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On the night before their duel for Grand Archmage, fire mage Beck Marlow and storm mage Topher Jacobs lock blades in an empty training yard—until a standoff at each other's throats collapses into a desperate, years-denied kiss. With Beck's flame-daggers vanished and Topher's broadsword abandoned, they tear each other's clothes off against a stone pillar, four years of rivalry igniting into raw, possessive hunger.
Beck's spine hits the cold stone pillar, Topher's body a wall of muscle and static against him. Their blades clatter somewhere in the dirt — neither cares. Topher's mouth is on his, fierce and open, t
Beck stands at the tunnel mouth leading to the arena, the black tunic's high collar brushing his jaw, the crowd's roar echoing off stone. He reaches up and, with two fingers, eases the collar down jus