Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff

      He made a grunting sound of pleasure.

      She glanced down and realized he was staring at her breasts, which were about an inch from his face. She’d been so intent on her task that she’d forgotten to keep a polite distance. She hadn’t meant for this mundane act to become so intimate. The air between them turned electric, charged with sexual energy. He was leaning into her hands, like a cat that wanted more petting. She froze, her fingers still threaded in his hair.

      He glanced up at her, his jaw tense.

      “Sorry,” she said, releasing him. Before she could step back, he slipped his arm around her waist.

      “Are you?”

      She was startled by his sudden movement. His expression revealed hunger, not anger, but she had to be careful with him. His injuries hadn’t made him weak or slow. If he wanted to overpower her, he could.

      “Are you sorry for touching me? For getting too close? Or for holding me against my will?”

      Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not.”

      He arched a brow at this claim. When she tried to twist away, he pulled her closer. She braced her palms on his biceps, her pulse racing. Maybe he could sense her excitement, as well as her deception. Because she liked his arm around her, strong and immobile. She liked his taut face and hard body. She could lie to him, but she couldn’t lie to herself.

      He lifted one hand to her face. “Let’s make a deal.”

      Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest. He didn’t want to help her. He wanted to regain control of the situation by any means necessary. Although she might enjoy his methods, she couldn’t let him manipulate her.

      “I take you across the mountains, and you take me however I like.”

      “I rescued you,” she choked. “You owe me.”

      “This isn’t a rescue. It’s forced labor.”

      “We help each other. It is fair.”

      “No. If you want my services, you have to buy them.”

      “I can’t pay you.”

      He brushed his thumb over her trembling lips. “Sure you can.”

      Arousal coursed through her, unabated. Her body didn’t care about his motives. It longed for a respite from grief and pain. One sensual interlude, to make her forget her troubles.

      “You’re not free until I am,” he said in a low voice. “You can walk away from my deal as soon as I can walk away from yours.”

      She couldn’t acquiesce to his demands, no matter how tempted she was. She couldn’t allow him to gain the upper hand. He seemed excited about turning the tables on her and giving her orders. A flash of intuition told her he wanted freedom, not sex.

      “Fine,” she said, feigning defeat. “Take me.”

      His gaze darkened. “What?”

      “Do your worst.”

      “My worst is the best you’ve ever had, guaranteed.”

      A thrill shivered down her spine at his boast, but she summoned a bored look. “Go ahead, if you must.”

      He stood abruptly, lifting her off her feet. In the next instant, she was on the bed, flat on her back underneath him. He pushed her arms over her head and pinned them against the mattress. She didn’t protest. He stared at her for a long moment, breathing heavily. She stared back at him, calling his bluff. He wasn’t the dumb brute she’d expected. He had brains, as well as brawn. He thought he could pressure her into releasing him. What he didn’t realize was that they were both prisoners here. The only way out was over those mountains, together.

      His grip on her wrists loosened. He collapsed, burying his face in her neck.

      She experienced a strange mix of emotions. Sorrow, relief, guilt, sympathy...disappointment. And kinship, maybe. He didn’t want to help her, but they were connected. They shared a common enemy. They’d both suffered the traumas of war, even though he’d done so by choice, not because of a direct threat to his home and family.

      She raised a hand to his hair, tentative. It still felt nice. So did his body, for that matter. The heavy weight of him reminded her of past pleasures, long forgotten. She stroked the nape of his neck lightly.

      He lifted his head, his expression incredulous. She knew she was playing with fire, and she didn’t care. She raked her nails through his hair, encouraging him. She thought he might shove her away in anger, but he didn’t. His half-lidded gaze lowered to her lips.

      Then his mouth descended.

      The first contact was electric. She parted her lips under his, breathless. She’d wanted this from the first moment she set eyes on him. He was battered and bruised. He’d been in a dark place. So had she. Maybe that was what drew her to him. He needed comfort, and she ached to give it. He was her captive, her patient, her only hope.

      His kiss wasn’t gentle. He plundered her mouth with his tongue, taking what he wanted. He tasted like mint and soap and male heat, a tantalizing mixture. She clutched his hair and moaned. He feasted on her mouth the same way he devoured plates of food, without finesse. She reveled in the possession.

      Had it been this way with Khalil? This urgent?

      She couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. Hudson kissed away those thoughts and inserted himself back into them. His tongue delved deeper and his body pressed harder. She could feel the exciting length of his erection. Desire pulsed between her legs. She shifted her hips against him.

      He groaned against her mouth, his big hand squeezing her waist. It roved to her hip and back up again, covering her breast. This simple pleasure seemed to undo him. He broke the kiss and fumbled for a way underneath her clothes.

      She might have let him continue, but the sound of approaching footsteps snapped her to her senses.

      Ashur.

      He was coming down the hall.

      Hudson heard it, too. He turned his head toward the open doorway, his hands still. They were about to get caught.

      She pushed at his shoulders and he shifted to one side, allowing her enough space to move. She scrambled off the bed in a panic. He sat forward and folded his arms over his lap while she straightened her tunic. When Ashur appeared in the doorway, she made a face like a scolding auntie.

      “Where have you been? I need a broom to sweep up this hair.”

      Ashur muttered something about cleaning up after swine and went to do her bidding. It was his typical attitude, so she didn’t think he’d noticed her dishabille. She leaned against the chair, weak-kneed. When she glanced at Hudson again, his eyes were sharp.

      “Are you married?” he asked in a hard voice.

      “No.”

      He rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if the question had left a bad taste in it.

      “I’m a widow,” she said. “A recent widow, still in mourning.”

      His expression didn’t change. “How recent?”

      “Two years.”

      “Two years is a long time.”

      “In my culture, some widows stay in seclusion for the rest of their lives. Most do not remarry or keep company with men.”

      “Is that your plan? Never remarry?”

      It wasn’t what Khalil would have wanted, but she hadn’t imagined moving on. She also hadn’t imagined kidnapping an American and allowing him to take liberties. She didn’t recognize the woman she’d become.

      Ashur returned with the broom, saving her from responding. He swept up the clumps of hair, his eyes downcast. She wondered what he’d done to make Hudson