The scent of burning hardwood and a hint of sweat hit me like a freight train, knocking the breath from my lungs. My jaw drops, and there is this invisible cord that begins to wrap around me, starting at my ankles before tightening my knees together. It spins around my hips and continues up over the tightness in my chest until it’s got me around the throat.
Clank-clank.
Clank-clank.
Clank-clank. The raising and lowering of the hammer make repetitive sounds as it strikes the glowing orange steel as the forger turns it over and back methodically on the anvil.
Anvil.
I have to say this is the first time I’ve really taken note of an anvil in real life. I’m sure I’ve seen one before, but as far as I was concerned, before now, they were just something for the Road Runner to drop on Wile E. Coyote’s head.
Right now, I’m stunned at just how fucking sexy an anvil can be.
As a matter of fact, an anvil is the sexiest inanimate object I’ve ever seen. And it’s being pounded upon by the sexiest man I know I’ve ever seen.
I’m frozen in mid-gawk when his hammer slams down with such force it sends a shiver racing from the base of my neck down to my heels. The onlookers surround me stand frozen in suspense waiting for the rhythmic bounce of the mallet. Anticipation tightens inside me, urging the forger to draw the hammer high and take the next thwack at the heated metal.
Instead, his hand lifts the hammer off the anvil slowly. Unlike the powerful motion he used a moment before, he lowers the hammer to his side. Hanging it down next to the soot-stained suede chaps that cover his dark canvas trousers, he straightens his back, and I hear a collective sigh from the unsteady crowd.
The suede apron, darkened to a gray swirling soot pattern just the same as the chaps, only partially covers a torso that sings the praises of what must be millions of whacks of that mallet onto molten metal.
The glory of his arms shows the indent and bulge of muscles I don’t remember from my homeschool human anatomy class. It’s as though God created new musculature to be bestowed upon him as a symbol of masculine perfection.
Oh my God. He twists his head then shrugs his shoulders as though he needs me to rub his neck. A task for which I would gladly raise my three fingers and volunteer as tribute.
As he shifts and stretches, there are ripples of tendons and layers of hardness I see that defy all logic and reason. And all of it covered in this shiny, slightly gritty, warm-tan skin that is crying out for my lips.
My fingers grip the shoulder straps of my ever-present backpack as I try to find my breath, try to gulp back the dryness in my throat.
I’m not a purse sort of girl. Backpacks are more practical. My mind wanders to what sort of girl this metal-pounding god desires? Because right now I wish to be her in such a way it’s making my head and my heart ache.
I bet she’s leggy, right?
And pouty.
Stacked up top and pinned in nicely at the waist.
Which is fine. I think we all are who we are. Honestly, I’m comfortable with my body in all its glorious perfect imperfection. I don’t fat shame or skinny shame or shame at all. I just imagine him having a strong preference for someone not as average as me.
I’m just saying.
I think he has a type.
And possibly a new one every night, judging from the gawking crowd of women practically flashing him their goods in order to draw his attention. I’m sure they don’t give a hoot about sword forging.
I dip my chin and look down at myself.
I’m leggy, I tell myself. I have two of them, this I know. And any more than that would be greedy, wouldn’t it? So I’m leggy because I have legs. Plural.
Although, my thighs are a little thick. My hips round and flared out more than most. And I have a backside that would surely meet the criteria for ample.
On the other hand, I’m stacked up top. But my boobs do descend a fair amount as soon as I release them from the medieval torture device that is my bra.
The crowd begins to shift and mumble as the iron Adonis stands there, looking down at his creation, hammer hanging by his side as his chest rises and falls with grateful breaths of fresh air. Sunlight shines off the sweat that coats his body, glowing bright, drops of it falling from his protruding brow and sizzling as they hit the sword lying on the anvil.
His eyes raise as he lifts and positions the cooling metal into the arched opening of the forge for a minute, then those dark eyes set below the serious brow scan the crowd. I instinctively shrink back as his gaze heads in my direction.
His tongue comes out to lick this perfect spot on his bottom lip. He withdraws the sword again, placing it precisely on the solid metal of the anvil.