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The deep voice rolls through the temple, drawing my attention back to the man waiting beside the altar.
Sweet merciful heaven.
He’s enormous.
Easily six-foot-seven, with shoulders broad enough to block out the moonlight and a chest that looks like it was carved from a particularly ambitious slab of granite. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and his face remains partially hidden in shadow.
But the rest of him?
Oh, the rest of him is on full display.
Well, almost.
A strip of white fabric hangs low around his hips, revealing the kind of abdominal muscles that should require a government-issued warning label.
I tilt my head.
“Is that historically accurate?”
He goes still.
“What?”
“The little skirt thing.” I gesture toward his hips. “Is that what ancient Greek gods actually wore, or is it just there to torture me?”
His silver-violet eyes narrow.
“You concern yourself with my clothing?”
“Not particularly. I’m actually more interested in what’s underneath it.”
He stares at me.
I smile.
What? It’s my dream.
If my subconscious wants to conjure a seven-foot Greek god with the body of a professional athlete and the face of a fallen angel, I’m certainly not going to waste the opportunity discussing ancient architecture.
Although the architecture is lovely.
“Do you know who I am, mortal?”
His voice carries enough authority to make the candles flicker.
I consider him.
“A very convincing argument for sleeping naked?”
His jaw tightens.
“I am Morpheus.”
“Of course you are.”
“God of Dreams and Desire.”
“Well, that explains the abs.”
