by Kait Nolan
Ivy lifted her gaze to his and felt her own pulse trip. There was the intensity she’d come to crave and lust as well. But beneath all that she saw an unexpected vulnerability. As if he were willingly dropping those shields, letting her in.
She reached up to frame his face, murmuring his name as she kissed him again, trying to say without words what she hardly dared admit to herself.
I love you.
It was so, so easy to lose herself in him. She could only hope he felt the same.
He stripped off her bra, following the strap with his mouth as he drew it away, then bending to take one nipple into his mouth. Her knees buckled, but he was there, lifting her up until her legs could wrap around his waist, fitting the bulge of his erection against her center. Needing more pressure, more friction, she shimmied against him. His hands dug into her ass with something close to a growl. Then they tumbled onto the bed and the weight of him was gone as he tore his mouth away to strip off her underwear.
She started to make a complaint, a demand, but then he pressed that mouth to her core and she couldn’t do anything but gasp his name, burying her fingers in his hair as he drove her slowly, ruthlessly up. He battered her with waves of delicious sensation, bringing her closer and closer, until she was wrecked and aching and breathing his name like a prayer for deliverance. Only then did he push her over. She barely bit back a cry as the orgasm pulled her under like a riptide.
The bed dipped and creaked as he crawled into it, fully naked. But he didn’t cover her, didn’t settle himself between her thighs. Instead, he stretched out beside her, stroking a soft hand through her hair, down her arm, over the flare of her hip as she trembled with aftershocks.
“You’re so beautiful.”
When he looked at her like that, she felt it.
Rousing herself she rolled toward him, reaching out to touch and taste. He fell back, letting her explore the body she’d come to know so well in so short a time. She’d noted the scars before, the physical reminders of the life he’d led. She’d skipped over them, not wanting to draw undue attention. He hadn’t told her about any of them. But she’d done enough research that she understood the kind of wounds that had caused each one. They’d all long healed, some better than others. But they represented deeper wounds, wounds she wanted to combat with tenderness. So this time she paused to press a slow, lingering kiss over each of them, tracing her fingers, then her lips over the puckered flesh high on one shoulder where a bullet had ripped through.
Harrison stiffened, and Ivy hesitated, eyes flying to his face. He let out a long, controlled breath, his dark eyes watching her, saying nothing as she slowly lowered her head to press a lingering kiss to the old wound. He relaxed degree by slow degree as she continued. The slash where a knife had glanced off his ribs. The knot in his thigh where he’d been caught by some kind of shrapnel. With endless patience and tenderness, she made love to his warrior’s body, until he exhaled her name, reaching out for her. “Need you now.”
Her heart squeezed. To be needed by this man, who was so capable, so in control.
He dragged her up his body, his hands curling around her hips in blatant possession as he urged her to straddle him. She kept her gaze on his as she rolled on a condom and lined up their bodies, then she reached out to cradle his face as she took him in. His eyes went to slits, but they stayed locked on hers as he thrust up to meet her. Her moan of satisfaction was long and low, a counterpoint to his reverent curse. Bracing herself against his chest, she rode him, keeping a slow, torturous pace, wanting to draw out the pleasure as long as possible. And when they both began to crest, she took his mouth, swallowing his groan of release with her own before collapsing in a boneless heap.
Harrison recovered first, carefully pulling out and going to take care of necessities before coming back to bed and dragging her against his chest in a spoon. She snuggled in, enjoying the feel of his hand stroking lazy patterns on her belly and the solid presence of him at her back.
She wanted this. This comfort, this warmth, this connection. For longer than the next week. Longer than the next month. It was easy to spin a fantasy where this was their new normal. Where she wrote and he wrote, and they lived a perfect and lovely creative life. And that was probably nuts. How could this—just this—feel so much like a foundation so fast?
But there it was. Being with him just felt…right.
She couldn’t say any of that yet. It was too much, too fast. And they’d already been moving at warp speed. But she could ask for tonight.
“Will you stay?” she murmured.
He inhaled a slow breath and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “No.”
That had her eyes popping open, ripping her afterglow to tatters. “No?”
“You have work to do. If I stay, you’ll be up half the night and in no shape to write tomorrow.”
She rolled to face him. “But—”
“You know I’m right.” The curve of his lips was smug and cocky, but there was something else there she couldn’t read.
Maybe that was her imagination. The orgasms had fried her brain. He wasn’t wrong. “Sometimes I hate it when you’re practical.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
She probably would, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d miss him. Again. “When can I see you again?”
“If you got seventeen thousand words by not seeing me for two days, how much can you knock out if it’s longer?”
Ivy scowled. “That is not the kind of carrot on a stick I was hoping for, Harrison.”
He chuckled. “Maybe not. But I need to get some work done, too. I want to think about what you said, make some decisions about this book and my series. And I can’t do that if I’ve got the temptation of seeing you sooner than the end of the week.”
She was pouting. A full on lip-poking snit like she hadn’t had since she was a kid. She knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “The end of the week?”
Harrison kissed her again and rolled away to begin dressing. She couldn’t help but feel like it was a rejection. In the absence of his warmth, she pulled the covers over her breasts.
He tugged on his t-shirt. “Friday. Let’s plan for Friday. And get as much as we both can done, with the expectation of taking more than an evening’s break. We’ll spend the weekend together.”
The prospect of more time together was pretty appealing. And if she really dove deep, maybe, maybe she could be nearly finished. Or close enough she could send stuff to Marianne and buy a reprieve to focus on him again.
“Well, if that’s the best deal I’m gonna get, I suppose I’ll have to take it. But early Friday. Like, mid-afternoon.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She started to reach for her own clothes. “I’ll walk you down.”
Harrison put a hand on her shoulder, pressing her back to the bed. “No, I can see myself out. And I’d rather have the image of you naked and sated in my head to keep me warm on the way home.”
She arched a brow. “Is that the look on my face right now?”
The easy rumble of his laugh put her back at ease. “I’d say you’re somewhere between sated and pissed.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Hang on to that for Friday. You can have your wicked way with me as many times as you want.”
Scooping a hand through her tangled hair, she fixed him with a Look. “I’m holding you to that.”
He grinned. “I’m counting on it.” With another fast, hot kiss, he was gone.
Ivy fell back on the bed, one arm across her eyes. This wasn’t how she’d wanted the night to end, damn it. But he was probably right about the productivity. So she’d better just make the most of it and finish the damned book.
Chapter 13
Walking away from Ivy the other night had taken all Harrison’s self control. It had been harder than leaving her at the inn the first time, harder to go back to the echoing emptiness of the cabin, knowing he wasn’t likely to find what he’d ori
ginally come for. But it had still been the right thing for both of them in the moment. She needed to work. He needed to get his head on straight. Because he was having all kinds of way-too-serious, way-too-fast thoughts, and if he’d stayed, he wouldn’t have been able to resist sharing them and scaring her the fuck away.
The obvious answer had been to remove himself from temptation. And he’d meant what he’d told her. He needed to think about what she’d said over dinner.
“Maybe the answer lies in not trying to rewrite the past but in writing a different future. Maybe in order for you to leave the war behind, your hero does, too.”
Cooper Royce believed in the mission. Even when the mission was hopeless. He knew there was no end to the war, not in his lifetime. But still he fought because he believed it was the right thing to do. He had to have purpose because…Harrison had to have purpose. The point of the books had been to explore those million-and-one what-if scenarios and to let his men live on in some small way. He’d done that. So what purpose was left? For him? For Coop?
Harrison didn’t see himself just writing for the sake of writing. He enjoyed it. But he needed a stronger raison d’être to keep exploring the hell he’d been through. Then again, that was Ivy’s point. That maybe he—and Coop—needed to explore new frontiers. What would those be? Coop had far too strong a moral compass to walk away without a good reason. But he, like Harrison, had been feeling the strain of that endless, slogging fight, without making a difference.
You made a difference, at least for a few people.
He’d saved the dozen or so fan emails he’d received from struggling servicemen. Guys who’d left the military and struggled to adapt to civilian life. They’d all taken comfort in seeing their difficulties normalized, in reading his stories and recognizing themselves. Harrison didn’t think he deserved their praise. He’d written the books for himself. For his men. He hadn’t expected to touch anyone else.
The first one had made him weep. A former Marine, who’d lost both legs to a roadside bomb in the Middle East, had been on the verge of suicide when he’d fallen into the world of the Aegis Quadrant. He’d connected with Coop and seen something that made him willing to keep going, keep fighting to live another day. That email had been the thing that kept Harrison from going down the same path. There’d been others, each one a surprise, touching him at a soul-deep level. They’d somehow found the strength to keep going because Coop had. Because his indomitable spirit wouldn’t allow him to do anything else. Because, at the end of the day, no matter how much he’d lost, somehow, he still managed to hold on to the rarest commodity in the galaxy—hope.
But Harrison didn’t know how to keep selling that. Because, truth be told, he’d been losing it himself, fighting this battle with his demons. If there was nothing to life but that, what was the point in staying the course? How could he not feel like a fraud putting that message out there? He hadn’t been doing more than surviving. And he hadn’t even realized it until Ivy.
She’d woken him up, kickstarted the lump in his chest that had died three years ago. She made him want to write a different future for himself, one that was a real life, not the shadow he’d been living. One that included her.
The knock on the door had Harrison shooting to his feet, his heart leaping in his chest like a puppy with a brand new ball.
Ivy.
He’d made it halfway across the cabin before he forced himself to slow the fuck down. She didn’t have a car, so it probably wasn’t her. Unless she’d had somebody take her to get a new one so she could surprise him? Fueled by that idea, he crossed the last few feet to the door, fighting the mile-wide smile that wanted to take over his face.
The sight of Porter on the porch drained away his excitement. The reaction wasn’t fair to his friend, but Harrison wasn’t feeling particularly rational just now. He stepped back automatically. “I really hope you brought beer.”
“No.”
The single, terse word had Harrison shaking off thoughts of a surprise booty call and zeroing in on Porter as he stepped inside, moving fast. His jaw was set, his eyes grave.
Harrison tensed, waiting for the blow. “What happened?”
“Ty went to see Garrett Reeves’ widow.”
“Shit.” Harrison scooped a hand through his hair thinking about his own personal missions of visiting the families of the men who’d died under his command. They’d been worse than anything he’d seen in combat. “How bad is he?”
“Bad. Sebastian tracked him down, scraped him off a bar stool, and took him back home, but he could use some backup. Some of us who’ve been where he is.”
And now he understood why Porter had come. “Are we talking intervention or suicide watch?”
“Both.”
In all likelihood, this would involve peeling back the scab he’d worked so hard to build and exposing everything he’d been trying to get past. Reliving the trauma in a way even writing about it hadn’t forced him to do. Harrison didn’t relish any of it. But his brother-in-arms needed him. Nothing else mattered.
“I’ll pack my things.”
Somewhere during the last fifteen thousand words, Ivy’s eyelids got replaced by sandpaper. She didn’t give a damn. The book was finished. Or at least the first draft of it. There’d be revisions and line edits and galleys to proof before it ever made it to stores. And that was only if her editor actually went for it. But she had a finished book with a beginning, middle, and end. One she was actually pretty freaking proud of.
She should really email it directly to Marianne so she’d call off the hit man she’d probably hired by now. It was what Ivy had promised. And, really, she hadn’t slept properly in days and had consumed well past the legal limit of coffee. She needed someone’s balanced opinion to tell her if this book was really as good as she thought or if she was just flat crazy. But it wasn’t her agent’s opinion she craved. All she could think about was showing it to Harrison. This book had only been born because of him. She was dying to know what he thought of it. And, book aside, she just wanted to see him. She wanted that weekend of one-on-one time he’d promised as her reward.
Loading the book on a flash drive, Ivy snatched up her coat and headed for the stairs.
“Hey, Ivy.”
She whipped around and saw Pru’s daughter coming out of one of the rooms, a load of towels in her arms. “Hey, Ari.”
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“To see Harrison.”
“Dressed like that?” The sincere shock in the girl’s voice had Ivy pausing to look down.
She wore flannel pajama pants, a Tennessee Titans t-shirt with a coffee stain down the front, and bedroom slippers. It occurred to her she didn’t remember the last time she’d showered. “What day is it?”
Ari shook her head. “Oh honey.” Wrapping an arm around Ivy’s shoulders, the girl steered her back toward her room. “It’s Friday.”
“Friday? Oh, then he’s coming here.” She checked her watch. “Ohmigod. He’s due in like twenty minutes.”
“C’mon. In the shower. I’m bringing you some of our creams from the spa. It’ll help with those bags under your eyes.”
Recognizing her own judgment was compromised, Ivy let herself be herded. Back in her room, Ari whistled. “Wow.”
Ivy hadn’t actually noticed the mess before now. The bed was a snarl of covers. Dirty clothes trailed over half the furniture. A couple of trays loaded with more than a dozen empty coffee cups were lined up in the floor along one wall. Only the space around her laptop was anything resembling tidy.
Embarrassment began to set in. “I’m really sorry about this. I’m not normally this much of a slob, but the book was going so well, and I just didn’t notice. I’m done now, so I can pick up—”
“You finished the book?”
“The first draft anyway.”
“That’s awesome!” Ari gave her a celebratory squeeze. “Now, go get in the shower. I’ll deal with things out here. And if he gets h
ere before you’re ready, we’ll keep him busy.” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved Ivy into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.
Because it was easier than arguing, and because the euphoria associated with The End had faded enough for her to register that she looked more like she’d slept in a barn for a week than in a nice, cozy inn, Ivy stripped and climbed into the shower. As soon as the hot spray hit her knotted muscles, she groaned, suddenly aware of every ache she’d blocked out during the long hours of sitting. Bracing her hands against the shower wall, she dropped her head and let the water beat at her back. Which just had her thinking about the shower at the cabin and all the deliciously wicked things they’d done in it.
But it wasn’t the sex she’d missed—although that was amazing and she didn’t want to think about going back to battery-assisted orgasms—it was him. He fascinated her. Behind that tough, taciturn attitude was a man who took care, did the right thing with little thought to himself. As independent as she’d always been, Ivy had never imagined she could find that so appealing. But he made her feel rooted and cherished and generally amazing. And she wanted more. She wanted this to go on past the right now. Was he ready to hear that? Could he look past the right now and into the future? She was ready to find out.
By the time she’d soaped, shaved, shampooed, and otherwise made herself presentable, Ari—and possibly a team of house elves—had worked miracles on her room. The bed was made with fresh linens, the trays had been whisked away, and the laundry was piled in a corner. She’d even unearthed clean clothes from Ivy’s suitcase and laid them out on the chair. A little jar of face cream sat on the bedside table with a note propped on the side: Use me.
Ivy dabbed some on and dressed. Then, because sanity had returned, she emailed the draft to Marianne before walking out the door again. Ari was waiting in the hall.
Ivy stopped and held out her arms. “Am I presentable now?”