Page 14 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
“The key,” he says, his accent giving the words a musical quality I now know comes from literal music living in his bones, “is to redirect rather than resist. When someone grabs your wrist like this—” He demonstrates on Maya, his touch careful and professional. “—you do not fight the grip. You use it.”
I watch his hands with fascination bordering on obsession. Those same hands that adjusted my window frame, that had moved through the air conducting invisible orchestras while he sang. Now they’re showing us how to break free from an attacker, how to turn someone’s strength against them.
The contradiction is driving me insane.
“Partner up for practice,” Maya calls out. “Quintus, can you work with Nicole? She’s been struggling with this sequence.”
I haven’t been struggling. I’ve been distracted by thoughts of what those hands might feel like on my skin, but that’s hardly something I can announce to the class.
“Of course.” He moves toward me with an economical grace that makes my pulse quicken. “May I?”
Professional. Courteous. Treating me exactly like he treats every other student. That should reassure me. Instead, it makes me itch to push, to see what’s beneath that careful control.
“Please.” My voice comes out slightly breathless, which is ridiculous. We’re practicing self-defense, not foreplay.
His hand closes around my wrist—gentle but firm, testing the grip that would simulate an actual threat. His skin is warm and calloused, and a shock of heat shoots straight between my thighs. I bite the inside of my cheek hard, desperate not to make a sound that would give me away.
“Feel the direction of pressure,” he says, standing close enough for me to catch his scent—soap and leather and something indefinably masculine that makes my knees weak. His chest is inches from my shoulder; the faint warmth of his breath grazes my temple. Every nerve in me leans toward him, traitorous and hungry.
“Do not fight against it. Use the momentum.”
He guides me through the movement, his other hand light on my shoulder to show me the angle. Professional touches that shouldn’t feel intimate but do, because I keep remembering the way his face looked in the moonlight, unguarded and beautiful.
“Good,” he murmurs as I execute the technique correctly. “Much better. You learn quickly.”
The approval in his voice sends warmth shooting through my chest, and I realize I’m in deeper trouble than I thought. When was the last time a man’s praise made me feel genuinely proud instead of just relieved I hadn’t screwed up?
“Again,” Maya calls out. “This time, put some real effort into it. Don’t be polite.”
Real effort. Right. Like I could focus on anything other than the way Quintus’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s concentrating, or how his careful touches are awakening nerve endings I’d forgotten I had.
We run through the sequence three more times, and by the end, I’m breathing harder than the exercise warrants. Every brush of his fingers, every quiet word of encouragement, every moment of being the focus of his complete attention—it’s building something dangerous in my chest.
Something that feels less like distraction and more like danger.
“Excellent progress,” he says as we finish, and there’s something in his expression that makes me think he might be feeling the effects of all that careful touching, too. His gaze flickers down—quick, controlled, but not invisible. He felt this, the same as I did. “You have goodinstincts, Nicole. Trust them.”
Trust my instincts. If I trusted my instincts right now, I’d grab him by the shirt and find out if his mouth tastes as good as his voice sounds.
Instead, I mumble something about needing water and practically flee to the other side of the training area.
By my late afternoon rest period, I’m a mess of contradictions. My body feels alive in ways it never did during my marriage—hyper-aware of every sensation, every possibility. For twenty-five years, sex was something that happened to me, not something I actively wanted. Scott made sure I understood that my desires were inconvenient at best, selfish at worst.
But this? This feels like waking up hungry after years of starving myself.
My phone buzzes with Ava’s contact photo, and I answer before the second ring.
“Mom! You look flushed. Good workout?”
“Something like that.” I prop the phone against my pillow and flop onto my bed, still trying to catch my breath from the emotional whiplash of the day.
“Okay, spill. What’s got you all glowy?”
“I’m not glowy. I’m sweaty.”
“You’re glowy in a way that has nothing to do with exercise. Is itgladiator-related?”
Trust my daughter to cut straight to the heart of things. “Imayhave met someone interesting.”
