I am staring at you again.
You are leaning thoughtfully against the frames of an open window, the hot desert breeze playing with your hair and causing it to swirl wildly around you in long strands of fresh lemons and mown grass, reflecting the colors of your perfectly trimmed gardens below the palace. Your beautiful mane looks just as silky as the texture of these ruby red bedsheets currently spread over me and I'm practically itching of this overwhelming desire to try and run my fingers through it. Some of those shining locks of golden and green are sliding seductively down the lenght of your bare upper body and I simply find no reason to stop my eyes from following them with this heated eagerness twisting and pooling inside of me.
A graceful neck...
... toned chest...
... broad shoulders...
... muscular arms...
... big hands...
... long fingers...
... heaving ribs...
... hard stomach...
... narrow hips...
... and all of this covered in a layer of bronze-shaded, flawless skin.
I have never been a part of the clan of these men who believe that a bloke can be physically attractive - not in the same way as a woman, anyway - but right now, at this very moment, you have proven me wrong with your mere presence.
Damn it.
Does this mean that I've been turned into a queer with nothing more than a single sight of you? And on the other hand, why should I even care about it, anyway? "Well, that's because you shouldn't", I hear a sudden voice whisper somewhere from the back of my head, "at least as long as he'll remain as the object of these hidden feelings of yours".
And the voice has a point.
You see, any guy, and I mean every single one of them, in their right state of mind and blessed with a pair of eyes - or, in my case, an eye - would fall immadiately on their knees in front of such a rare beauty as yourself, no matter how straight and well they ought to be.
You look immortal, as if nothing in this cold and cruel world could break the perfect picture of you.
A few moments of intense staring, and I find myself wondering about your skin again. All that sinfully perfect flesh in front of me, and yet I know for a fact that if you just allowed to show your heavenly backside towards me, I could see as clear as day the scars of both whips and war placed all over it, as I am quite certain about their existence, thanks to the latest adventures of my fingertips.
I am, even painfully so, aware of the two years of time you spent in that hell-hole of a prison, and how those damned bastards - our so-called "baron" and his right-hand man - used to torment you back then.
And yes, I know that you hate to receive any kind of pity from the people around you, especially those who you like to call as your friends, but what is a big soft heart like mine to do when all that I can think about is how utterly sorry I feel for you?
Oh, how I wish that I could just make you mine, to make you forget their terrible crimes.
And I have, at least in the physical way, but what comes to your mental state... well, that is a different thing entirely.
You see, you have now your own kingdom to care for and no matter how much I hope that some day I could be the one to take care of you, I know that I am nothing more than a single drop in your ocean of people.
"It's almost the time for my speech, Sig."
"... better get ourselves dressed, then."
And so, I can do nothing but to keep staring at you.