Chapter 7

Ivy woke confused, warm and toasty on one side, freezing on the other. Dragging herself fully to consciousness, she realized she was plastered against Harrison, whose long, muscular body was like a furnace. She'd have been perfectly content with that state of affairs, except he'd dragged all the covers to his side of the bed and her ass was hanging out, her yoga pants no match for the frigid air.

If the fire was still going, it had died down to a smolder that wasn't doing anything to warm them up here. Pale light streamed through the windows. It was probably close to dawn, but in her book, that meant it was too damned early to be awake. Especially when there'd be no coffee on autobrew if she went down to the kitchen.

Part of her wanted to go back to sleep for a couple of hours and get back to the fabulous dream she'd been having. The one where Harrison had decreed they'd make their own heat for the night. Since she'd apparently totally misread signals from the actual man last night, the only action she was gonna get was with the dream version, so she had a vested interest in hitting dreamland again to see he delivered. But a bigger part wanted to lie here and luxuriate in being close to him. It wasn't the skin-on-skin she craved, but she could have this and let it be enough. She just wanted to be warm enough to enjoy it.

Carefully disentangling herself, Ivy leaned over Harrison and tried to inch the comforter back to her side of the bed. It was wedged beneath his chin. Holding her breath, she reached across him, curling her fingers in the blanket.

Abruptly, the bed heaved as Harrison jacked up. Faster than she could squeak, he flipped her onto her back, his big body pinning hers, his massive hands gripping her wrists almost to the edge of bruising as he pressed her arms into the mattress. His breath sawed in and out, and she knew in an instant that he wasn't seeing her. His expression was too feral, too angry.

Her heart thundered against her ribs. She needed to snap him out of it before he acted out against whatever enemy he was seeing.

"Harrison." Her voice came out breathy, barely above a whisper because he'd knocked the wind out of her.

He didn't even blink at his name.

Ivy tried to suck in a breath, but his weight on her chest made it hard to draw in more than the shallowest of inhales. "Harrison, wake up."

Nothing.

She had no leverage, no means of combating his bigger bulk to free herself. Left with no other choice, she did the only thing she could think of.

She kissed him.

The second her lips met his, he froze. Pressing the moment's advantage, she poured herself into the kiss, willing him to snap out of it, to recognize her. A shudder rippled through him and he angled his mouth against hers and kissed her back.

Oh.

She'd expected retreat, not fevered response, but she was helpless to resist as he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue. It was her turn to shudder as she opened her mouth to him, tangling her tongue with his. The taste of him flooded her, dialing every last one of her brain cells to want. She needed to be closer, but he still had her pinned. Then the hands restraining her wrists released and the pressure on her chest disappeared. She whimpered at the loss, then he he shifted, settling between her legs, the the weight of him pressing his erection against her core, and the whimper turned into a moan.

"Oh God, yes."

She thrilled at the feel of him, wrapping one leg around his hips to pull him closer, swiveling her hips in response.

"Ivy." Hearing her name growled in that desperate, possessive tone had her lifting to him, grinding against him to assuage the ache between her thighs. But it wasn't enough. They were both wearing too many clothes. Apparently, deciding the same thing, Harrison released her hands, dragging his down to her waist to tunnel beneath the several layers she'd worn to bed. His callused fingers scraped up her torso, a delicious friction that woke her nerve endings and left her desperate for more. More skin, more heat. Just...more.

Touch me. Please, dear God, touch me before I burn to ash.

He inched his way higher, taking her mouth again in a searing kiss that should have incinerated all the clothes between them. Ivy clutched him tighter, trying to wrap around him. Then his hand found her breast.

Yes!

Threading her fingers into his hair, she arched into the touch, loving how the breadth of his palm covered her. But she wanted more. Wanted skin against skin. Her hands scrabbled at his t-shirt, trying to tug it up. Breaking the kiss, he yanked it over his head, tossing it to the side, before performing some kind of Houdini magic on the multiple layers she still wore, stripping them off in one smooth yank until she lay with her chest bare.

Harrison froze, the heat in his expression fading.

No. No. Don't stop.

Ivy reached for him, but he was already pulling back, yanking his hands from her body so fast, she almost felt a breeze. He rolled away, sitting up, his back to her. Adrift, confused, she couldn't quite move, still so turned on and unsatisfied, she could barely process what was happening. His ragged breath mirrored hers, and Ivy could see the lines of strain even in the gray light of dawn. But she didn't give in to the urge to touch him again. There was so much more distance between them than the couple of feet of bed. As she came down from the painful edge of arousal, she began to understand that he hadn't come fully back to himself when she kissed him. He hadn't come fully back until just now.

And the first thing he'd done was leap away from her as if she had leprosy.

The realization hollowed her out. A hot flush of humiliation swept over her, tightening her skin and making her stomach roil. None of it was enough to erase the imprint of his hands on her or the want still singing in her blood.

She grabbed a pillow to cover herself and waited to see what he'd say, braced herself for the apology and the declaration that this had been a mistake. Or maybe she was the one who should apologize. Apologize and hike out herself to escape this mortification.

In the end, Harrison said nothing. Shoving up from the bed, he grabbed his shirt, crossed to the narrow stairs and shimmied down them, never once making eye contact. Ivy could hear him moving around downstairs, putting on boots and going outside.

As the door shut, she let out a long, shuddering breath. That was not how she'd wanted that to go. Not that she'd expected her kiss to do anything but shock him out of whatever nightmare he'd been in.

Pulling her knees into her chest, she sat up. Maybe she should have realized sooner. But how could she? He'd wanted her, too. He wouldn't have kissed her like that, touched her like that, if he didn't. It had been her name he'd growled. Even if he hadn't been totally present, he'd still been seeing her. So why had he stopped? Maybe he thought he was taking advantage? If he'd bothered to ask... And why hadn't he asked? Why was his response to run away instead of to talk to her, ask her whether she was on the same page? She could've clarified that for him in a hurry, such that maybe at least one of them would've ended up satisfied this morning.

Nobody comes to a place like this if they want company.

Was he running? Hiding? Was there actually a difference?

Now, more than ever, she wanted to know the man inside the shell. And she wanted his kiss again.

* * *

Harrison sucked in lungfuls of searing, winter air, hoping it would clear his head, wishing it would wipe away the sight of those bruises. But the image of those livid splashes of color against Ivy's pale skin was burned into his brain. Were any of them from him?

He scrubbed bare hands over his head. He'd worried about his inconvenient hard-on, copping a feel, not attacking her in his sleep. He'd been behind enemy lines; someone had tried to garrote him. He'd reacted, took control, neutralized the threat. Then the dream had inexplicably shifted to Ivy, warm and willing against him. And that was so much better than where he'd been, he'd rolled with it, giving in to all the urges to touch and taste and claim her. She was wet heat, lithe muscle under soft skin.

And then he woke up - because ripping off a woman's top will wake a guy up - and found himself all but mauling her, invading her space, with no memory of any kind of consent.

Christ, what could he say to her? How could he possibly apologize for putting his hands on her? He stared down at the broad expanse of them, knowing what they were capable of, what they'd done. He was a big guy, with a lot of training. She'd never be able to stop him if he didn't allow it, and he'd been too much in his head, too much in the dream to know for sure if she'd fought him. What if she had and he didn't notice?

The idea of it made him sick. He'd never in his life raised his hand to a woman, never taken advantage of one. Shame had his body flushing hot, beading with sweat despite the frigid temperatures. She'd trusted him and this was how he'd repaid her?

What if she was afraid of him?

If she was, he couldn't expect her to stay here alone with him. But the path to the Jeep was several inches deep in snow, and the driveway was entirely hidden. Even if temperatures rose enough today to melt the accumulation, getting up the incline to the road was going to be a challenge, and not necessarily safe. But if Ivy wanted to go, he'd figure something out. It was the least he could do.

Gathering up firewood, he vowed to give her whatever kind of space she needed. He went back inside, bracing himself to face her, half expecting her to be barricaded in the bathroom or backed into a corner with his combat knife. He wouldn't blame her.

But she was in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and some kind of belted sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid that draped over one shoulder as she gathered ingredients for breakfast. She glanced over, but said nothing as he crossed to the fireplace and began to methodically arrange logs over the ashes of last night's fire.

He needed to get this out fast. Like ripping off a Band-aid. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Her easy words pained him. Nothing about this was fine, and he didn't deserve the benefit of her brushing it under the rug.

"It's not fine, Ivy. I should never have put my hands on you. I had no right to touch you, no right to force myself on you." He bowed his head, wishing he could shrink himself.

"It can hardly be called force when I'm the one who kissed you first."

Shock had his head whipping up and around to face her. "What?"

She crossed her arms. "You were sleeping hard. You're a cover hog, by the way. I was trying to get some of the blankets back, and I guess I surprised you. You reacted to whatever you thought was happening and pinned me. You weren't responding to your name, so I kissed you to try to snap you out of it."

Harrison rewound events in his head. Maybe she hadn't been fighting him. Her legs had been wrapped around his hips, not as if she'd been trying to throw him off, but as if she'd wanted to pull him closer. He tried to summon up her face in that moment he'd awakened, tried to remember if there'd been fear. But all he could remember was lust. She'd seemed to be into things, into him.

Realizing that what he'd taken as a shift in dream had been reality, he closed his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face. "And instead of sticking around and dealing with the situation directly, I freaked out and bolted." How must that have made her feel? "Jesus, Ivy, I'm so sorry. I've got no excuse." How could he admit he was this fucked-up half-man? "I - "

"Do I need to kiss you again to shut you up?"

Her irritated question stemmed the flow of words from his mouth. "What?"

She arched a brow. "Well, it worked the first time. Stop with the apologies and self-flagellation. You think you attacked me in your sleep, held me down, and molested me against my will. You didn't, and I'm not afraid of you. If anything, I'm the pervert for wrapping myself around you like kudzu when you weren't even awake."

"Honeysuckle."

"Huh?"

"You're honeysuckle, not kudzu, and definitely not a pervert." Relief that he wasn't a pervert either mingled with a regret for what might have been if he hadn't just reacted. "Whatever it was, I'm sorry I made it weird...er. Sorry I made it weirder."

"For the record, I liked kissing you. A lot. I liked having your hands on me. More than a lot. I wouldn't mind repeating both those things again."

His mouth had gone dry because it felt a helluva lot like she was giving him permission and his hands itched to pick back up where they'd left off. He shook his head, needing to put some distance between them so he didn't just leap over the couch to take her up on it. "Gotta be Stockholm Syndrome."

Ivy rolled her eyes. "It's not Stockholm Syndrome. It's forced cohabitation."

"It's what now?"

"Forced cohabitation is a well-loved fictional trope, in which two people are obligated to share living space, leading to all sorts of sexy shenanigans. I thought you were a reader."

"Maybe I need to get out of my comfort zone."

Her silver-green gaze was steady on his. "Maybe that's exactly what you need."

On that provocative pronouncement, she turned her back on him and retreated to the kitchen.