Cindy Dees - Her Mission With A Seal

Something powerful grabbed her in a viselike grip.

No! They said a shark wouldn’t attack through the bag! But she was going to die torn in two by one. She fought then, kicking as best she could through the heavy material.

A spate of swearing erupted in her ear, low and irritated. Gods shouldn’t take themselves in vain, should they? Confused, she registered that no saw-sharp teeth penetrated her flesh. Not a shark, then.

The grip turned into mostly a heavy weight immobilizing her, still suffocating her, though. Death by drowning or death by asphyxiation? What a choice. Something primitive within her refused to give up or give in, and she flailed her arms and legs, stubbornly fighting not to be shark bait without at least giving the damned fish a bloody nose before it ate her.

“Oww! Jeez, that’s some right hook you’ve got,” the male voice complained.

Had they found her? Had the SEAL team and its smoking-hot leader, the same team she’d insanely agreed to help, come back for her, after all? She started to shout for help, but bright light broke over her, and her scream went unuttered. She squinted up, blinded by the piercing light shining directly in her eyes from a range of about twelve inches.

She shoved at the light, trying to get it out of her eyes, and her hand encountered cold metal and very warm, very human flesh and bone.

Wait. Was this real? Was she actually awake?

“You can stop trying to kill me, already.”

She recognized the voice. Cole. In the flesh.

“Huh? Where am I? Am I alive?”

“Yes, you’re alive. And you will stay that way if you’ll quit trying to bludgeon me.”

Talk about disoriented. She looked around and made out a tiny bedroom in some sort of rough shack.

The cabin on stilts. The hurricane. The Anna Belle. That god-awful run through the bayou to find shelter. It all came back to her in a rush. The danger, the terror, the certainty that she was going to die. No wonder she was breathing hard already.

“Are we safe from the storm?” she rasped, her voice hoarse as if she’d been shouting forever. Oh, wait. She had been. To be heard over the storm, they’d pretty much had to shout all of last night.

“So far, so good,” Cole murmured cautiously.

“What time is it?”

“A little after eight o’clock.”

“At night?”

Behind his flashlight’s glare, she thought she caught a hint of a grin. “Yes. At night. You’ve been asleep about seven hours.”

“Wow. I don’t feel as if I got that much sleep.”

“You did get more of a workout in the past day than I imagine you’re accustomed to.”

Now there was an understatement. She checked in on her body and was not surprised to feel ominously sore muscles and pain setting in. She was shocked, however, to register that Cole Perriman was sprawled on top of her, and that her right leg was wrapped around his hips and her left hand was clutching his, umm, rather delectable tush.

She let go of his behind with alacrity, but then had the problem of where to put her hand. She ended up settling for resting her hand lightly on his waist, which was every bit as hard and lean through his close-fitting turtleneck as she’d dreamed it. Her pulse lurched alarmingly. She was in bed with the hot SEAL!

Details of her lurid dream flooded into her mind, and she inhaled sharply. The reality of this man’s big, muscular, rock-hard body mashing hers deeply into the worn mattress was all too close to her dream for comfort.

Cole stared down at Nissa, and unfortunately, her eyes were adjusting enough to the low-light conditions to stare back at him.

Oh, no. Awareness was every bit as intense in his gaze as it no doubt was in hers. The crackling attraction from her dream wasn’t a dream anymore. He was right here, real and hot and alive, his thighs tangled with hers, his hard erection pressing against the yielding softness of her belly, his massive arms forming a cage around her upper body.

He moved restlessly against her and her breath hitched. So. This was lust, huh? Everything she’d experienced in her inexperienced life to date was a pale shadow in comparison to this heat and desire raging through her. She wanted this man in every way she could have him, preferably starting with the naked, hot and sweaty ways.

He stared down at her for a moment more, reciprocal desire lighting his eyes from within until they blazed like stars above her.

With a curse, he rolled off her abruptly. But given the narrowness of the bed, his arm was still plastered against hers from shoulder to wrist. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“For what? It takes two to tango,” she replied practically.

He laughed, but the sound was more about pain than humor. Of more interest to her was the fact that he didn’t answer the question. Didn’t want to put his attraction to her into words, huh? A ribbon of hurt wound its way through her heart, leaching away the intense pleasure of her dream, stealing her confidence, reminding her mercilessly that she was a mousy desk jockey who worked in a cubicle jungle, not a sexy, adventurous temptress who could capture and hold on to a man like Cole Perriman.

“I’m cold,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, this place was light on blankets. There’s only the one quilt on this bed. Can’t fault the owner, though. He had everything else we needed. Here. Let me warm you up.” He rolled against her, his legs tangled with hers, belly to belly, groin to—ohmigosh—groin.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

“Hypothermia care 101. Body-to-body contact is the fastest and safest way to bring a person’s body temperature up to a safe level.”

“I said I was cold, not freezing to death.”

“One leads to the other,” he murmured disconcertingly close to her ear. His breath was warm on her earlobe and a shiver passed through her entire body. And it was emphatically not a shiver of cold.

His arm fell across her stomach and curled up her side, his hand tucked under her armpit mere inches from her breast. She about leaped out of bed in her shock. If not for the easy strength of his arm pinning her down, she might actually have bolted. But as it was, she merely lurched hard enough against his forearm to register that she wasn’t going anywhere if he didn’t want her to.

His leg slid across hers, his thigh resting intimately across both of hers. Under the wet suit the Navy had given her to wear yesterday, they’d also given her a skimpy pair of stretchy running trunks and an equally skimpy tank top. Those were all she was wearing now. And apparently, he was wearing pretty much the same thing.

She registered the general muscularity and hairiness of his leg against her smoothly waxed legs, and something shifted in her gut, a sharp awareness of Cole Perriman not as her mission commander and temporary boss, but as a Man. Capital M. With a side of hubba-hubba thrown in.

Other details registered. The hardness of his stomach against her right arm, trapped at her side. The width of his shoulders towering over her as he lay on his side facing her. The sheer mass of the man. He was all muscle. There was nothing soft about him. No flab to ease the hard contours of his muscles, not even a thin layer of fat beneath his skin to cushion the bulging veins and corded sinews in his arms or legs.

And good grief, he was as hot as a furnace. She was going to break out in a full-blown sweat if he stayed like this for much longer.

He muttered, “How does your hair smell good? You just spent all night swimming around in the ocean and wading through a swamp. You should smell like seawater.”

Bemused, she replied, “I got hot during our minimarathon to run here. I pushed back my hood and the rain rinsed out my hair. And, while you guys were getting the well’s pump running, I used the first water that came out of the pipes to take a quick sponge bath. Salt’s bad for your skin. You shouldn’t leave it sitting on your flesh for any longer than necessary.”