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He chuckles; a low, decadent sound that invades every fiber of my being. “Do I look like I give a shit about convention?”
“Surprisingly, no.”
“Surprisingly?” He arches one eyebrow dangerously.
“You’re an imperial prince, aren’t you? Your peopleownthe conventions.”
“All the more reason why I don’t care.”
“What a privileged bastard.”
He smiles; fang-tipped, mischievous. “And I intend to use it, my sweet Finley.”
Deft hands strip my jacket from my arms. He pulls my tunic over my head and unfastens the buttons of my trousers, pulling them down to reveal my silken panties. My boots fly off, followed by my pants.
He moves too fast.
He’s too much. I can’t resist.
All of a sudden, I’m naked before him. The room is toasty warm thanks to the glowing embers in the hearth. My body is on fire.
Corvan looks me up and down. He moves until he’s poised above me like a big predator, and there’s hunger in his gaze.
Wild energy ripples through my body, heightening my arousal. Corvan gently strokes the side of my face with his gloved fingers. “You’re stunning,” he murmurs. “I’m a very fortunate man.”
I count my blessings as he peels off his gloves and discards them. He cups my face with his warm hands and kisses me.
His taste reminds me of morning frost and smoky spice.
I gaze at him, taking in his powerful form, wondering what he’d be like underneath his clothing.
As if reading my mind, he rises up on his knees and discards his jacket. His black shirt follows.
I stifle a gasp.
All of a sudden, he’s bare-chested, looming over me like a pale god, only he can’t possibly be a god, because his body is covered in scars.
Do gods wear scars?
Faded to pale pinkish-brown, they’re a shade darker than his alabaster skin. Some are long and vicious and jagged, others short and precise, as if he’s been stabbed. One crosses his taut abdomen just above his navel.
Corvan isn’t one of those nobles who holds an empty military rank just for show. This man has known real combat. His body tells of a life sworn to the blade.
And in spite of the marks of violence, his body is chiseled perfection; abdominal muscles etched into a pack of eight, chest and arms broad and powerful. Every inch of him is cut and honed. If not for his scars, he could be a living sculpture.
A soft whimper escapes me.
He lowers himself, pressing his palms into the bed on either side of my head. “Caught you staring.”
“Your scars…” I whisper.
“Happened before I died.” His lips quirk wryly. “I’m a soldier.”
A tendril of horror tugs at my heart. “Some of those wounds look like they must’ve beenawful, Corvan.”
“I can’t expect unquestioning loyalty from my men if I don’t fight the same battles they do. A commander who’s afraid of going to the frontlines is weak. You don’t have to look so worried, Finley. This body can’t scar anymore. Besides, I’d like to think you were staring at more than just my scars.”
I was.A flush fills my cheeks. He kisses me again; deeply, savagely. I yield, enjoying the feeling of his big, warm body hovering just above mine; his big hands sliding over my shoulders, down my sides, my waist, over my hips, until he finds the edges of my undergarments and deftly slips them off.
