Page 58 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

“So beautiful,” he murmurs in English, since our translators are on the bathroom counter. Dropping to his knees before me, his lips press against my stomach, my hip, the top of my thigh, each tender press of his lips is a promise of what’s to come.

I’ve known this man was gorgeous since the moment I laid eyes on him, but my appreciation of his face and form is different now. I love his soul. The package he lives in is merely icing on the cake.

He must be using every scintilla of his willpower not to make this more sensual than it already is, especially when he cleans between my legs. For a moment, I wish he would let himself go, but then I realize he’s dragging this out for a reason—so our ultimate joining will be that much more perfect. He must know I’m already aching for him.

When it’s my turn, I take the soap and work it into a lather, spreading it across the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. I trace each scar, each muscle, first with gentle fingertips, then, after rinsing the soap, my mouth and lips.

I work my way down his body with deliberate slowness. His breath catches as my hand encircles him briefly, a preview of pleasures to come. He may have godlike willpower. I, however, feel like a thirteen-year-old who can’t control her impulses.

“If we continue this,” he says, his voice tight with restraint, “we may never leave this shower.”

I understand his gentle scold, so I pull the showerhead off the wall and rinse us both quickly, letting the anticipation build between us like heat lightning before a storm. As we dry each other with soft towels, our touches grow more urgent, less controlled.

Clean but far from satisfied, we move toward the bed, leaving damp footprints across the floor.

I turn to him and trace my fingers along the raspy line of his jaw, marveling at how this ancient warrior has become my anchor in a storm-tossed world.

“I never thought,” I whisper after we put our translators in, “when my father called that night, interrupting my peaceful sleep, that it would lead to this—to you.”

His smile transforms his face from classical sculpture to a living, breathing man. “The Goddess Tyche works in mysterious ways.” His hand covers mine, turning to press a kiss to my palm. “It took two thousand years of sleep to find you.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Worth the wait?”

Instead of answering with words, he draws me into his arms. The kiss starts gently, reverent, but quickly deepens with the heat that’s been building between us since that first night in my bed. His hands thread through my hair, cradling my head as though I’m something precious.

We’ve touched before, tasted fragments of this connection, but always held back—first by deception, then by circumstance. Now, in the safety of Second Chance, there are no more barriers between us.

“On the run,” he says, “as you drove, I dreamed of this moment when I could fully express my love for you,Fortis.”

The reverence with which he looks at me brings hot tears to my eyes.

We take a moment to simply look at each other. The light drifting through the windows gilds his bronze skin, highlighting the strength and grace that first drew me to him. His gaze travels over me with such raw admiration that I feel beautiful, powerful, desired.

“Pulcherrima,” he whispers. Most beautiful.

Our bodies collide as the towels fall forgotten to the floor. Skin to skin after what seems like months—without hesitation or barrier. His arms encircle me, lifting me effortlessly to carry me to the bed.

The feeling of being completely enveloped in his strength while knowing the gentleness of his heart makes me feel safer than I’ve ever been.

He lays me down on the bed, his gaze never leaving mine. The mattress dips under his weight as he joins me, his body covering mine, a warm, solid blanket of muscle and flesh. I can feel his heart pounding, echoing my own racing pulse. His lips find mine again, hungry and insistent, stealing my breath and replacing it with his own.

Calloused hands explore, mapping my body with a claiming touch. His fingers raise goosebumps as they trail up my side, brushing against the swell of my breast. After breaking the kiss, his lips move to my jaw, then my neck, searing a path down to my collarbone. Each press of his lips sends jolts of electricity through me, igniting fires under my skin.

“Damian,” I whisper, my voice barely recognizable. I bite back the urge to tell him everything I want him to do to me, with me. I think it will be more enjoyable if I just let my gladiator take charge.

He responds with a low growl, his mouth moving lower, capturing one taut nipple between his lips. The sensation is exquisite, a dance between pleasure and pain that has me arching off the bed, pressing myself deeper into his mouth. His tongue swirls, his teeth gently graze, and his hands—god, his hands—they knead and caress and pluck, driving me wild with desire.

Threading my fingers through his hair, I hold him to me as he lavishes attention on one breast, then the other. Each tug of his mouth sends a corresponding pulse between my legs, a throbbing ache that begs for his touch. His stubble rasps against my sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation, another spark to the fire burning within me.

“Damian, please,” I gasp, my body writhing beneath him. I need more, so much more.

He lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire. “What do you need,Domina?” he asks, his voice a husky rumble. The use of that name, the one he called me when he thought I owned him, sends a thrill through me. It’s a game now, a dance of power we both enjoy.

“Touch me,” I command, spreading my legs in invitation. His gaze flickers down, his pupils dilating at the sight of me, open, ready, and glistening for him. A slow, sensual smile spreads across his face, and he trails kisses down my stomach, his hands gently parting my thighs further.

I can feel his warm breath against my most sensitive spot, and I can’t help but squirm in anticipation. He looks up at me, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and mischief. “Patience,Domina,” he murmurs, his lust-filled voice rough as gravel.

He dips his head, and I feel the first soft touch of his tongue. It’s a tease, a promise of what’s to come. He explores me gently, tasting and testing, finding what makes me gasp and writhe. I grip the sheets, my knuckles turning white as I try to keep myself grounded, but it’s no use. With each skilled stroke of his tongue, I feel myself spiraling higher and higher.

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