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?”
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.