Ivy woke to warmth.
Not the thin, anxious warmth of a body braced for danger, but the deep, bone-settling warmth of safety. Of being held. The kind of warmth that came from another person's skin against yours, from breath moving in rhythm, from arms that had held you through the night and showed no signs of letting go.
She kept her eyes closed, savoring it. The weight of Boone's arm across her waist. The solid wall of his chest against her back. The way his breath stirred her hair with each exhale. The sheets smelled like him—pine and rain and something darker, something that was just Boone—and she buried her face deeper into the pillow, breathing it in.
Her body ached. A pleasant, thorough ache that reminded her of everything they'd done the night before. Three times. He'd made love to
