by Lauren Layne
My mouth stops her rambling flow of words, a hard, desperate kiss, even as I wait for her to reject me, knowing I deserve rejection. But her arms wind around my neck and her tongue reaches sweetly for mine as she presses against me.
“I want you,” she whispers, pulling back just slightly.
My self-control snaps. I spin her around, pushing her against the door as my hands slide from her face down to her hands before I lift them above her head. She moans as I pin her to the door, and I kiss her again and again, until I forget whose breath is whose. Until I can’t stop myself from running my hands over her arms, her hips, and up along the sides of her torso, both of us groaning when my palms brush the sides of her breasts.
I want to lose myself in her.
Reaching for whatever tiny seed of good is still left inside me, I force myself to pull back and give her space and time to think about this. I look down at her flushed face and swollen mouth, both of us breathing hard.
“I need to know what you want from this,” I say gruffly. “I need to know where the line is.”
Olivia presses her lips together, and I brace myself for rejection. I almost see the wheels turning inside her head as she tries to figure out if I’m a mistake, like Michael, or if I’m worth the risk.
For the first time in so long, I want to be worth the risk.
Her fingers settle just above the waistband of my jeans, the pads of her fingers hot through the fabric of my shirt.
She leans forward and presses her lips to the hollow of my throat.
“I don’t want there to be any line,” she says, her breath warm against my skin. “Not tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Olivia
There’s nothing gentle about Paul’s touch, and I don’t want there to be. After months of fighting a fierce and uncontrollable need for this guy, I want to give in to him.
I want to give in to us.
Half a second after I give him the green light he’s kissing me again, his hands moving to my waist and lifting me slightly. My legs wind around his waist while he cups my hips, my ass, pulling us together until I feel him hard against me through our jeans.
His lips pull at mine, and if our kiss minutes before was steamy, this one could set us on fire. His military-short haircut is nothing to hold on to, so I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, my fingers digging into the soft skin there as I alternate between letting him plunder and doing my own fierce exploring.
Paul roughly uses his chin to push my face to the side as his lips move over my cheek and across my jaw, lingering on my earlobe, before he devours my neck. His lips and teeth torture me until my hips rub against his insistently, and it only takes a few more seconds before our position against the bedroom door doesn’t give either of us enough access.
In three steps, he spins us around, moves toward the bed, and tosses me onto my back. Some distant part of my brain registers that his movements, with their determined authority, are not the hampered actions of a man with an injured leg. This is a man who wants a woman. And this woman definitely wants him back.
For a moment he looks down at me as I stare back up at him, both of us breathing hard as we take in the sheer rightness of the moment. We move at the same time then, him reaching down as I sit up, arms outstretched.
I didn’t know it when I said it, but this is what I meant when I said that I’d been looking for something when I kissed Michael. I wanted that elusive yearning for another person. It’s here. I yearn for Paul. Only him.
My fingers go for the buttons of his shirt, tearing at them as his fingers move through my hair, tugging my head back so he can watch as I peel his shirt off, first one shoulder, than the other.
My eyes catch on a tattoo over his heart. I noticed the simple black letters before, when we slept together, but I’m bolder now, and lean forward to place my lips there.
“Semper fi?”
“Short for semper fidelis, ‘always faithful.’ It’s the Marine Corps motto.”
I swallow. The sentiment is somehow haunting, but perhaps that’s only because I know what being always faithful has cost him.
“Don’t,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips against my temple. “Don’t go wherever your head’s going.”
His lips take mine again, and I can’t think about anything about him and the way that he tastes deliciously, perfectly like Paul.
When his hands drift down to the hem of my shirt, I lift my arms over my head.
I’m not what you’d call well endowed. I’ve always had more angles than curves, and I’m kind of wishing I’d worn one of my push-up bras instead of the pale pink demi cup.
But then Paul looks down at me. And he makes me feel beautiful.
He slowly drags his fingertips over my rib cage as I sit before him, his eyes watching the movement of his hands. When his fingers reach the bottom of my bra, his eyes flick to mine, and his gaze is dark and smoky.
I pull his head down to mine at the same time his hands close over my breasts, and we both moan.
He moves over me as I scoot back on the bed, and then I’m beneath him, his body covering mine as his hands hold my head still for a deep, demanding kiss. When his hands slide beneath my back, I arch up, giving him access to the bra snap.
I let out a little laugh at how easily he undoes it. “Done this before?”
“Not in a long time,” he says with a smile. “A long time.”
My heart skips a beat as I register what he’s saying. He hasn’t been with anyone in years. Not gonna lie—I’m elated.
“Too bad for the ladies of Maine,” I say, my fingers going to his belt buckle. “But lucky for me.”
He groans as I slide a hand into his jeans, finding him hard through his boxers. “Olivia.” His head dips down, hovering above my nipple for a half second, his eyes moving to mine before he licks the tip of my breast.
I let out a small cry, one hand going to the back of his head and holding him to me as he makes me crazy with his mouth.
He pulls back only long enough to get rid of both of our jeans, until he’s left only in blue boxers and me in my bikini panties. Sitting back on his knees, he smiles down at me. “You wear pink lingerie. Of course.”
He slides a finger along the lace before hooking his fingers into the thin fabric and tugging them down my legs.
I’m naked before Paul Langdon, and nothing has ever felt so right.
He looks at me, his eyes worshiping, and I lie perfectly still, letting him.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice turning regretful. “You deserve someone equally beautiful.”
My heart clenches at the expression on his face and I sit up, kneeling in front of him. And then I show him what I don’t know how to say with words. I lean forward and very softly kiss a thin, ragged scar running from his left shoulder to the center of his chest.
He sucks in a breath. “Don’t.”
I ignore him, kissing my way up his neck, lingering along that perfect, harsh jawline before moving over to his right side.
He tenses as he realizes what I’m about to do. “Don’t.”
My hands find his before he can push me away, and gently my lips touch the first of the raised scars on his face. I follow suit with the other two scars, each touch of my lips letting him know that to me he is perfect.
Paul crushes his mouth to mine then, pushing me onto my back. His hand slides between my legs, finding me wet and wanting. He pulls back only long enough to remove his boxers before he comes back to me, sliding one long finger into me without warning.
“You need to be sure about this,” he says, his voice hoarse against my neck as he fingers me. “No regrets tomorrow.”
Regrets? Definitely the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I slide my hand down to his erection to show him so.
He swears before grabbing both of my wrists and pinning them above my head with one hand.
“I can’t go slow, Olivia. Not with you, not this first time. I ca
n’t promise gentle, either. Maybe next time,” he says with a little laugh.
My heart is a little stunned—and glad, beyond glad—to realize that he’s planning on a next time.
I squirm. “I don’t want gentle.”
I’ve barely whispered the sentence when he thrusts inside me, hard and fast. I gasp a little at the invasive pleasure of it.
He buries his face in my neck with a muttered curse, and the dark room is filled with the sound of our harsh breathing.
Then I wind my legs around his waist and he goes wild. One hand continues to hold my wrists as the other slides down my hip, under my butt. I helplessly twist my wrists above my head, wanting to touch him, but he holds me in a vise, leaving me completely at his mercy as he drives me up almost to the headboard.
“Jesus, Olivia.”
In response, I turn my head, scraping my teeth down the side of his neck, smiling wickedly as it spurs him to an even faster pace.
I’ve never been like this before, wanton and wild, but it’s like he’s tapped into another side of me that I didn’t know existed. Gone is the girl who thought she wanted sweet words and gentle kisses. I only want him.
“More,” I whisper. “Please.”
Paul groans in response, releasing my wrists so that his hands can go to my knees. He presses my legs apart wider apart before lifting his head slightly. Just enough to look down at me, his blue eyes burning a dark slate gray.
Then he rotates his hips once, twice, pressing against me in just the right way. I’m closer to coming than I realized, and the way his pace increases, I don’t think I’m alone on the precipice.
I realize then how much we’ve lost ourselves in the other person. Enough to get stupid.
“Paul.” With my last bit of sanity I claw frantically at his shoulder. “Condom.”
He freezes. “Shit. Shit.”
I try not to moan at the loss of him as he moves to get his jeans and digs through the pocket.
“Seriously?” I ask with a breathless little laugh as I hear the familiar sound of ripping foil. “You carry that around?”
He rolls on the condom and gives me an unapologetic grin. “Every day since the first night I fingered you in my bedroom. I thought it was wishful thinking, but I’m really glad that it’s not.”
Then he’s inside me again, his palms on the inside of my thighs as he keeps me open and deliciously exposed.
His hand moves to where we’re joined, his thumb finding my clit, moving in tiny, tight circles, and I swear to God, I go blind.
And then I explode with a loud cry I barely recognize as my own.
Seconds later, my hands are once more above my head. My breath still shuddering, I’m pinned to the bed in every possible way as he moves harder, faster, his eyes locking on mine until he squeezes them shut. His face is the picture of ecstasy as he comes inside me with a harsh gasp.
Afterward, the weight of him crushes me, but I welcome it, my hands moving possessively across his broad back, holding him to me as we both ride out the aftershocks.
Neither of us speaks, which is just as well. I don’t know what the hell we’d say.
Wow.
Oh my God.
Do it again.
Paul finally moves, brushing my shoulder with his lips before moving into the bathroom.
I’m cold without him, so I muster the energy to pull back the covers. I contemplate putting on pajamas, or at least underwear, but my body seems to be even less inclined to work than my brain, so instead I curl up naked beneath the sheets.
When he comes out of the bathroom, I instinctively tense, bracing for him to leave without a word, or worse, say something asshole-ish like thank you.
Instead he hesitates just outside the bathroom door. He looks . . . nervous. Not because of his nakedness, obviously, because he seems just fine letting it all hang out there (and may I just say wow on naked Paul Langdon).
And then it hits me. He doesn’t know if he’s invited to stay. And he’s too scared to ask.
l lift a corner of the covers in silent invitation.
He’s beside the bed in three steps, sliding under the covers and pulling me to him. His kiss is both sweet and urgent before he lies on his back and moves his arm to the side, making a nook for me. I happily settle in.
I have yet to speak. I’m still trying to figure out what happened to me. Trying to figure out what it is about this guy that brings out my shameless side.
He too is silent, and for a moment I think he’s asleep, but then he turns his head slightly, his lips on my hairline. “Are you any better at cuddling post-orgasm, by any chance?”
I smile against his chest. “Nope.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “One of these days I just might have to tie you up.”
“You mean it?” I say it in a coy, teasing way, but once my brain actually goes there, I have a full, almost unbearably erotic visual of me tied up beneath him as he licks all over my body. And then maybe him tied up beneath me, so I can do the exploring . . .
Paul lets out a little laugh. “Olivia Middleton, I do believe that you’re slightly wicked under that good-girl exterior.”
“Only with you,” I say, glad he can’t see my flaming cheeks as I make the admission.
He’s silent for several seconds, and when he speaks, I can tell he’s smiling. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Paul
I’m having déjà vu. The good kind, in which you wake up to a gorgeous woman in your bed.
Only this time is about a thousand times better than the last time Olivia slept with me. This time she’s naked. This time I spent all night making love to her. This time she’s in my bed not to keep my nightmares at bay but because after we thoroughly tangled her sheets for the third time, sometime around 3:00 a.m., she let me carry her to my bed, which is bigger.
Although the extra space does nothing to contain her nighttime sprawl. So not everything’s changed.
I can’t help the dopey smile on my face as I reach down and pull a matted strand of hair away from her cheek. She’s flopped on her stomach this time, one arm outstretched to the side, the other curled under her pillow. The sheet’s riding low on her body, and it would take only the slightest tug to expose her ass to the cool early morning air.
A gentleman would pull it back up again. A gentleman would tuck the covers around her chin with a note beside her telling her that there’s coffee ready.
I am not a gentleman.
I tug the sheet down just slightly and give her a smack on the butt. Just light enough to keep it playful, but with enough pep to have her eyes flying open.
“What the . . . are you serious?” she says groggily, reaching down and pulling the blankets up around her. I tug them right back down again.
“Get your gear on, Goldilocks.”
She grunts and sticks out a hand to pat mine. “You having another boot camp dream, sweetie?”
I can’t help it. I grin a little at the nickname, even though it’s cheesy as hell.
“It’s time for our run.” I reach over and turn on the light.
She rolls onto her back and flops both arms over her head. The position does interesting things to her bare chest, but I refuse to be distracted.
Which I deserve a medal for.
“You know you’ve been an ass these past two weeks, right?” she says, not looking at me. “Ignoring me altogether, locking me out of every room like a bratty six-year-old . . .”
I feel a twinge of guilt. Well-deserved guilt. “I know, I—”
She lifts an elbow and stares at me with one eye. “I’m not done. I was going to say that there was a silver lining to your bad behavior, in that there was none of this predawn running nonsense.”
I hook a finger into the pile of clothes next to me, dangling a sports bra in front of her face. “I got all of your stuff ready. Pink.”
The green eye narrows. “My pink shoes too?”
“God, n
o. I told you, you’ll injure yourself with the wrong shoes.”
“But they’re so cute,” she mutters, the elbow slipping back down to cover her eyes again.
Losing patience, I wrap one arm around her waist, jerking her toward the side of the bed, and then lifting her to her feet with both hands.
She glares at me. A morning sprite, my Olivia is not.
My Olivia.
I ignore the faint sound of warning bells at how right that thought feels.
I bend down to kiss her nose. “I want to show you something.”
Her eyes go dark and she reaches for me. “Oh yeah?”
I laugh and grab her wrists. “Not that something. We have to go outside.”
She opens her mouth to protest, and I squeeze her fingers, just a little urgently. “Please,” I say. “It’s important.”
Curiosity slowly replaces her sleepy resentment, and she reaches out a hand for the pile of running clothes I already retrieved from her room.
“This better be good, Langdon.”
It’s darker than ever outside, but it’s cold and clear and perfect.
She trots down the steps behind me as we walk toward the trail, the way we have dozens of times before. If she notices that I don’t have my cane, she doesn’t say anything. I’ve been going without it for weeks now, but she’s never seen me on one of our morning walk/runs without it.
“This better not be some weird new species of bug or a bird’s nest on the trail,” she mutters. “I can’t get excited about that stuff even on normal days, and on a morning when I’ve gotten two hours of sleep . . .”
I start to remind her that her lack of sleep is for a good reason. Several good reasons, I mentally amend as I remember just how creative we got last night. Instead, I place my hand over her mouth to stop her cranky rambling. “Shut it. Just hush and watch me for a sec.”
Slowly I remove my hand, gratified to see that she’s finally quiet.
And damn it . . . my heart is hammering. How did I not realize how hard this would be?
But I owe it to her. I owe it to myself.
