Read Saved by the SEAL for Free Online

form of moving pictures in my mind.
    “Grisham,” I murmur in a voice heavy with sleep. “What time is it?”
    “It’s only eleven. You fell asleep near the end of the movie. I just wondered if you wanted to sleep here or if you want to go to your room.”
    I struggle to sit up and Grisham’s hand is there, cupping my head and helping me to lean against the back of the couch. I swipe at my eyes.
    “If I haven’t been asleep long, why am I so wiped?” I groan, flopping back against the sofa cushions.
    “Because you have a concussion.” Grisham scoops me into his arms and stands. “I’m making an executive decision. Lead the way to your bedroom.”
    A sleepy smile tugs at my mouth as I look up at him. “I like the direction of this decision.”
    And then I promptly turn tomato red, because where the hell did that come from? I’m blaming the head injury for my forward remark.
    But Grisham only smiles down at me, his green eyes darkening a shade and flaming with something even darker. “Be a good girl.”
    I tell him which room off the short hallway is mine, and he deposits me on my bed.
    He kneels down on the floor beside me as I roll onto my side to face him. He places his chin against his folded hands as he stares at me.
    “So,” he says. “I’m going to wake you up in a couple of hours. You’ll probably be pretty out of it, but I’m going to use a flashlight to check your pupil dilation, okay? Then I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
    I sit up again. “I didn’t get you a blanket and a pillow.”
    He pushes me back down with gentle hands. “Greta, you need to relax now. I can get it. Just tell me where the stuff is and I’ll make a bed on the couch.”
    “No.”
    He arches one eyebrow. “No?”
    I shake my head. “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch. Will you sleep in here?”
    I’m not sure what goes on in his head then, but it looks like a war. I adjust my prior request.
    “On the floor. You can make a bed on the floor. Look at all these pillows on my bed. I think I can spare a few for you.”
    He smiles, gazing into my eyes as he nods his head. “Okay. I’m good with sleeping on your floor.”
    I tell him where the linen closet is at the end of the hall, and he retreats to grab a few blankets. After spreading them out across the floor, along with the pillows I offered, he leaves again to grab his bag and use the bathroom across the hall.
    When he returns, my breath gets trapped somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Because Grisham isn’t wearing a shirt. And Grisham without a shirt on is like watching a Greek god walking amongst us normal folk in the flesh.
    I can’t avoid staring. A white-hot heat lances through my core at the sight of his rock-hard chest, oceans of abdominal muscles that clench and flex as he moves through the doorway, and astounding absolute masculine beauty.
    But it’s not only the ripped perfection that has me staring. It’s the scars that mottle his torso: clear evidence of a man who’s been through something horrendous. They’re littered among the beautifully drawn lines and epically graceful script of several tattoos along his chest and shoulders.
    His eyes burn into mine, and I don’t care that I’m staring. I’m pulled to my feet by some unseen force and drawn to him like a magnet. He stands there, watching me with rapt attention as I approach.
    Halfway to him, I snap to my senses. What am I doing? Am I really just going to attack him like a rabid fox? Instead of stopping where he stands, I squeeze past him in the doorway, creating a path to the bathroom.
    As I pass, the tips of my breasts through my shirt brush ever so slightly against his arm and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. Just that small, galvanizing touch was enough to send piercing shards of desire spiking through my body. It’s a match to a gasoline. It’s not just electricity or attraction that I feel for Grisham.
    It’s pure, primal need.
    I freeze, trying to regain just a single