Lila stepped into the historic forge as golden evening light filtered through the open doors. The air was thick with the scent of burning coal, hot iron, and masculine sweat. She was there for research on her historical novel, but nothing could have prepared her for the man working at the anvil.
Thorne was a giant of a man, easily 6’5”, with a barrel chest, arms thicker than her thighs, and powerful shoulders glistening with sweat. His dark beard was trimmed short, and his green eyes burned with quiet intensity. He wore a heavy leather apron over bare skin, the straps framing his muscular torso, and thick work pants that did little to hide the powerful bulge beneath.
“You must be the writer,” he rumbled, voice deep and rough like grinding metal. He set down his hammer with a heavy clang.
