Hers. He was all hers, to hold, to touch, to take. Her right leg snaked up around his hips, and using her right foot and left hand, she urged the hot steel pressing into her belly lower, closer to her core. Yes. Right...there...
His mouth closed upon hers, and the kiss was as hot and carnal as the rest of him, as commanding and untamed as a proper sea god should be. Her entire body molded to his and she gave all of herself to him, opening her mouth and feminine core to receive him.
She projected the thought into his mind, “Take me. Take me now—”
“Holy crap, Nissa. Wake up.” The voice was distant and desperate, barely touching her dream, hardly scratching the surface of her raging desire for her underwater god.
Just like that, her turquoise paradise was replaced by the cold blackness of an ocean at night, thick and suffocating. She thrashed in the darkness, weighed down by something confining and heavy.
Must be that damned survival bag. She’d fallen overboard and gotten separated from the others and was going to die out here in the vast abyss of the ocean, cold, scared and alone—
“Wake up. For the love of God,” someone ground out. The man sounded like he was in pain.
Wait. She wasn’t in the ocean. She wasn’t wet at all, in fact. Groggily, she climbed a little closer toward consciousness.
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.
