Graves was lying next to you on the grass. His icy blue eyes intently watched your refined bootless leg. It swayed in the air and froze in place while you concentrated on the shot.

He was distracting, to put it mildly. But his sweet murmurs were soothed.

“If you could see yourself from the outside,” his cold finger slid down your ankle, tugging at the fabric of your sock. “You look like perfect art.”

You gasped when your shot missed because he distracted you again.