Free Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) by Trish McCallan

he’d lain down to take a nap? What if he slept naked? Or . . . what if Rawls had migrated to the bathroom to take a shower, and all those long, lean muscles were streaming with soap and water? An image of wet, soapy, tanned flesh took root in her mind. A prickle started in her scalp, marched down the nape of her neck, and infiltrated her arms.
    Heat flashed through her, raising her temperature at least a degree or two. A swollen, moist pressure settled between her thighs. She ignored her endocrine system’s exasperating flailing, something she’d become an expert at since finding herself cornered by a tall blond god in her lab six days earlier. Who would have guessed that the sexy stranger she’d been discreetly salivating over all those months ago at gate C-18 while waiting to board her flight to Hawaii would be the same man to drag her out from beneath Big Ben, and then step between her and her would-be kidnappers when the bullets started flying?
    Even in the midst of danger, her hypothalamus had enthusiastically signaled its attraction to the hot, hard muscles protecting her from danger. Good lord, her memories of that night revolved around butterflies, tingles, and chills—along with all the other renditions of sexual excitement. Any fear she felt had taken a backseat to lust, and God help her, that hormonal flooding worsened with every second she spent in his company.
    Thankfully, he hadn’t picked up on her intense sexual attraction. Or, his good-ol’-boy Southern manners were ignoring her hormonal meltdown out of politeness. The second possibility was all too real considering he was a Navy SEAL. From what she’d read, SEALs were ultra-observant. He should have picked up on her attraction to him.
    And here she was, procrastinating again. Shaking her head in disgust, she eased up to the kitchenette and hovered in the shadowy mouth of the hallway. “Lieutenant Rawlings?”
    Silence greeted her. She listened hard. Was that faint whisper the sound of water running behind a closed door, or the wind teasing plastic blinds?
    “Lieutenant Rawlings, I brought you lunch,” she said, lifting the plastic-wrapped plate in her hands as an offering, which was absolutely ridiculous considering he couldn’t see the movement.
    Okay, this was just silly. Squaring her shoulders, she headed down the hall.
    “Leave it on the kitchen counter,” he said from somewhere down the hall and to the left.
    She passed a small bathroom as his voice reached her, and she relaxed. At least she didn’t have to worry about stumbling in on him in all his naked glory—regardless of how much her endocrine system would have enjoyed the show. She followed his voice to the end of the hall and the open door on the left.
    “I brought you a sandwich,” she said, darting a quick look at the bed, with its bunched, tangled sleeping bag, before seeking out the bed’s current owner.
    He sat staring out the window, a clear warning in the rigid length of his spine that he didn’t want to be disturbed. She glanced at the empty glass and capped bottle of whiskey sitting on the windowsill in front of him. The golden liquid still climbed most of the bottle, so he’d abstained from drinking himself into a stupor. Thank goodness . . .
    “Just leave it on the table,” he said, his voice so polite there was no question he was masking some strong emotion—probably irritation at her unwelcome intrusion. But at least he harnessed his anger, rather than unloading it on the world like Commander Mackenzie did.
    Frowning, she shuffled her feet, trying to force her appeal out. Why was the request so difficult to make? It was a no-brainer, damn it. Her life depended on getting more of her meds. She couldn’t afford to procrastinate, yet here she was doing just that.
    He twisted in his chair, scanned her face, and slowly unfurled to his full height. “What’s wrong?”
    “I need some prescriptions filled.” The words burst out. “Can you help me with