant to be a little rough with the kiss, though I'd never intended the kiss to be that aggressive. But then I put my hands on her, and my response was almost violent. I went at her like a fucking starving dog.
Which would have been fine if she'd pushed me away, scraped at me, or even slapped me, because I definitely was asking for that. But she responded. She responded like she was made for me.
What I did is beyond heinous.
All I wanted was to take her in my arms, lay her on the bed, and just be with another human being, and for that reason, more than any other, I was cruel. Cruel even by my standards, and I didn't even realize I had those anymore. A part of me is racked with guilt. The other knows that it's better for her to find out now that I'm a monster.
But something else has been bothering me since last night.
In those first moments after I pulled back, deliberately degrading her, she was shocked and angry, as she was supposed to be. But in the moments that followed, there was something else that pissed me off: resignation. In a matter of seconds, the angry, betrayed light went out of her eyes, and she just stood there, accepting what I'd just done as though it were her due.
I may not know Olivia Middleton well-okay, I don't know her at all-but I do know that she deserves more than what she got from me last night.
There's a soft knock at the door, and I hate that my head shoots up in expectation and my heart seems to beat just a little bit faster.
Then I remember: Olivia doesn't knock. It's Lindy.
"You look tired," Lindy murmurs as she sets the tray with my lunch on my desk.
"Yeah." I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. "Rough night."
She nods. "Same with Olivia. She was up early, but I sent her right back to bed. Girl looked like she hadn't slept a wink."
I catch myself before I can beg for more detail. Did she tell Lindy what happened? I scan the housekeeper's familiar features carefully, looking for any clue, but Lindy's calm and expressionless, as always. I like that about her. She's one of the few people who've figured out how to be there for me without acting like a goddamned battering ram. Are you listening, Dad? And all you doctors and shrinks with your bullshit about how PTSD can be cured?
But just for the briefest second, I wish she'd ask. I wish someone would ask what happened. How I am. Something other than the vapid Need anything?
Hell yes, I need something. I need someone to care.
"You're not drinking today," Lindy says, eying my coffee mug.
I raise my eyebrows as if to say, And?
She shrugs in response. "I asked your father for a weekend off. It won't be for a couple of weeks yet, but I'm giving you a heads-up now."
"Fine," I mutter, relieved that she dropped the topic of my drinking. I've been telling myself all morning I'm laying off the whisky because of my headache. Not because a certain green-eyed girl has made me all too aware that I might be using alcohol for all the wrong reasons.
"Mick is taking some time off too," Lindy says, heading toward the door. "We're headed to Portland for a little getaway. Your father offered to get us a hotel. Thought we'd go to the movies. Have someone cook for me for a change."
Wait, what? My father is giving his employees free vacations now? And the two of them are taking it together? I try to think back to the times I've seen Mick and Lindy together. Not often, but then I make a point of ignoring everyone as often as possible. Are they . . . you know? Good for them if they are. At least someone should be getting some.