Page 40 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
His blunt head slides against me, seeking, and when I arch into him in silent invitation, he thrusts deep in one slow, relentless motion. The stretch is exquisite, tearing a sensual moan from my lips as he fills me completely.
“Perfect,” he groans. “You take me like you were made for me.”
His hands keep me aloft, guiding my body with absolute control, driving me down and pulling me up in a rhythm so perfect it feels like he’s always known exactly how I need to be taken. Every lift and plunge steals my breath, every stroke deeper than the last, until I’m trembling in his grasp, nails biting into his shoulders.
He doesn’t falter—his strength is inexhaustible, his rhythm relentless yet precise, each thrust a declaration that I am his to pleasure, his to cherish. My moans echo through the cabin, blending with the guttural sounds he makes as his control begins to fray.
“Tell me how it feels,” he commands softly.
“Mmm… too much.” Before he can stop, I add, “And not enough.”
“Intense?” he asks, his voice strained with control.
“God, yes,” I gasp, clinging tighter. “Don’t stop.”
“Take me, Nicole,” he groans, adjusting his grip as though I weigh no more than a cloak. “Take all of me.”
The rhythm he sets is demanding, consuming, nothing like the careful consideration he’s shown before. This is raw desire unleashed, and I meet him thrust for thrust, trusting his strength to hold me steady.
“Yes,” I gasp, shocking myself with my boldness. “Harder. I want to feel you for days.”
His response is immediate and overwhelming, the pace becoming almost punishing in its intensity. But it’s exactly what I need—this complete surrender to sensation, this abandonment of every careful boundary I’ve ever maintained.
“Tell me what you want,” he commands, one hand cradling my head as he continues to move me with effortless power. “Don’t hold back.”
“I want… I want to try everything with you.” The confession spills out between gasps. “Things I never even asked for before. Things I was too scared to want.”
He stills for a moment, pressing me against the wall with his body while his hands cradle me securely. “Anything. Everything. But always with your yes.”
And then, still buried deep inside me, he turns, strides to the bed, and lowers me with reverent care, never breaking the rhythm, never letting me go. The mattress catches me, but it’s Quintus’s weight, his presence, his unyielding devotion that holds me steady. He moves above me with relentless precision, every thrust deeper, sharper, until the storm inside me can’t be contained.
Sensation builds so high it feels dangerous, like my body might break apart if he makes one more thrust. My cry rips free as my pleasure peaks, ecstasy tearing through me in violent spasms. I convulse around him, clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth. He doesn’t let up—driving me through wave after wave, coaxing out every ounce of bliss until I’m wrecked and trembling beneath him.
My body milks him ruthlessly, and with a guttural groan, he follows me over the edge. His rhythm falters, then breaks, as he spills into me with a force that makes his whole frame shudder. For a moment, it’s chaos and fire—two bodies burning each other alive—before we collapse together in a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing.
“Goddess,” he rasps against my temple, his voice ragged. “You undo me, Nicole. And I never want to be whole again without you.”
We lie there for a heartbeat, slick and trembling, his hands smoothing over me like he needs to remind himself I’m real. The tenderness of it makes my eyes sting, because no one has ever worshipped me like this—not with words, not with touch, not with body and soul all at once.
What follows is an education in pleasure.
Each careful caress feels like ritual healing, ancient wisdom applied to modern wounds. This isn’t just sex—it’s transformation, all his understanding of desire focused entirely on my needs.
He learns me with a scholar’s patience and a warrior’s devotion until nothing about my body is a mystery to him.
When the storm finally ebbs, he eases out of me and gathers me against his chest. My muscles tremble, boneless, but he holds me with a gentleness that makes my throat ache. Instead of rushing for another conquest, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear and murmurs, “Breathe with me.” We lie there like that, his steady rhythm teaching my body calm after chaos.
The contrast undoes me—warrior and protector, conqueror and caretaker, all in one. He leaves my side only long enough to pour a goblet of watered wine, the Roman way. As he lifts it to my lips, he urges, “You earned a moment of rest, love.”
His eyes are so kind, so accepting. I want to live in this moment forever. As I catch my breath, I return the favor, pressing the metal goblet to his mouth, allowing all of my affection to beam at him through this gesture and through my gaze.
Hours pass in a blur of desperate coupling and tender recovery, only to build again into furious need. We fall into a rhythm—wild one moment, languid the next. At some point, he scoops me up and carries me into the shower.
Steam curls around us as he presses me to the slick tile, water sluicing over our overheated bodies. The hard spray pelts my shoulders, but all I register is him, his strength pinning me and his thrusts pounding out a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. When I come this time, it’s blinding, a starburst behind my eyes that leaves me gasping his name against the mist.
“Again,” I demand breathlessly. “I want you again.”
“Greedy,” he chuckles, but he’s already hardening against me.
