Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(28)

Those damned tight yoga pants girls like to wear are tempting enough  when they're not actually doing yoga. But when her butt's in the air all  tight and cute?

Shit. By the time she contorts herself into something that's basically her grabbing her ankles, I'm fucking sweating.

Is there a yoga position that involves her beneath me, hands pinned  above her head, clothing optional? Because then I might rethink her yoga  offer. By the time she's finished, I'm hard, even though I've been  pretending to be adjusting the weights on one of the machines. She  carefully ignores me. I ignore her right back as I move to refill my  water bottle.

She tucks her yoga mat under her arm and we move toward the door together.

"So . . . ," she says, her voice easy and sweet. Too sweet. I instantly  go on guard as I hold the gym door open for her. Here it comes. Whatever  she's been working up to is finally coming to light.

"Any nightmares lately?" she asks.

I tense even further. "Nope."

That's a lie, and I can tell immediately that she knows it. Her lips  flatten a little in disappointment that I don't confide further, but  what the hell does she expect? That she just has to wiggle her butt  around and badger me into exercising and I'll suddenly go all "Dear  Diary" on her?

She recovers quickly. "Okay. Next question. Why'd you say that thing about Ethan when your dad was here?"         

     



 

I almost choke on my water. Talk about a subject change.

"I'm an ass," I say, glancing briefly at her profile.

"Finally, a true statement," she says as we get closer to the house.

She's probably waiting for an apology, but I'm not really in the mood.

Olivia doesn't ask anything more, but I'm still tense, certain that I'm  missing something. Two unrelated questions delivered back to back, but  with no push for a real answer? It's all very un-female-very un-Olivia.  What the hell is she up to this time?

Once inside the main house, she immediately starts up the stairs. Still  lost in thought, I start to follow her up, my eyes still sort of  checking out her ass, because, you know, yoga pants. That and more than  two years of celibacy. My dad knew exactly what he was doing, sending a  twentysomething in here for my "recovery."

Olivia turns around abruptly, and I'm caught staring, but I don't really  care. She's a step in front of me, so I'm looking up at her, and I lift  my eyebrows in question, bracing.

Here it comes. Her trump card.

"Hey, I just realized something," she says.

I roll my eyes. Sure you did. "Okay?"

Her eyes sparkle in triumph. "Your cane. You left it in the gym."

Her casual observation has me taking a full step backward on the stairs. She's right. What. The. Hell.

I stand there long after she's skipped up the steps. I'm unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

She's right. I walked the entire way, not only without my cane but without even realizing I didn't have my cane.

The thought should elate me, but I can't shake the dark sense of  foreboding. No matter where I look, my walls are crumbling, and this  damned girl keeps presenting me the most dangerous element of all.

Hope.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Olivia


On some level, I guess I must be bracing for his nightmares. My bedroom  is on the same floor as Paul's but not exactly next door, so I'm not  sure I'd hear his shouts through two closed doors if I wasn't listening  for them.

But I am listening for them.

I've heard them the past couple of nights too, but things have been so  weird between us that I knew my presence was the last thing that would  be of comfort to him.

Tonight, however, instinct leads me in a different direction. It leads me straight to Paul.

My feet are on the floor the second I hear his first cry. Knowing that  he sleeps almost naked, this time I grab my robe and pull it over my  boxers and tank top, knotting the belt as I move down the hall.

I hesitate outside his door, torn between wanting to allow him privacy  and give him comfort. God knows that the last time I went barging in  there in the middle of the night, it didn't exactly end well for my  pride.

I hear a low moan.

Then "Alex. Alex, no . . ."

Screw it. He needs me.

The sheets are down around his waist, and there's just enough light to make out that he's definitely shirtless. Oh boy.

I take a deep breath and move toward the bed. One arm is flung up over  his head, the other fisted at his side as his fingers flex against the  bedding.

Moving slowly, I reach for his hand, taking it in mine as I sit beside  the bed. I feel a little silly. The whole thing is very Florence  Nightingale, but the need to comfort is almost overwhelming.

He makes another moaning noise.

Do I wake him? I did that last time, and he flipped his shit. But  letting him stay in whatever hell his sleeping mind's taken him seems  cruel.

"Paul."

He twitches.

"Paul." Louder this time.

He stills, but his body's still rigid.

Gently I put a hand against his shoulder, trying to shut out the shock  waves that go through me at the contact of skin on skin. It's just a  shoulder, Olivia.

"Wake up," I say softly.

He's stopped crying out, but his breathing is harsh and ragged.

"Paul!" I shake him now.

His eyes fly open, and he lies perfectly still.

I stay still too, letting him get his bearings. I wait for the tension  to ease and his breathing to become more regular, but it's almost as  though the air becomes electric as he realizes my presence.

His eyes meet mine, and the mood goes from tense to intoxicating.

"This better still be part of my dream," he says, his voice raspy.

I shake my head, afraid that if I talk, I'll break the moment. That  he'll go ballistic like he did last time, drinking booze like it's going  out of style and doling out bruising kisses like they're punishments.

If he kisses me tonight, I don't want it to be about pushing me away. I want it to be about bringing me closer.

I don't know who moves first. One second I'm trying so hard not to look  at his mouth, working up the courage to ask him about his dream, and the  next second I'm beneath him.         

     



 

I should be shocked, but I'm not. I think I knew as soon as I left the  safety of my bedroom that I would somehow end up here, on Paul Langdon's  rumpled bed with him braced above me.

His weight on his left arm, he uses his right hand to trace a line from  my temple down around my ear. His finger continues its slow downward  movement, skimming across my collarbone. He pauses when he reaches the  edge of my robe.

"You shouldn't have come," he whispers, his eyes following the slow motion of his finger.

I swallow. "I heard you. You sounded . . ." Like you need me.

He shakes his head once, as though to tell both of us that he doesn't need anyone, but we both know better.

I lie there, silent, wondering whether I dare to ask outright. Ever  since that conversation with Lindy about how nobody had ever asked  actually asked him point blank about what happened overseas, I've known  that the time will come when I have to be the one to ask. He needs to  talk about it; he's just never been given the chance. Not really.

But I have to move slowly. It's been buried inside him for so long that  prying will only result in him pushing me away. Just like he has with  his father and anyone else who's ever cared about him.

Maybe now isn't the time.

Because tonight . . . tonight he doesn't look like he wants to talk. And  when he's staring at me with hot, burning eyes, I don't really want to  talk either.

Blue eyes ask the words that he won't voice out loud. Do you want me?

My answer is also wordless.

But I make sure I'm very, very clear about what I want.

I slip my hand around the back of his neck, relishing the crispness of his ruthlessly short haircut against my palm.

I tug his face downward. He's already in motion.

There's no teasing this time as his lips quickly nudge mine open, his  tongue sliding in to claim mine. I let out a tiny moan, wrapping both  arms around his neck as he rolls more firmly on top of me, pressing me  against the softness of the mattress.

Our mouths move frantically, restlessly, as we struggle to get closer.  One or both of us kicks the tangled sheet out of the way, and we both  groan as his hips settle between my thighs.

My robe is pointless now. It's barely on my shoulders and the  haphazardly tied knot is no match for the way our bodies seem determined  to get as close as possible. The robe falls open.

His hand finds my waist, caressing me slowly over the thin fabric of my  shirt, and it's harder to breathe. Paul shows a restraint I wouldn't  have expected, never touching where I need to be touched, only torturing  me with lingering strokes on my hip, my waist.

My own hands roam restlessly over his shoulders and the lines of his  back, loving the way his muscles bunch and release as he moves over me.

When his fingers finally slip beneath my shirt at the waist, my back  arches in want, and his hand slides around so his palm is against the  small of my back. His fingers are warm, and the simple touch feels  anything but tame.

"Jesus," he mutters, his mouth sliding down to my neck. "Why do you feel so good?"