Haryntha's eyes widened. The firelight caught the sudden flush that rose along her throat. "Jolthar," she said, her voice sharper than usual, "what are you doing?"
He glanced over his shoulder, completely unbothered by his growing nudity.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he continued to peel away the last of his undergarments, leaving him bare in the flickering glow.
"What does it look like? I'm covered in sweat and whatever that black sludge was. I'm not sleeping next to you smelling like a dead nynthrall's armpit."
He turned fully to face her, making no effort to cover himself. The firelight danced across every inch of him—the lean, battle-hardened muscles, the faint sheen of moisture on his skin, the proud, heavy length of him resting against his thigh, already half-hard from the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.
Haryntha stared for a heartbeat too long before she caught herself.
She looked away, then back, her cheeks darkening.
