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“These are punches. These are dies.” Milo shows me metal tools that I’m unfamiliar with. I figure he probably wouldn’t know a lot about scalpels and retractors, so we’re even. “I’ll show you what I had planned, and you can tell me what you’d like to add or change. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.” I can’t resist putting my arms around his waist (I can barely reach, despite the fact that his waist is nipped in when compared to his doorway-filling chest and shoulders).
Even though Milo offers me dozens of options, I don’t voice any preferences. I want to see what he thinks of me. I also want to watch him work, undisturbed.
It’s eye candy of the darkest, hottest vintage. Despite the cold temps outside, standing directly over the forge makes my hair gel into a million humid wisps. I toss my sweatshirt off. Milo pulls his off, too, working it carefully over his horns, the whiteness of them glowing a hot orange near heat-reddened tongs and metal.
Underneath, he is smooth brown silk, all of his muscles (so many muscles) standing out for an instant before he drops a thick black leather apron over his neck and covers them up.
Still. Those arms.
The line of his neck muscles when he moves the metal with a sharp twist, and then ends the swing of his hammer with a soft grunt. Steam rises with a soft hiss when he moves hot steel into a bucket of water to stop the heating process.
Clang. Hiss. Grunt. Clang. Hiss. Grunt.
There’s something sensual and powerful in the rhythm.
Just when I think I’ll go crazy from watching him, from imagining other hot, steamy, grunt-inducing activities, Milo looks up at me and winks.
I mouth incoherently. My brain is lust-fuzzy.
“That shouldn’t be so hot.”
“It’s how it goes with metalwork.” Milo shrugs.
“Not that. You. You and that. How soon are you going to be done?” I jiggle my legs like an impatient toddler.
“Not too much longer. Forty-five minutes?”
I groan and pout, pacing.
“Wait. Are you saying... this? Me, just working, makes you—”
“Horny? Yes!” I clasp my hands on the belt loops of my jeans to stop myself from ripping Milo’s apron off over his head.
The look on his face floors me. It’s so incredulous and wondering.
Wistfulness satisfied.
“What?” I ask softly, coming closer.
“You... You like me. The way I am?”
I’ll be a cloud of steam in a minute. This guy makes me so hot and then turns me into a puddle of mush. “Sweetie, yes. I absolutely do.” I run soft fingers down his bare back.
Milo doesn’t speak.
“What’s wrong?”
“I thought maybe you’d learn to tolerate it. I never ever thought you’d like it. Or that it would be arousing to you.”
I can’t laugh at him, because I understand his fears, and I wouldn’t laugh anyway, even if I didn’t because I l— I care about him so much. Instead, I nod and nuzzle into him. His fur feels damp. I guess minotaurs sweat, even if we can’t see it. “I love the way you look. Yeah, it’s different, but lots of things are different but equally awesome. You are my sexy minotaur Valentine, and I love how you look. Okay?”
Milo kisses the top of my head. “Absolutely okay.” He gives me a little nudge. “Go sit and enjoy the show for a bit. I want to make this perfect.”
I MUST’VE FALLEN ASLEEP. When I wake up, the room is cooler. The forge is off. I’m under the AC/DC blanket with a kitten on each foot.
“You wore me out,” I mumble, stretching.
