"Your turn," she breathed, her voice a ragged thread of silk.
Sol didn't fumble. He moved with the terrifyingly efficient economy of a man who had learned to strip a kill in seconds. His boots hit the floor with the weight of falling boulders. His ruined tunic followed. When he stood entirely exposed to her, the sheer physical pressure of his presence seemed to double.
He was a landscape of ridged muscle and ancient, alien scars he got from his recent dangerous adventures, still healing The Great Badger's density made him look heavier than his frame should allow, his shoulders broad as a horizon, his abdomen a corded armor of meat and will.
His cock was already a heavy, tensed weight against his thigh, thick and angry.
They didn't move for a long, suspended heartbeat. They were two gods of a broken world, stripped of their titles, their history, and their clothes.
