She pulled back, breathless, her cheeks flushed like dawn over the hills.
"Here," she whispered, leading him to a lush bed of moss beside the pool, where ferns bowed under the mist's caress.
The ground was a tapestry of emerald and shadow, cool and yielding, scented with ground and secrets.
Cleora's fingers danced over her gown's laces, each tug a deliberate tease, until the fabric slid down her body like water, pooling at her feet.
She stood bare, her skin glowing in the dappled light—full breasts tipped with dusky rose, the gentle swell of her hips, a constellation of faint freckles across her thighs.
Time had sculpted her, not diminished her, and Jolthar's breath snagged at the sight, his desire a physical ache.
He tore off his tunic, the linen catching on his broad shoulders, revealing a chest carved by combat, scars mapping his victories. His breeches followed, and he stood unashamed, his body taut with youth, muscles flexing under her gaze.
