Page 38 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
When he lowers his head to place a tentative kiss against my sternum, I can’t suppress a soft sound of pleasure. The heat of his mouth against my skin draws another gasp from somewhere deep inside me. My back arches as I offer more of myself to his exploration.
His lips trail upward to my throat, then across my shoulder, learning the contours of my body with meticulous attention. Each kiss leaves a burning imprint, a map of desire that makes me tremble. The sweet torment of his slow discovery makes mewant to beg for more, but I hold back, savoring the exquisite tension building between us.
It feels as though I’ve waited a lifetime for this.
“You taste of life,” he murmurs against my skin, echoing his words from our cemetery kiss.
My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the silky white-blond strands as his mouth continues its exploration. When his lips close around one nipple, a gasp escapes me, back arching to press more firmly against him.
“Lucius,” I breathe.
He gives equal attention to both breasts, learning quickly what elicits the strongest responses. His tongue circles each nipple with a deliberate pressure that sends sharp spikes of pleasure straight to my center.
When he draws one hardened peak into the wet heat of his mouth, I cry out, my fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there. The gentle scrape of teeth followed by soothing strokes of his tongue creates a rhythm that my body recognizes, my hips lifting unconsciously to seek friction that isn’t yet there. For someone from a distant century, he proves a remarkably attentive student of pleasure.
His mouth is impossibly warm against my skin, his breath coming in controlled pants that betray his own growing need. I can taste the lingering sweetness of champagne when he claims my mouth again, along with something uniquely him—cleanand slightly mineral, like mountain springs. The gritty sound he makes when I arch against him vibrates through his chest and straight into my bones.
My hands move lower, finding the waistband of his pants. My fingertips trace the defined muscles that disappear beneath the fabric, feeling them tense beneath my touch. The unmistakable evidence of his arousal presses against my stomach, and I grind against it deliberately, drawing a strangled gasp from him that sounds like victory.
“May I?”
His nod grants permission, though I note the flicker of vulnerability in his expression. Slowly, I unfasten his belt, then the button, then the zipper. As the fabric loosens, I can feel his arousal straining against the remaining barrier.
“And yours?” he asks, fingertips brushing the button of my jeans.
In answer, I unfasten them myself, pushing the denim down my hips until I can step free. Standing before him in only black lace underwear, I feel powerful rather than exposed. The naked desire in his eyes is its own intoxicant.
“The bed,” I suggest, taking his hand again.
Together we move toward it, the sheets cool against heated skin as we stretch out facing each other. Our bodies align like pieces of a puzzle finally finding their match. The slight friction as we settle against one another—thigh against thigh, hip against hip—creates small stuttering shocks that make me tremble. His weight partially covering me feels like a homecoming I never knew I sought. For a moment, we simply look, taking in the reality of where this journey has brought us.
Then his hand traces the outline of the sugar skull tattooed on my right shoulder. “Tell me about this one?”
“My first,” I explain, voice husky with emotion and desire. “After the accident. A reminder that I glimpsed what waits beyond the veil and returned.”
His lips replace his fingers, placing a gentle kiss over the tattoo. “And this?”
His touch moves to trace a small symbol just below my ear, a delicate ankh I had inked there years ago.
“Egyptian,” I whisper. “Life eternal. I got it after researching different cultural approaches to immortality.”
“Thecrux ansata,” he murmurs in Latin, recognition immediate in his voice. “Montu, a comrade from the Nile lands, had one. You chose wisely—it represents the continuation of essence beyond physical death.”
He kisses the tat sweetly, respectfully, then licks and nips until I squirm with pleasure. He gives the area one more sweet kiss, then his touch moves to the three coins inked on my wrist.
“Charon’s payment,” I whisper. “For safe passage across the Styx.”
Understanding dawns on his expression. “You marked yourself with symbols of the underworld you glimpsed.”
“Yes.” The simple acknowledgment feels like unburdening a secret carried too long. “No one else understood what I saw. What I felt.”
“I understand,” he says softly, and I know he does—perhaps the only person who truly could.
My fingers find one of his scars, a thin white line across his shoulder. “And this?”
“A ritual sacrifice gone wrong in the temple. The bull wasn’t properly subdued, and his horn cut me.”
“This one?”
