Page 57 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

I dig my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to go to him, to interrupt his routine with desperate kisses and roaming hands. The want, the need, is almost overwhelming.

Living here, away from civilization for months with just an ancient gladiator for company, has made me lose track of reality. But I’ve always been a realist. Deciding to have sex with him means the possibility of pregnancy. It wouldn’t happen for a while. I have an implant, but eventually it’s going to expire.

The idea of having a baby in these primitive conditions is terrifying, but at this point, I don’t think I can resist my desperate desire to feel his body on top of me. Iburnfor this man. How long can I ignore that?

Suddenly, Varro turns, his eyes locking with mine. I freeze, caught in his gaze like the prey who thinks it’s hidden but finds itself in the predator’s sights. Varro’s expression shifts, surprise melting into something darker, more primal. He must see the naked desire written all over my face, might even smell my blatant arousal on the breeze.

For a moment, we’re suspended in time, the air between us crackling with tension. Then, slowly, deliberately, Varro moves again. But this time, it’s different. His movements are more languorous, sinuous. Each pose emphasizes the power of his body, the flex of his muscles, the grace of his form.

It’s no longer practice. It’s a performance.

For me.

My breath catches in my throat as he executes a long, slow lunge, his muscles rippling under sun-kissed skin. He twirls the sword in a complex pattern, the blade flashing in the late afternoon light. It’s mesmerizing, dangerously beautiful.

Varro’s gaze never leaves mine as he moves through his routine. Each gesture, each flex and stretch, feels like a caress. He’s touching me without laying a hand on me, and I’m burning up from the inside out.

I know I should look away. I should turn on my heel, run to search for roots and leaves, anything to escape the intensity of this moment. But I can’t. I won’t.

Instead, I stand my ground, meeting his gaze head-on. I let him see everything I’m feeling, every ounce of desire, every spark of need. I’m done hiding, done pretending I don’t want him with every fiber of my being.

Varro’s movements grow more intense, more overtly sensual. He arches his back in a stretch that showcases every sculpted planeof his torso. Sweat glistens on his skin, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching out to touch him.

As he flows into his final pose, sword held high in two hands, our gazes lock once more. The message in his eyes is clear: an invitation, a challenge, a promise.

I take a deep breath, my decision made.

“That pose is lovely, Varro, but you possess a different sword. I’d like to see how you thrust and slash with that.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Marcus Fabius Varro

My hands hold Invictus above me, my body frozen in the final pose of my routine. Laura’s words hit me like a physical blow, sending a jolt through my system. Did I hear her correctly?

I lower my weapon slowly, my gaze never leaving hers. The look on her face is unmistakable—desire, raw and unfiltered. It’s an expression I’ve seen countless times before, on the faces of those who sought to use me for their pleasure. But this… this is different.

There’s heat in Laura’s gaze, yes, but also vulnerability. Affection. Trust. It’s a heady combination, one that makes my heart race as my cock thickens in my loincloth.

“Laura,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. “Are you sure?”

She takes a step closer, her chin lifted in determination. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

The truth of her comment slams through me, lighting up every part of my body. I swallow hard, fighting the immediate urge to close the distance between us and claim her lips with mine. Itwould be so easy to give in, to lose myself in the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin. But…

AmIready for this?

The question catches me off guard. In the past, my own readiness was never a consideration. I was a tool, a means to an end. My wants, my needs, were irrelevant.

But now, standing here with Laura looking at me like I’m the answer to every question she’s ever had, I realize I have a choice. For the first time in my life, I can say no.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to ponder it. The last few months flash through my mind—the nightmares, the memories so realistic it’s as though I’m reliving them, the slow, painful process of healing. I revel in my awareness that I’m asking myself for my own consent. Such progress!

Laura must sense my hesitation because she takes a step back, her expression softening. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” she says gently. “I just… I needed you to know how I feel.”

Her words wash over me, soothing and reassuring. This is Laura. My friend, the woman who’s seen me at my worst and still looks at me as though I’m something precious.

I realize with a start that I trust her. Completely, without reservation. And more than that, Iwanther. Not just physically, but in every way possible.

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