Page 40 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Chapter Eighteen
Lucius
The words catch in my throat as I look down at her, flushed with pleasure, vulnerable in her nakedness, eyes questioning as my hesitation becomes apparent. Her skin glows golden in the lamplight, the curves of her hips and breasts creating shadows that beg to be traced. The scent of her arousal still lingers in the air between us, sweet and primal, making my resolve waver with each breath. The magic of our intimate exploration suddenly feels fragile against the weight of unspoken concerns.
“What is it?” she asks, hand coming up to cup my cheek. The gentleness of her touch nearly undoes my resolve.
I shift to lie beside her rather than above, needing the slight distance to formulate thoughts that have shadowed me since agreeing to this journey. My body protests the separation, stillaching with desire for her warmth. As I move, my phallus brushes her thigh, sending a jolt of sensation up my spine that makes my words momentarily catch. The cool night air raises goosebumps on our heated skin, a physical reminder of the vulnerability we’ve now shared. Her nipples harden in response, and I fight the urge to warm them with my mouth, to taste the salt on her skin once more.
“This changes things between us,” I begin carefully. “And I need to understand what it means.”
Her brow furrows slightly. “Isn’t that obvious? I want you. You want me.”
“Yes,” I acknowledge, “but desire alone isn’t what concerns me.” My fingers trace the outline of her shoulder, unable to completely withdraw from the connection we’ve established. “When I was in the arena, my entire existence was performance. Every aspect of my being was calculated for audience reaction.”
Understanding begins to dawn on her expression. “You think I’m treating you like a performance? Like content?”
“Not intentionally,” I clarify. “But our relationship began with a professional purpose. Your documentary. My expertise.” The words feel inadequate even though I’m speaking in Latin and have the benefit of the translator in her ear. “I need to know that what grows between us exists separately from that purpose.”
She sits up slightly, pulling the sheet to cover herself—a physical withdrawal that mirrors the emotional distance my words havecreated. “I thought I’d been clear about that. What we’re doing right now has nothing to do with the documentary.”
“Doesn’t it?” The question emerges gentler than the challenging words might suggest. “Would we have met without your professional interest? Would you have looked twice at me if not for what I represent?”
Pain flashes across her features. “That’s not fair. Of course, we met because of the documentary. But what I feel for you now is about the man I’ve come to know, not the content you could provide.”
“I want to believe that,” I admit, the honesty painful but necessary. “But I’ve spent lifetimes being valued for what I represent rather than who I am. In the temple, I was Pluto’s vessel. By the nature of my birth, the high priests believed I was capable of an intimate relationship with Pluto and the underworld. In the arena, I was The Ghost—an exotic spectacle. Even at the sanctuary, I exist somewhat apart, defined by my connection to death.”
The hurt in her eyes shifts toward understanding. “And you’re afraid I’m doing the same thing. Seeing the albino gladiator-priest rather than just Lucius.”
“I was a commodity in the arena,” I say, the ancient pain surfacing despite centuries buried in ice. “I cannot bear to be one again, even for you.”
She’s silent for several heartbeats, absorbing the full weight of my confession. Emotions flash across her face so swiftly Ican’t identify them all. When she speaks, her voice carries no defensiveness, only quiet conviction.
“I see you, Lucius,” she whispers, leaning forward to take my face between her hands. “Not the Ghost, not a gladiator or a Roman priest. You.”
For a moment, I permit myself to lean into her touch, eyes closing against the complicated emotions her nearness evokes. Her fingertips burn like gentle brands against my skin, and my body responds instantly, betraying my mental resolve. The sweetness of her breath falls against my lips, a whisper away from a kiss that would likely unravel my determination entirely.
I almost let down my guard, then caution reasserts itself, and I gently disengage, creating the necessary space between us. Even this small withdrawal feels like tearing silk—a physical ache that settles low in my belly.
“Mexico,” I say softly, neither rejection nor acceptance. “The Day of the Dead. Let us see what clarity the festival brings to the living.”
Hurt flashes across her features, quickly masked with understanding. “You need time. I get that.”
It’s not time I need. It’s certainty. Something outside this moment to prove it’s real.
She nods slowly, pulling the sheet more securely around herself. The intimacy we shared lingers in the air between us, neither regretted nor easily dismissed.
“For what it’s worth,” she says after a moment of silence, “I’ve never shared myself with someone the way I did tonight. Not just physically, but…” Her hand gestures vaguely, searching for words. “The stories. The scars. The memories.”
The directness of her admission unsettles me with its simple honesty. “Nor have I,” I acknowledge. “Not even in my time.”
A small smile touches her lips, fragile but genuine. “Then we’ve already crossed boundaries, haven’t we? Regardless of what happens next.”
Outside our window, New Orleans continues its nighttime revelry—music and laughter drifting up from the streets, a city that embraces both life and death with equal passion. Tomorrow we leave for Mexico, for a celebration that honors those who have passed while celebrating the continuing bonds between worlds.
“Sleep,” I suggest gently. “Tomorrow brings new journeys.”
She hesitates, then asks, “Will you still hold me tonight? Just hold me?”
