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 br**sts, 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 can’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.