Page 41 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

I snort, unable to contain my laughter. “A legion? If memory serves, that’s five thousand men! That’s a lot of… yield.”

He tips his head with a sly wink—he can be so smug when he wants, but damn,it looks good on him.

“Well, whatever you’re growing, just make sure it doesn’t kill whatever herbs or veggies that might surprise us in the spring.”

From that day on, “planting cucumbers” becomes our inside joke. Whenever Varro heads out for one of his “walks,” I’ll call after him, “Don’t forget to water the cukes!”

He’ll respond with increasingly ridiculous suggestions. “I’m thinking of branching out into turnips today,” or “How do you feel about cabbage?”

It’s silly and a bit crude, but it breaks the tension that’s been building between us. We may not be able to act on our attraction, but at least we can laugh about it.

One evening, as we sit by the fire, Varro has been struggling to mend a pair of trousers for most of the evening when he turns to me with a serious expression. “Laura.” His voice is soft, sincere. “I want you to know… I appreciate your understanding. About the cucumbers and everything.”

I feel a lump form in my throat. “Of course,” I manage to say. “We’re in this for the long haul. We have to be able to talk about… everything.”

“So… if we can talk about everything…”

Crap! I fell into a trap. There’s a naughty gleam in his eye and he’s building up to something.

“When we kissed, you seemed like a lusty woman. Tell me, how is it I’ve never caught you… watering your own cucumbers?”

Okay, moment of truth. I could wave this off, pretend my bodily urges are completely under control—or nonexistent—or I could come clean. And really, how long can I continue with absolutely no outlet while I share this little cottage with not just the handsomest man on the island, but the handsomest man on planet Earth?

“I wasn’t raised in a gladiator barracks. I need privacy and there’s a scarcity of that in our cottage.”

Flabbergasted, flummoxed, and gobsmacked are the only words to describe the look on his face.

“You haven’t relieved yourself in all this time?”

“Sadly, no.”

“You can’t… do it quietly when I’m asleep?”

“It’s hard for me to remain quiet.”

I can’t blame him for smirking. For a guy raised with a bunch of gladiator slaves, I think he’s shown remarkable restraint, considering the subject matter.

“You’re a screamer.” He’s gloating.

“Well, I tend to make noise. It’s also…” Come on, Laura, spit it out already. “I have a little machine and although the online description said it was quiet, that was a bit of an exaggeration.”

As I made that statement, he was taking a sip of water. If this were a play, his reaction would be described in the stage directions as a spit-take.

“Amachine?”

“Well, yeah.”

“The people in your time actually made a machine for pleasure?” His brown eyes, almost golden in the firelight, are rounded in interest. “Modern men must be severely lacking in technique.”

I begin to exclaim that phallic objects are nothing new and that there is extensive evidence to suggest they were popular in Ancient Rome, but all I can manage is a swallowed, “Yes.” If he’s this intrigued by one sex toy, I guess I shouldn’t mention that we have catalogs of them, online stores, franchises.

“I must see it.”

Is he punking me? Fascinated by modern technology? Or is it just that he’s trying to see how red my cheeks can get?

“It’s private.” I amnotgoing to show him my battery-powered rabbit.

“Laura, you must show me. My mind is reeling with pictures.”

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