Page 59 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

He alternates between plucking, sucking, and scraping his teeth as he lavishes attention on first one, then the other nipple. Perhaps he knows how deeply he’s affecting me because his arm tightens around my waist just in time before my knees buckle. My brain is too occupied with all its attention focused on my pleasure receptors to concentrate on something as mundane as standing up.

“Your boots.” Another order.

I toe them off just in time for him to undo the button and zipper on my jeans and slide them and my panties down and off my body.

“Fuckingbeautiful.”

He leans in, his nose following the lines of my neck. Is he scenting me? Or is it that he needs a moment to control his lust after seeing me naked? How could a woman resist that?

“I need…” He doesn’t finish his thought, just eases to his knees, grips my thighs, and growls, “Open.”

I follow his command, widening my stance, and am rewarded with a soft kiss right on my clit. Perhaps he’s beyond rational thought. Maybe we both are. He’s helping to hold me up, my hands clenching his shoulders as he inches closer and spears his tongue into my soaked heat.

“Varro!”

He groans in answer, then returns his attention to my bundle of nerves, flicking, nuzzling, and creating such perfect suction that I almost topple over.

The deep moan of regret that reverberates through him is palpable as he reluctantly stops devouring me, stands, and carries me to the bed we’ve been platonically sharing.

He prowls up from the foot of the mattress, his hands tugging my thighs open wider as he travels closer to his goal. With a victorious hiss, he plunges his tongue into me, lapping, pleasuring, groaning his satisfaction.

In all the hours I’ve fantasized about him, I spent very few of them picturing this. It’s always been his heavy, muscular body on top of me, his weight almost fully pressing me down as he plunges into my all-too-desperate channel.

But I have no desire to ask him to stop what he’s doing. I doubt he would anyway. He’s a man on a mission.

Replacing his tongue with one finger and then two, he uses his mouth to lovingly attack my clit with a vengeance. Clearly, he’s not going to stop until I come on his tongue.

The sound of his mouth on my most private parts is salacious. The smacking, slurping, deep, guttural grunts of his pleasure at having split me wide and enjoying the banquet between my legs—is joined by my own sighs and whimpers and whispered urgings.

“Yes! Oh, Varro, so good. Right—Ahh!Right there!”

When a third finger joins the first two, it pushes me over the edge. All my muscles spasm in pleasure as I shout his name and grip his shoulders so tightly I imagine I’m drawing blood. His tempo speeds up as he plays my body like an instrument. Just when I think I certainly can’t go any higher, he changes his angle and makes such a filthy sucking noise that my muscles contract so tightly I wonder if I’ll break in two.

I absently try to calculate if this is one orgasm or half a dozen all linked together as I writhe in ecstasy like a rollercoaster, my pleasure ebbing, then peaking again.

Finally, I reach my limit and fall boneless, sinking into the air mattress.

I’m panting, too tired to move or even open my eyes. When I finally have the energy to look at him, he appears at least ten years younger. Perhaps it’s how proud he looks. Or maybe it’s my juices on his slick lips as he flashes me an unapologetic, smug smile.

Suddenly filled with boundless energy, I laugh. It’s deeper and heartier than I’ve laughed in years. Happier than when we were throwing snowballs the other day.

Gripping his chin and pulling him to lie down next to me, I furrow my brow, toss him an exaggerated pout, and accuse, “I thought you said you were good at this.”

It was a risk, maybe even a test to see how honest I can be with him, how much fun we can have together.

Shit! His face looks thunderous. He bounds out of bed, scoops me up as though I weigh nothing, and strides to the door, threatening, “Out with you. There’s still a pile of snow a few feet to the north. I’m going to throw you in it.”

I’m truly blessed! Somehow, this man I love is healing, growing, able to laugh with me and at me as well as at himself.

“Misericordia.” I raise my index finger, the gladiator sign a request for mercy. “I’ll make it up to you. I swear.” All the desperationfades out of my voice as I pitch it low and offer,“I’ll make it better.”

I push against his granite shoulders until he releases his grip enough for me to slither off his body. When my feet hit the floor, I’m contrite as I channel my inner femme fatale and offer, “I know just how tosootheyou, gladiator.”

Chapter Fifty

Marcus Fabius Varro

She gracefully sinks to her knees between my booted feet, her movements fluid and seductive. With a fierce tug, she pulls my loincloth to my ankles, the fabric barely surviving her eagerness. I step out of it effortlessly and kick off my boots, my arousal already pulsing at the sight of her on her knees before me.

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