by Lauren Layne
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.
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 tu
rns 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.
“Cool,” I say.
Lindy purses her lips. “You’ll be fine. For food and stuff. I mean, it won’t be my cooking, but . . .”
Technically she’s talking to me, but I know from her tone she’s trying to reassure herself that she’s not abandoning me.
I give her a look. “Do you have any idea what they feed soldiers in Afghanistan? I’ll be fine.�
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“Olivia tells us she’s handy enough around the kitchen,” Lindy responds, as though she didn’t hear me. “I’m sure you can survive on scrambled eggs or grilled cheese, or whatever she has in her repertoire.”
Olivia.
Me and Olivia.
Alone. In the house.
Olivia in itty-bitty pajamas, with full breasts and long, toned legs.
Olivia with her don’t-fuck-with-me green eyes and lips that taste better than the most expensive Scotch on the market.
I won’t survive it.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
I keep one eye on the door as I eat, half expecting Olivia to come barging in with that Andrew Jackson book she’s about two pages into, insisting that we share a meal. But the door stays shut. The house stays quiet.
After lunch, I try to read, but I can’t concentrate. Instead, I head to the gym. Usually I hit the gym first thing in the morning, after my walk along the water and before my shower, but I didn’t have the energy this morning. Not after last night.
The gym is, admittedly, ridiculous. It’s huge by normal standards, but considering that only one person uses it, it’s downright absurd. Mick and Lindy are welcome to use it, but they’re not exactly fitness buffs. It’s just me.
I move steadily through my routine, relishing the familiar burn as I push my upper body to the limit. The truth is, from the waist up, I’m in better shape than I was at the peak of my military training, and that’s saying something. On some level, I guess I know that it has to do with overcompensating for the bad leg, but I don’t give a shit.
For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about my leg today, all too aware that it’s only going to get weaker and weaker. I keep it in usable shape by taking my daily walks. I’m not a complete idiot. I might not buy any of that physical therapy bullshit, but I know that unused limbs atrophy and all that. But I draw the line at any lower-body exercises in here, even for my good leg. It’s too much of a reminder of where I used to be, and where I’ll never be again. No squats. No lifts. No leg presses . . .
