Page 38 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
Shame burns my throat. “I won’t do that again.”
His eyes narrow, not unkind but searching. “Words are easy. What proves this time is not the same as before?”
The truth lodges in my chest, but I force it free. “I realized that losing you scares me more than risking my independence.”
For the first time in days, his guarded expression cracks, hope flickering through the grief.
For a moment, we’re frozen—close enough to feel each other’s heat, trembling with want and fear and hope.
Then his hand touches my face, thumb brushing away tears.
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain I don’t want to practice letting go. I want to practice holding on.”
His smile transforms his face. “Then let’s practice together.”
He takes my hand, fingers twining naturally, and we walk toward his quarters in silence—nervous, determined, knowing everything changes tonight.
We’re going to discover what lies on the other side of courage.
Chapter Eighteen
Nicole
Inside his quarters, we stand facing each other in the lamplight, suddenly awkward now that we’re alone. The weight of our separation, the things I said, the hurt I caused—it all hangs between us.
“I missed you,” I whisper, and the simple words break whatever dam we’d built.
Then we’re on each other, desperate and starved. A week of forced separation explodes into need. His mouth crashes against mine with a ferocity that steals my breath, and I respond with equal intensity, my hands fisting in his shirt like I’m afraid he might disappear if I don’t hold on tight enough.
“I missed you,” he growls against my lips, his voice rough with want. “Every damn day.”
“Show me,” I gasp, already pulling at his clothes with shaking fingers.
We’re a tangle of eager hands and hungry mouths, relearning each other after a separation that felt like eternity. His calloused palms map my curves through my sweater, and I arch into his touch like I’m starving for it. Because I am. Because this week without him has been self-preservation disguised as torture.
“I need you now,” I breathe against his throat, surprising myself with my boldness.
He spins us around, pressing my back against the door with delicious force. The solid wood is cool against my spine, but his body is furnace-hot where it holds me in. Not trapping—offering. Giving me exactly what I’m demanding with my desperate touches and breathless pleas.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me whimper, and his low chuckle vibrates against my skin. “Right here? Against the door?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.” My fingers work frantically at his shirt buttons, needing skin contact more than I need air. “I don’t care.”
Clothes disappear in a frenzy of impatient hands. My sweater hits the floor, followed by his shirt, then my bra—everything in our way becomes an obstacle to be eliminated as quickly as possible. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but there’s no room for self-consciousness when desire this fierce is consuming us both.
His hand slips between my legs, finding me already wet and ready, and I cry out at the contact I’ve been craving for seven endless days.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, his fingers moving with devastating skill. “You’re ready for me. Slick. Welcoming.”
“Because I need this. Need you.” The words come out broken, desperate, more honest than I’ve ever been about my desires.
He works me with relentless focus, thumb circling while two fingers thrust deep, and I realize I’m not going to last long. The week of deprivation has left me hypersensitive, every nerve ending singing under his attention.
“Come for me,” he commands softly, increasing the pressure. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
The climax surges through me, sudden and overwhelming and absolutely devastating. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my body convulsing against the door while he holds me steady through the storm.
