I try to tell him that he feels good too-more than good-but his mouth is on mine again, and he kisses me in long, drugging kisses until I can barely think, much less speak.
He moves his lower body, and my eyes fly open as I fully register what I've only been dimly aware of. Paul Langdon is hard and ready, and we are exactly two very thin layers away from crossing an earth-shattering line.
And I want to cross it. I really, really want to sleep with Paul, even though it's all kinds of screwed up given the fact that his father is paying me to be here in this house. I'm pretty sure that despite Paul's crass words to his father that afternoon, Harry Langdon does not, in fact, want me to screw his son.
But that's not why my hands find his shoulders and push. I push him back for his own good. Not mine. "Paul."
"Olivia," he whispers back, reverently, his lips skimming my cheekbone. My heart clenches. God, why do I have to be so fucked up?
"Paul." My voice is firmer, as are my hands on his shoulders. "We have to stop."
"Why?" His tongue flicks my collarbone and I nearly lose all resolve.
"You know why," I say.
He rotates his hips just slightly and we both groan. "Actually, for the life of me, I can't think of why I'd want to be anywhere else."
Because I'm not meant to be with anyone. Not like this. The last thing I want is to hurt this fragile soul the way I hurt Ethan. And unlike with Ethan, there will be no Stephanie to mend Paul's heart.
Paul lifts his head slightly, and the expression on his face veers so close to tender that I have to close my eyes to block it out.
But closing my eyes is a mistake too, because now the only thing I can see is Ethan's face when he walks into my room, the way he's done a million times in the past. In this vision, though, I'm not alone. This time Michael is with me. This time Ethan doesn't see the perfect girlfriend. He sees the cheating lover.
Oh God.
"Stop!" I dig my nails into Paul now. "Stop!"
He pulls back immediately. Concern flickers across his face, and I see him reach for me.
I jerk up into a sitting position and scoot away from him, and my heart sinks as I see him misinterpret my movement.
His smile evaporates, and in its place is a cynical sneer. He thinks I'm rejecting him.
"No," I say, reaching out a hand. This time it's Paul who backs away, and for a crazy second I almost want to laugh at how messed up we are. Two completely shattered souls doing a weird approach-and-recoil dance around each other.
"Paul," I say, grabbing his hand and waiting until he meets my eyes. "Whatever it is you're thinking, you're wrong."
"Sure." He keeps his face averted, as though to hide his scars from me.
Crap. This is why I shouldn't let my hormones take hold of me. Every time I do, I do more damage than good.
"It's me, okay?" I say, releasing his hand and smoothing my tangled hair. "I'm the mess, not you."
He's silent for several seconds, his gaze studying my face. I see the exact moment he realizes I'm telling the truth. The second he realizes that he's not the only one with issues. That he's not the only one in need of healing.
"Well," he says, his voice gentle, almost teasing, "that is true. You are a mess. Your hair looks like a nest, and I'm pretty sure your tank top is on inside out."
I give him an incredulous look, then glance down at my tank top. It looks fine to me, but it's dark, and I didn't have my hands all over it the way he did.
"You also don't look great in red," he says, getting really into it now as he gestures to my robe. "Stick with pink."
I let out a horrified laugh. "Seriously?"
He shrugs, although I think I see a hint of a smile.
I lift my eyebrows. "Next time I decide to come save you from nightmare-land, I'll be sure to wiggle into a cocktail dress and fix my hair."
He ignores this. "You know what doesn't look good on me?" he says as he stretches out on his side.
My eyes skim his bare torso. Clothes?
He winks, as though to say he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I blush.
"Blue balls. Blue balls don't look good on me," he responds.
I can't help it. I laugh a little. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Things got, um . . ."
"Hot," he finishes for me. "Things got hot as hell."
I meet his eyes. "Yes. They did."
"And we stopped because . . . ?"
"Paul-"
"Don't," he says on a groan. "I can already tell you're not going to give me the real story about why you got scared, so just forget it."
I take a deep breath. "I'll tell you my issues if you tell me what your dream is about."
His smile fades. "Don't. Don't act like our secrets are the same thing, or a fair trade."
I press past this. "Have you ever told anyone?"
In answer he flops back onto his back, and I sigh, recognizing the signs of him shutting down.
But he surprises me. "No." His voice is quiet. "I've never told anyone."
"You'll feel better if you talk about it."
He turns his head toward me. "So I'll feel better if I talk about my bullshit, but you get to keep your issues locked in the vault?"
I open my mouth to argue, but he has a point. "My issues are fresher," I respond finally.
He snorts. "Well, take it from someone whose issues have been left on the shelf too long. The longer they rot, the more important it becomes that you keep the lid on."
I feel a little burst of gratification. He's not exactly opening up, but neither is he tensing up when I get close to touchy topics. And although I'm desperate to keep pressing, I figure it's better to quit while I'm ahead. I need to draw him out slowly.
So instead of going all shrink-mode on him like I want to, I give him a little smile and start to move toward the edge of the bed. I need to get out of this room before we make a mistake.
His hand touches my knee and I freeze, because the touch is gentle and pleading.
I raise my eyebrows questioningly, but he looks away, pulling back before he can say whatever he's trying to. I take a guess.
"You don't want to go back to sleep?" I ask, knowing that asking a twenty-four-year-old guy if he's afraid of bad dreams is likely to earn me the middle finger.
Paul doesn't answer. Not with words. But when his eyes meet mine, I know. He doesn't want to be alone. I let him have his manly pride, though, and don't force him to say it out loud. Neither can I leave him. Not now. I move again, reaching toward the foot of the bed to grab for the sheets, which are all tangled at his feet.
"First things first." I keep my voice matter-of-fact. "You should know that I'm a terrible cuddler."
"There's no such thing," he says.
"No, there is. I thrash and stuff," I say, tapping my fingers against his knee to get him to lift his leg so I can pull the blanket all the way up.
He tenses a little, and I belatedly realize what I just did. I touched his leg-his bad leg. I was so busy trying not to stare at his junk that I completely forgot.
My eyes fly to his face, but his expression is unreadable. Typical. But at least he's not flipping out.
I snatch my hand back, but I let my eyes return to his leg. I don't know what I was expecting. Bones sticking out every which way and covered with alien skin, or something.
But it just looks . . . different. Like the skin is a different texture on one side of his thigh. Skin graft, maybe?
"You should have seen the other guy," he says softly.
I let out a little laugh, even though it's not funny. He's talking about it. And he's letting me look.
As a reward for his baby steps, I change the subject again. "Listen, soldier, if you start wailing in your sleep again, this cuddle deal is off the table."
"I don't remember making a cuddle deal."
"You did," I say confidently. "With your eyes."
"A girlish delusion, clearly," he says. But he lifts his arm to make room for me anyway, and I hunker down before he can change his mind.
As far as crossing the line goes, cuddling's almost as bad as making out with him, but there's nothing in the world that could make me leave this bed.
I hesitate only a second before resting my head against his shoulder. I shouldn't touch him. After what happened-almost happened-I really shouldn't touch him. But I can't seem to stop my hand from skimming over his shoulder and then along to his biceps. I start to trace my fingers down his forearm to his wrist when he jerks and tenses.
I glance up at him in surprise, but he's still staring straight up at the ceiling. He lets out a long, intentional breath, and I realize he's trying to force himself to relax. To not freak out about . . .
My eyes move to where my hand rests on his lower arm.
The marks aren't obvious. Nothing like the scars on his face. But something happened to his wrists. Something inhuman and brutal.
I swallow. "Do you want to talk?" I ask.
His fingers graze over my upper arm. Not sexually. Just . . . nicely.