Page 162 of Games of Death and Desire

Every movement of his lips against mine is delectable. Every inch of my body tingles with the awareness of his massive frame braced over me.

Even as I think that, Stavros eases back. He pulls himself upright, drawing me with him so we’re sitting facing each other.

Not exactly apart, though. My knee rests against his thigh. His hand lingers against my jaw.

His mouth quirks into a slanted smile. “I suppose the shock can’t be that bad. You didn’t run away screaming in horror.”

I meet his blue-and-brown gaze, letting my hand settle on his other arm just below the jut of his prosthetic. “It’s still sinking in. I’m sorry I can’t— My feelings were already jumbled up from everything we talked about before—”

“It’s all right.” Stavros strokes his thumb across my cheek. “I haven’t made it easy on you. And I wouldn’t want you to lie to me. It feels like some kind of miracle that you’re even willing to kiss me.”

More heat collects low in my belly. I’d like to do a lot more than kiss him—that much I’m sure of.

The knowledge steadies me. We’ve covered some of that territory before. Hooking up isn’t quite as fraught as declarations of devotion.

Maybe there’s an easy way I can put us back on level ground and defuse the tension of the moment.

I scoot a little backward and wave my hand at Stavros carelessly. “I think we can do better than that. But first, strip.”

His expression turns incredulous. “What?”

I give another flippant gesture, indicating the whole muscular expanse of him I’ve never really gotten to admire before. “Strip. I want to have a look at what I’m working with.”

His eyes flash with the eager light that’s drawn me to this man from the first moment I saw it flare in his gaze. A sly grin crosses his face. “Turn-around’s fair play, hmm?”

So he’s recognized the call-back to our first sparring session, back when he thought I was nothing more than a thieving street rat.

I shrug, offering my most innocent smile. “At least I have the pure motivation of simply wanting to appreciate the view, no ego involved.”

Stavros guffaws. “Pure?” But to my delight, he stands up, reaching for his shirt.

I do drink in the view as he deftly undoes the buttons with his one hand. I suppose having sacrificed the other to Sabrelle when he turned twelve, he must have gotten a lot of practice at doing all kinds of things one-handed. None of his prosthetics would be much help with more delicate maneuvers.

The triangle of bare chest shows wider with each opened button. Then he reaches the bottom and shrugs the shirt right off, leaving the full muscular expanse of his torso bared, along with the harness that keeps his prosthetic in place against the stump of his wrist.

I lean back on my hands while I study him. He might not ride off into battle anymore, but he’s kept up a warrior’s physique. Every inch of his chest, abdomen, and arms is sculpted into taut ridges of muscle.

Here and there, marks either paler or ruddier cut across his light brown skin. I’m familiar enough with certain sorts of wounds to tell a few are scars left by blades and at least one was a burn, but others must be from weapons I don’t often encounter.

Or not weapons at all. It was a magical strike that damaged his vision.

In the midst of it all, the curving lines of Sabrelle’s brand stand out at the base of his sternum. The dedication he took for a life he’s been almost entirely shut out of.

I hope Sabrelle hasn’t abandoned him for his injury. He served her well while he could.

I’m occupied enough with ogling that it takes me a minute to notice that Stavros has stopped undressing. He’s watching me take him in with a gaze as avid as mine.

I arch an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re finished yet. You had me down to my underclothes.”

“That I did. Well, if the lady wishes it…”

He tugs off his boots without hesitation. I think a hint of a flush creeps up his neck as he loosens the ties on his trousers.

I’ve no doubt that Stavros has entertained plenty of women beyond the one he once thought he’d marry, but I’d guess most of them didn’t ask him to put on a show for their amusement.

He’ll be used to them seducinghimwith strategically revealed skin and flirty glances.

I don’t see any need to be coy after everything that’s passed between us. When he drops his trousers, I let my gaze rove over every bulge and shadow of his chiseled legs from thighs to calves—and back up again, to one particularly impressive bulge tenting his drawers.

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