Ayda’s POV
“You are,” I said, huffing, the rawhide chest protector chafing my skin horrifically even with the shirt he’d loaned me, “a terrible man. Have I told you that?”
“You may have,” Sebastian passed me his waterskin looking unbothered in his casual clothes, olive skin aglow from the exhilaration.
His hair was completely devoid of any product, left wild and free to curl around the masculine richness of his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed, not clownishly large, but enough to let me know—with the broadness of his shoulders, the bit of chest hair peeking through his tunic, the svelte thickness of his thighs which led to the tight laces girding his manhood—that he was all male.
And, upon girlish realization, entirely mine.