Page 30 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

Did he spit into his hand? Because the unmistakable sound of slick flesh rubbing together makes stark pictures fly through my head. His swarthy hand, the one that just held my chin so tenderly, doesn’t sound gentle now. No. He’s moving wildly, as little moans escape his throat.

My nipples are hard, the tender tips scraping against the soft fabric of my t-shirt. I’m wetter than I was during our kiss. A hugepart of me wants to roll over and relieve him of his burden by finishing his hand-job or, better yet, using my eager mouth.

I’m almost ready to give in to that urge when his strokes speed up and his mattress, side by side with mine, shakes. I picture his heels digging into his bed, his back arching as he releases. He leaves no question as to his pleasure as he comes with a deep, satisfied groan, then sags into his mattress.

How am I supposed to sleep now? My little battery-powered vibrator will do me no good sitting in the storage area beneath my bed.

Pictures of the one-room cottage we discovered today fly into my mind. I imagine how it will look in a few weeks. It will have a sturdy roof and a clean hearth. We’ll have toted our worldly goods from here to there to begin what promises to be a life together. Although I have a crush on Varro, I didn’t really think we’d become a couple.

How are we going to live in close quarters, possibly for the next several decades, without acting on this blazing attraction? And what if we do make love? What happens when the spark of new attraction grows dim? When we have our first fight and then have to share a house for the rest of our lives?

And what about this, this sexual frustration that’s already killing me? How am I supposed to live with that?

First thing tomorrow, we’re going to have a talk.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Marcus Fabius Varro

I wake before Laura and grab us both one of the dwindling supply of tasteless bars from the main tent. After using thelatrinae,I return to our tent to toss her the ration.

She’s told me she’s “not a morning person,” so she groans as usual and makes grumbling noises as she sits up in her sleeping bag. She’s pretty, and it’s hard not to recall how good our kiss felt last night. I’m not exactly sure why she shut things down, but I wouldn’t mind sheathing myself inside her if she changes her mind.

After ripping her wrapper open and devouring a bite as though she hasn’t eaten in days, she says, “sit,” as she uses what’s left of the bar to point to the camp chair tucked up to her small desk.

My ass barely touches the seat before she says, “We need to talk.” Her pretty lips are pursed, her brows lowered. By the look of things, this isn’t going to be a fun conversation.

“Um… last night…”

Perhaps sheisa virgin; she’s being indirect, shy. Is she talking about our dancing? The kiss? “What about it?”

She looks heavenward, a clear sign of her impatience.

“You…” Her mouth is working, but no sound comes out. Finally, “Perdere semen.”

Wasting semen. She’s talking about me stroking myself last night. “Yes?”

“That’s inappropriate.”

Anger, red and hot, flies through me. She has told me several times she doesn’t own me, that I’m no longer a slave. How dare she tell me what I can and cannot do with my own body?

“You have no right to control me!” I jump to my feet and glower at her. Should I remind her that she aroused me? That I went to bed wanting?

She breathes deeply, her hands up to placate me. “That came out wrong. I shouldn’t have said that. Let me start over. It’s not considered polite.”

Scrubbing my hand over my mouth, I try to understand.

“Was it the act itself? That I didn’t invite you to join me, though you made it clear you weren’t interested? Was it how I disposed of the… semen?”

“I was embarrassed, uncomfortable.”

We’ve continued the game we started shortly after we met, sharing information about our different cultures. I’m trying to make sense of things from her point of view, but need more information.

“I grew up in a cottage about the size of the one we discovered yesterday. Very similar. One room. My parents’ activities were under the blankets, but I wasn’t deaf. I heard them.”

Her head is tipped in question as though she still doesn’t understand.

“A gladiator barracks, with ten, maybe twenty men crammed together, men who’ve fought hard all day and have littleentertainment. The sound of men taking pleasure with their hands was the music I went to sleep by for decades. Not nearly as pretty as ‘Claire de Lune’.”

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