He laughs quietly, if only to hold back a moan that would be ill-advised in this moment (but so appropriate thanks to the feeling of Raju’s hands back in his hair). “By god, I’ve created a monster.”

And what hadn’t he liked?

“The little dip of your waist,” he answers, raising his own hand up to casually run over his arm. “The color of your skin, dark and golden and warm, the breadth of your shoulders, the way the muscles rippled every time you leaned towards me. Christ, you have no idea. Your neck, the way it slopes down in that graceful arc, your luscious chest that I just wanted to sink my teeth into, leave dusky little marks all over you…”

He might be getting a little too heated, but it’s difficult not to get carried away. “You’ve been so covered up, even in our cabin, but seeing the full picture of you…you took my breath away.”

But Raju had liked how he’d looked? He doesn’t understand it, he’s scarred and pitted and his chest hair is going grey and he has the body of a man who went through starvation, but he’d be a fool to question it.