I ran my hand over the smooth, buttery suede. Tactile sensations—especially of fabric, leather, suede—were one of the pleasures in my job as a designer. It was sensual, the way I related to material. Fabric was something to be worshipped and revered.

Under my fingertips, I adored this fine grain, stroking with my fingertips. They trailed and tiptoed along, marveling at the velvet-like feel. Pressing harder, I admired the taut fabric, as if it were skin still attached to an untamed beast.

This was a perfect swatch, possibly the best I'd ever laid a hand on. I pressed my palm flat along the smooth surface and skimmed. This swath of suede was long, seemingly never-ending.

There was also a delicious chocolate smell in the air, mixed with the faint scent of crisp soap. I inhaled and smiled while running my hand over the hide. I extended my tongue out of my mouth, as if to taste the scent.

But it was time to leave. June was waiting for me in London. I was late. Damn it.

I went to grab my suitcase and grasped the handle. It was larger than I remembered. I squeezed the handle. It was unusually hard and I almost couldn't get my fingers around it. What kind of plastic was this? It felt more like wood. I ran my fingertips around the cylinder. Or possibly iron. Yes, iron. And yet, it was warm and seemingly covered in fabric. How odd.

And why wasn't my suitcase moving? I squeezed harder and pulled. And tugged. Yanked, even. Still, the bag didn't budge.

"What the...?" I muttered. This wasn't making sense. I yanked some more and grunted. My face now was seemingly pressed against the suede fabric.

What was going on here?

"Mmmm."

Mmmm? Huh? Why was my suitcase moaning? I tugged on the handle harder.

"Samantha, baby. You and your legs in those little shorts have made me rock-hard. If you don't stop, I'm going to finish way before I want to. Slow down, okay? We've got all night."

My eyes snapped open at the sound of a low male voice.

It took one horrified, semi-lucid second in the darkness to realize what was going on.

I was dreaming. Or had been. I inhaled and smelled man-soap. My face was pressed dangerously closed to Colin's armpit, and my legs, arms, and body were wrapped around him and clinging like a barnacle. His arm was around my back.

And the suitcase handle in my dream clearly was a subconscious metaphor for something else. Something very dangerous and downright inappropriate and horrifyingly real.

There, in my left hand, was the unthinkable.

My bare palm was separated from Colin by only a soft, flimsy fabric. My hand gripped him like a Burmese python would strangle a deer.

Simultaneously, I let go, shrieked, and sat up. "Oh my God, Colin! I am so sorry!"

"Mmm," he murmured, long and languid, much to my horror. The noise made something inside my belly hum and tingle. I heard sheets rustle and felt him writhe closer to me as if he were a big cat, stretching.

Then he moaned again and the tingles shot lower in my body.

"Mmm, I'm not sorry at all. And please don't shout like that. Come back here, pumpkin. I was quite enjoying right where you were."

In the pitch black, I felt Colin's hot hand on my waist, under my absurd tank top. I wriggled away.

"I was dreaming. God, I'm so embarrassed. It must have been the champagne. Or the stress. Or the pill I took earlier. I didn't mean to touch your ... I wasn't trying to touch your..." I couldn't get the word out because I was shaking so hard.

"My cock?" Colin's tone was not only helpful, but amused and hopeful.

I let out a loud moan, which probably sounded similar to that giant, hirsute wookie thing in Star Wars, and launched myself out of the bed in the darkness. Flinging the comforter off, my feet hit the cold tile floor and I lurched toward what I thought was the door.

My forehead obviously found some hard surface because it made a sickening crack when it made contact. I guessed it was the wall or the door.

"Ow! Crap! Ow."

This was turning into a slapstick farce. With outstretched hands, I fumbled for a light.

I heard the rustle of sheets, then the snap of a light switch. A wan light illuminated Colin's side of the bed.

"Samantha? Did you hurt yourself?"

I whirled toward his sensual voice, my palm pressed to the hot spot on my forehead. Colin was in bed, on his side, leaning on his elbow, the covers shucked off his muscular body. His eyes were half-lidded, sexy and sleepy. His dark hair was rumpled in an adorable way. He was shirtless, clad in a pair of charcoal-gray sweatpants and sporting two things.

A grin and a hard-on.

The latter was evident by the outline visible through his sweatpants, which hung low enough on his hips that I could see depths of his lower abdomen and the V of muscles leading downward.

My jaw dropped.

I watched his blue eyes trail from my mouth to my chest. I glanced down and noticed my nipples were hard under the thin fabric of my tank top. Mortified, I crossed my forearm over my chest.

"Oh my God," I groaned and flung open the bedroom door.

I stumbled into the hall, then into the living room. I'd molested a total stranger, one I knew virtually nothing about. What if he was married? I'd conveniently neglected to ask him that during our chat on the plane.

A sick feeling settled in my stomach as I blinked in the direction of the sunlight.

The sherbet-colored hue came through the balcony windows and made me squint. How long had I been in bed?

The clock on the stove said four-thirty. In my horrified fog, this puzzled me, then I remembered: it was the day of the summer solstice. It never got fully dark this time of year. Land of the midnight sun, was what the driver had called it on our way here from the airport.

I rubbed the growing lump on my forehead, which throbbed with a dull pain.

I've a feeling we're not in Florida anymore.

My heart pounding, I yanked open the sliding balcony door. The air was cool, not frigid, definitely more refreshing and crisp than I was used to in my humid Sunshine State. I inhaled deep, smelling pine trees and salty sea air, reminding me of summers with my family on Martha's Vineyard.

Since we were on the building's fifth floor, I could see the rooftops of several blocks of the city below and then the gray, churning ocean beyond. Reykjavik seemed to be a small city, compact and tidy, with colorful, small buildings dotting the landscape. Visually pleasing, at least from my vantage point, but the ocean was disturbing with its vast grayness and choppy whitecaps.

An orange sun hovered on the horizon, and I rubbed my upper arms, shivering. Everything was silent, stark, and still. I could practically hear the beating of my own heart, that's how quiet the city was.

I idly wondered if Colin would emerge from the bedroom to make fun of me. That's what my ex did, every time I acted uptight or weird. He'd mock me and say I was a prude. Or say that I was a nutjob and a basic bitch, especially for someone who'd grown up with such wealth and privilege.

Or maybe Colin would demand to know why I'd attacked him in his sleep. A part of me wanted him to demand, to take my face in his hands and kiss me deep and hard. There was something unsettlingly arousing about Colin, from his voice to his eyes to his hard body.

My skin tingled, recalling how close we'd been in bed. And yet, it was mortifying how I'd gravitated to him in my sleep and touched him without permission.

Why had I done that?

Goosebumps flared over my bare arms, and I folded them on the balcony rail. I watched as a flock of birds crossed the strangely illuminated, silvery-orange night sky. When I thought about all that had happened in the past twelve hours—the emergency plane landing, stranded because of a volcano, the oddity of a nighttime sun, being in bed with Colin—I lowered my forehead to my arms, carefully avoiding the angry lump.

Suddenly I felt as brittle as sugar glass.

It wasn't like me to cry. I'd remained steely all through my divorce. But now, with the unfamiliar all around me, the world seemed as if it was careening out of control.

____