He stepped into the courtyard like a vision conjured from heat and longing.
Every breath in the room stilled.
His salwar pants hung low on his hips, the soft, fine fabric swaying with each silent footfall. The loose folds did little to hide the sharp lines of his body—the narrow waist, the long, powerful legs, the way every step made the muscles in his thighs flex beneath the silk like water over stone.
Above the waist, he wore nothing.
And what a sight his body was—carved, almost unnaturally so. Not the heavy, brutish muscle of a warrior, but something sculpted, honed—made to be looked at, touched, worshipped. His abdomen was tight and defined, each ridge of his core marked like brushstrokes on golden bronze. His chest rose and fell with steady calm, smooth, firm, a plane of sun-burnished flesh broken only by the subtle rise of his collarbones and the perfect slope of his shoulders.
His arms, long and lean, hinted at strength without a hint of effort. When he moved, his forearms flexed, sinew and vein catching the light, drawing the eye like silk pulled taut across muscle. His hands—those hands—were large, elegant, capable. I imagined them pressing into skin, curling in hair, closing around throats in dominance or desire. Perhaps both.
His skin was a wonder—deep gold, glowing with the warmth of desert sun. It wasn’t pale, wasn’t smooth in that polished, soft way of nobility. No. His skin was alive, like it held stories, heat, power. It shimmered faintly with sweat, a sheen that made every curve of him more unbearable to look at. And impossible to look away from.
But it was his face—his face—that undid me.
High cheekbones, cut with shadow. A jawline so sharp it might draw blood. Lips full and devastating, their natural curve hinting at sin even when expressionless. And his eyes—gods—hazel, but not soft. No, these were piercing, burning. Amber fire rimmed in forest green, eyes that didn’t glance—they struck. When they passed over me, I felt seen, filleted open, consumed.
His hair was a dark, unruly crown, thick and tousled, as though even it refused to be tamed. Loose strands fell across his brow, brushing those deep, expressive brows—arched just slightly, knowingly. He pushed it back with one casual sweep of his hand, revealing the full, exquisite architecture of his face, as if giving us all the privilege of it was a mercy.
He moved like poetry. Like seduction wrapped in flesh and gold. Like he knew every soul watching would ache long after he passed.
And I—I was ruined by him.
Every inch of that body had been designed, not by nature, but by desire itself. And in that moment, I didn't want his attention, his words, his touch.
I wanted to kneel before the beauty of him.
To worship what I could never possess.
