thoughts imaginable. It was a stunning display of male anatomy, and, to her way of thinking, if he didn’t mind baring it, she didn’t mind looking.
It sure beat R-rated movies, for none of the actors in them could compare to the beautiful specimen standing before her. She was amazed, actually, that she did not have one shred of embarrassment as she checked him out, stem to stern.
“Thou strong seducer, Opportunity,” as the English poet John Dryden had written. She was seduced, all right, and if Alysandir had so much as crooked a finger in her direction, she would have crawled, if need be, to get to him. There he stood, as magnificent as creation, as perfect as Adam, as beautiful as Lucifer before the fall.
When he entered the water, she was still captivated by his beauty. Everything about him conveyed power and stature. His was a body full of life and passion, and she could feel it reaching out to her. She longed to go to him, to strip as naked as he, and join him in the burn.
And freeze your erse off. What are you thinking?
He waded further into the frigid water and washed away the blood with wet sand. Gawking like a simpleton, she could not look away as he waded back to the bank. He was exemplary of a warrior at the peak of his virility, and every feature, down to the most insignificant muscle, was the standard by which others should be compared—from his commanding brow and Roman nose to his well-defined chest and stomach muscles, down to his shamelessly uncovered—she quickly turned her head away.
She would retain forever the memory of his potent and boldly naked form. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of him dressing, relishing the heat that the sight of his wet-slicked body sparked within her. She was overwhelmed with feelings she had never experienced before—sensuality, lust, and desire. His body left her breathless and craving more.
“’Tis safe to look now.”
She expected to see him dressed in his trews and chausses, not with his body gleaming and his plaid wrapped low around his slender hips. Fascinated, she watched him walk toward her, and she fervently wished he would drop the plaid… no she didn’t. She was her own worst enemy, and she was beyond thankful when she found her rational voice.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
He threw back his head and laughed at her. “To keep my clothes dry,” he answered, and swept her up into his arms. Pure instinct sent her arms curling around his neck. His skin was cool and damp, and he smelled clean, like the air after a rain. She had to resist the urge to touch his chest. She sighed, thinking this was like a dream or something out of a movie, only better.
He turned and carried her toward the burn. “You aren’t going to drown me, are you?”
He paused and gazed down at her upturned face. “Not with water, but I’m tempted to pour a little more mead down yer throat. With yer mouth gaping as long as it was, it has to be… parched.”
She became suddenly conscious of the fluid movement of his body against hers and the press of her hipbone against his battle-hardened muscles. Her arms were still around his neck, and her head found a resting place in the cove of his shoulder. She had not realized until this moment, when she felt safe and comfortable in his arms, just how very weary she was. After all, it wasn’t every day that she traveled five hundred years.
He stopped and slowly lowered her until her feet touched the ground. “What pleasures ye, lass?”
Everything you’re doing, so far. She wanted to tell him that whatever she found pleasurable was illegal, immoral, or fattening, but she decided to temper her words to the time period and hope for a little sensual indulgence. “Oh, books, fruit, music…”
He cut the list short when he threw back his head and laughed heartily, and she wondered why she had the feeling it wasn’t something he did frequently. She looked at the dancing water and shivered with anticipation. “It
It sure beat R-rated movies, for none of the actors in them could compare to the beautiful specimen standing before her. She was amazed, actually, that she did not have one shred of embarrassment as she checked him out, stem to stern.
“Thou strong seducer, Opportunity,” as the English poet John Dryden had written. She was seduced, all right, and if Alysandir had so much as crooked a finger in her direction, she would have crawled, if need be, to get to him. There he stood, as magnificent as creation, as perfect as Adam, as beautiful as Lucifer before the fall.
When he entered the water, she was still captivated by his beauty. Everything about him conveyed power and stature. His was a body full of life and passion, and she could feel it reaching out to her. She longed to go to him, to strip as naked as he, and join him in the burn.
And freeze your erse off. What are you thinking?
He waded further into the frigid water and washed away the blood with wet sand. Gawking like a simpleton, she could not look away as he waded back to the bank. He was exemplary of a warrior at the peak of his virility, and every feature, down to the most insignificant muscle, was the standard by which others should be compared—from his commanding brow and Roman nose to his well-defined chest and stomach muscles, down to his shamelessly uncovered—she quickly turned her head away.
She would retain forever the memory of his potent and boldly naked form. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of him dressing, relishing the heat that the sight of his wet-slicked body sparked within her. She was overwhelmed with feelings she had never experienced before—sensuality, lust, and desire. His body left her breathless and craving more.
“’Tis safe to look now.”
She expected to see him dressed in his trews and chausses, not with his body gleaming and his plaid wrapped low around his slender hips. Fascinated, she watched him walk toward her, and she fervently wished he would drop the plaid… no she didn’t. She was her own worst enemy, and she was beyond thankful when she found her rational voice.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
He threw back his head and laughed at her. “To keep my clothes dry,” he answered, and swept her up into his arms. Pure instinct sent her arms curling around his neck. His skin was cool and damp, and he smelled clean, like the air after a rain. She had to resist the urge to touch his chest. She sighed, thinking this was like a dream or something out of a movie, only better.
He turned and carried her toward the burn. “You aren’t going to drown me, are you?”
He paused and gazed down at her upturned face. “Not with water, but I’m tempted to pour a little more mead down yer throat. With yer mouth gaping as long as it was, it has to be… parched.”
She became suddenly conscious of the fluid movement of his body against hers and the press of her hipbone against his battle-hardened muscles. Her arms were still around his neck, and her head found a resting place in the cove of his shoulder. She had not realized until this moment, when she felt safe and comfortable in his arms, just how very weary she was. After all, it wasn’t every day that she traveled five hundred years.
He stopped and slowly lowered her until her feet touched the ground. “What pleasures ye, lass?”
Everything you’re doing, so far. She wanted to tell him that whatever she found pleasurable was illegal, immoral, or fattening, but she decided to temper her words to the time period and hope for a little sensual indulgence. “Oh, books, fruit, music…”
He cut the list short when he threw back his head and laughed heartily, and she wondered why she had the feeling it wasn’t something he did frequently. She looked at the dancing water and shivered with anticipation. “It
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