The Bound Heart by Elsa Holland

hands moved up and down his back and she pressed her face into his shirt. It sent shivers through him and a roaring need to make sure she was looked after.
    “Mr. Edwards,” she whispered into the cloth, her breath seeping heat onto his chest. “Jamie.”
    Fuck, you’re not going to do anything. Nothing. His conscience needn’t have bothered; he was in full agreement. Warm her up and get her home.
    She shivered again, and then didn’t stop.
    As if once started, her body was going to shiver and shake to room temperature.
    Get her warm. Right, he could do that. He just needed to keep her out of his bed, out of his studio, and more importantly, get her out of his house as quickly as he could.
    “Jamie?”
    Her breasts were soft and warm against his chest. There were some wonderful rope ties that made every soft curve of a woman defined, arched her back, and presented her breasts.
    Olive curled her hands into his shirt as she pressed her face closer. The women he knew didn’t do that. Didn’t do genuine vulnerability. Didn’t look to him for real sanctuary.
    It made something move about in his chest.
    “Shhh.” He didn’t trust himself to speak, and she had the good sense not to say any more.
    He went up the two flights of stairs and stood her in front of the sofa where he had been dozing. A quick glance and he confirmed the fire could still be resurrected.
    “Sit.”
    She complied, her face down, her body still shaking. She was cold, but it was also because she was upset.
    He went into his bedroom across the landing, pulled the dark duvet from the bed, brought it back, and wrapped her in it.
    A perverse pleasure curled around him as he wound her up in his linens.
    His smell.
    His.
    She doesn’t belong with you, let her go.
    His jaw tightened. He was torn between two directions.
    Her hands grabbed the edges of the bed cover and tugged it closer, wrapping herself tighter.
    His head got lighter, and his mind raced ahead to thoughts and images that tightened through his body. Ideas he’d struggled to come up with all night flew into his mind of how he could progress the rope.
    Olive avoided his gaze.
    This was a crossroad of sorts. It would have taken her quite some time and no small amount of courage to come here, to see where he lived and to still knock on the door.
    Jamie walked over to the sideboard. Took two glasses and poured them both a drink.
    “This will help.” He placed hers on the small table next to the sofa as she shook and looked down.
    “Are you going to avoid looking at me?”
    “No.” she sounded indignant at the suggestion yet she still avoiding looking in his direction.
    Hell, he’d need some time to gather courage in her shoes.
    Jamie drank down the scotch in a few much-needed gulps, put down the glass, and then set about stoking the fire.
    Looking back, she had the glass in her hand, her face pulled into a sour grimace.
    “Drink it all. It will warm you faster than the cover.”
    Smoke wafted into the room and up to the ceiling before the kindling caught. He threw a couple of larger cuts into the flames. The activity gave him something to do. Some time to process her being here. Some time for her to find her next burst of courage.
    He had not imagined this possibility, and he had imagined what he thought were all of the possibilities.
    She’d surprised him, caught him off guard.
    He was agitated at the uncertainty, pleased at her gumption, annoyed at the intrusion and unexpected event, and wishful above his right to be.
    Hell, his hands were shaking as he fed the fire.
    “How long have you been outside?”
    She mumbled something into the quilt.
    “How long?” His voice was harsher than he intended.
    Olive cleared her throat and straightened her back. “I was outside when they left.”
    “They?”
    Oh.
    “That was hours ago, Olive. If you wanted to see me, why didn’t you come in then?”
    But he knew. He could feel it in her, a desolateness despite her brave posture.
    “You could