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 f**ked 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.

“No,” I say, reaching out a hand. This time it’s Paul who backs away, and for a crazy second I almost want to laugh at how messed up we are. Two completely shattered souls doing a weird approach-and-recoil dance around each other.

“Paul,” I say, grabbing his hand and waiting until he meets my eyes. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“Sure.” He keeps his face averted, as though to hide his scars from me.

Crap. This is why I shouldn’t let my hormones take hold of me. Every time I do, I do more damage than good.

“It’s me, okay?” I say, releasing his hand and smoothing my tangled hair. “I’m the mess, not you.”

He’s silent for several seconds, his gaze studying my face. I see the exact moment he realizes I’m telling the truth. The second he realizes that he’s not the only one with issues. That he’s not the only one in need of healing.

“Well,” he says, his voice gentle, almost teasing, “that is true. You are a mess. Your hair looks like a nest, and I’m pretty sure your tank top is on inside out.”

I give him an incredulous look, then glance down at my tank top. It looks fine to me, but it’s dark, and I didn’t have my hands all over it the way he did.

“You also don’t look great in red,” he says, getting really into it now as he gestures to my robe. “Stick with pink.”

I let out a horrified laugh. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, although I think I see a hint of a smile.

I lift my eyebrows. “Next time I decide to come save you from nightmare-land, I’ll be sure to wiggle into a cocktail dress and fix my hair.”

He ignores this. “You know what doesn’t look good on me?” he says as he stretches out on his side.

My eyes skim his bare torso. Clothes?

He winks, as though to say he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I blush.

“Blue balls. Blue balls don’t look good on me,” he responds.

I can’t help it. I laugh a little. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Things got, um . . .”

“Hot,” he finishes for me. “Things got hot as hell.”

I meet his eyes. “Yes. They did.”

“And we stopped because . . . ?”

“Paul—”

“Don’t,” he says on a groan. “I can already tell you’re not going to give me the real story about why you got scared, so just forget it.”

I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you my issues if you tell me what your dream is about.”

His smile fades. “Don’t. Don’t act like our secrets are the same thing, or a fair trade.”