Page 54 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
And she does. This time not with urgency, but with devotion. She presses me back onto the bed, kissing down my chest with deliberate reverence, her hands tracking my scars as though she’s committing them to memory. Fingers linger at my belt, tugging loose the leather, and I lift my hips; the last barrier is gone. I am not rushed, only savoring the vulnerability of it. When her mouth closes over me, slow and tender, it is not conquest but worship.
“Nicole…” My voice breaks as my hand tangles in her hair. “Others have taken the body. You take the man.”
She lifts her gaze, eyes locked on mine as she continues, and the intimacy is nearly unbearable. Not the relief of the body but the surrender of the soul.
I pull her up, unable to take more without giving in return. “In Rome, some whispered of lovers who honored Venus with stillness, not frenzy—two bodies joined, breathing as one. I never understood… until now.”
Her answer is to straddle me, guiding me inside her with exquisite slowness. She holds me there, barely moving, our bodies joined but unhurried, the rhythm of breath more important than motion. Her palms press to my chest as though feeling the beat of my heart, and each subtle shift is a prayer, each sigh avow. The world narrows to the shared stillness between us, a communion older than Rome, deeper than desire.
We move together in a rhythm older than Rome, her forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling until it feels as though we’re sharing one breath.
Every thrust is deliberate, unhurried—less about release than about union. My hands cradle her hips, then her face, then everywhere at once because I can’t decide what part of her I need most. She takes me deeper, not only into her body but into the unguarded core of who she is.
“You see me,” she gasps.
“I worship you,” I answer. “Not as a goddess, but as the woman who taught me love.”
Her tears fall onto my cheeks as her body tightens around mine. We shatter together, not in violence but in awe, the kind of climax that feels like prayer.
Even in the aftermath, I feel her body still clench around me, slow ripples of pleasure gripping me as if reluctant to let me go. The lingering heat is almost unbearable, a reminder that this joining is more than release—it is possession, surrender, union.
Her lips brush my ear as she whispers, breathless, “I don’t want to let you go—not yet.” The confession vibrates through me, tethering us together even as the tremors fade.
After, she collapses against me, both of us trembling, our skin damp and our hearts raw. Holding her close, I press my lips to her hair.
“I knew flesh. I knew release,” I murmur. “But this… this is the first time I’ve known the merging of souls.”
Her hand stills on my chest, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “That’s exactly what it feels like. As if we’re more than two separate bodies—it’s one life, shared.”
I tighten my arms around her, heat still pulsing through my muscles, my skin slick with the effort of holding back. Yet even in the exhaustion, there’s a strange lightness, as though the weight I carried for centuries has lifted.
Neither of us moves for a long while. We simply breathe together, chest to chest, our bodies humming with the echo of what just passed between us.
Outside, the city glitters. Inside, our hotel room glows with the quiet holiness of two people who chose each other—and will keep choosing, every day.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Quintus
The road stretches before us like a ribbon binding two worlds—Chicago behind us, the sanctuary ahead. Nicole drives with one hand firm on the wheel, the other laced with mine. Her thumb draws soft patterns across my knuckles.
“I can’t believe how much has shifted,” she says. “When we left, I thought this was temporary.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m planning our future as if it’s always been there, waiting.” Sunlight gilds her smile. “Is that foolish?”
“If it is, then let us be foolish together.” I kiss her fingers. “I’ll call it Fortuna’s wisdom.”
We talk as the miles slip by: her courses, her hope to learn grant writing—perhaps for the Sanctuary—and my wish to preserve the old songs before they vanish.
“You must record them,” she insists. “Not just the words. Your voice.”
Her certainty untangles the knots in my chest.
When the gates come into sight, her grip tightens. “They’ll notice we’re different now.”
“They already know,” I say. “Thrax sent word. He said wagers were being made.”
