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. 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.