The early afternoon sun was at its hottest, but the breeze in January was cool, and Lara's dress was comfortable, so she wasn't drenched in sweat like Alaric was.
Alaric shrugged off his heavy robe, the fabric sliding from his broad shoulders in a casual, fluid motion. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a white, crisp handkerchief.
It wasn't the first time Lara had seen him perspire like this, but it was her first time seeing him dressed like this— stripped down to the simplicity of his linen undershirt, its long, fitted sleeves clinging to him like a second skin that did little to hide the taut definition of his muscles. Each movement sent a ripple across his frame that caught her gaze before she could think to look away.
