He was used to being worshiped.I remember how my breath caught as he passed me, the scent of something warm and spiced trailing behind—sandalwood and sun and something unplaceable, something his. Gay sex He was used to being worshiped.I remember how my breath caught as he passed me, the scent of something warm and spiced trailing behind—sandalwood and sun and something unplaceable, something his. It was in a place where the sun seemed closer, where the heat shimmered off the earth in golden waves, and time slowed to a lazy, hypnotic drawl. Every muscle on his body, beneath a loose, half-buttoned linen shirt, moved like liquid. A fever dream I can’t seem to wake from. I dream of that voice, low and rough, murmuring things not meant for daylight.He was a mirage in the heat. The cloth clung in places to his chest, damp from the heat, hinting at the carved elegance of someone sculpted for worship.And his eyes—God, his eyes.
