Hope.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Olivia

On some level, I guess I must be bracing for his nightmares. My bedroom is on the same floor as Paul’s but not exactly next door, so I’m not sure I’d hear his shouts through two closed doors if I wasn’t listening for them.

But I am listening for them.

I’ve heard them the past couple of nights too, but things have been so weird between us that I knew my presence was the last thing that would be of comfort to him.

Tonight, however, instinct leads me in a different direction. It leads me straight to Paul.

My feet are on the floor the second I hear his first cry. Knowing that he sleeps almost naked, this time I grab my robe and pull it over my boxers and tank top, knotting the belt as I move down the hall.

I hesitate outside his door, torn between wanting to allow him privacy and give him comfort. God knows that the last time I went barging in there in the middle of the night, it didn’t exactly end well for my pride.

I hear a low moan.

Then “Alex. Alex, no . . .”

Screw it. He needs me.

The sheets are down around his waist, and there’s just enough light to make out that he’s definitely shirtless. Oh boy.

I take a deep breath and move toward the bed. One arm is flung up over his head, the other fisted at his side as his fingers flex against the bedding.

Moving slowly, I reach for his hand, taking it in mine as I sit beside the bed. I feel a little silly. The whole thing is very Florence Nightingale, but the need to comfort is almost overwhelming.

He makes another moaning noise.

Do I wake him? I did that last time, and he flipped his shit. But letting him stay in whatever hell his sleeping mind’s taken him seems cruel.

“Paul.”

He twitches.

“Paul.” Louder this time.

He stills, but his body’s still rigid.

Gently I put a hand against his shoulder, trying to shut out the shock waves that go through me at the contact of skin on skin. It’s just a shoulder, Olivia.

“Wake up,” I say softly.

He’s stopped crying out, but his breathing is harsh and ragged.

“Paul!” I shake him now.

His eyes fly open, and he lies perfectly still.

I stay still too, letting him get his bearings. I wait for the tension to ease and his breathing to become more regular, but it’s almost as though the air becomes electric as he realizes my presence.

His eyes meet mine, and the mood goes from tense to intoxicating.

“This better still be part of my dream,” he says, his voice raspy.

I shake my head, afraid that if I talk, I’ll break the moment. That he’ll go ballistic like he did last time, drinking booze like it’s going out of style and doling out bruising kisses like they’re punishments.

If he kisses me tonight, I don’t want it to be about pushing me away. I want it to be about bringing me closer.

I don’t know who moves first. One second I’m trying so hard not to look at his mouth, working up the courage to ask him about his dream, and the next second I’m beneath him.

I should be shocked, but I’m not. I think I knew as soon as I left the safety of my bedroom that I would somehow end up here, on Paul Langdon’s rumpled bed with him braced above me.

His weight on his left arm, he uses his right hand to trace a line from my temple down around my ear. His finger continues its slow downward movement, skimming across my collarbone. He pauses when he reaches the edge of my robe.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he whispers, his eyes following the slow motion of his finger.

I swallow. “I heard you. You sounded . . .” Like you need me.

He shakes his head once, as though to tell both of us that he doesn’t need anyone, but we both know better.

I lie there, silent, wondering whether I dare to ask outright. Ever since that conversation with Lindy about how nobody had ever asked actually asked him point blank about what happened overseas, I’ve known that the time will come when I have to be the one to ask. He needs to talk about it; he’s just never been given the chance. Not really.

But I have to move slowly. It’s been buried inside him for so long that prying will only result in him pushing me away. Just like he has with his father and anyone else who’s ever cared about him.

Maybe now isn’t the time.

Because tonight . . . tonight he doesn’t look like he wants to talk. And when he’s staring at me with hot, burning eyes, I don’t really want to talk either.

Blue eyes ask the words that he won’t voice out loud. Do you want me?

My answer is also wordless.

But I make sure I’m very, very clear about what I want.

I slip my hand around the back of his neck, relishing the crispness of his ruthlessly short haircut against my palm.

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.