Page 37 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“Raven,” I respond, my voice rough as arena sand.
Her smile holds a hint of mischief. “Rosemary,” she corrects softly. “Tonight, I’m just Rosemary.”
The significance of this offering—her true name, her unmasked self—is not lost on me. In Rome, names held power. To give someone your true name was to grant them influence over your essential self.
“Rosemary,” I repeat, the syllables a caress.
What happens next feels as inevitable as the tide. My lips find hers, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as her arms wrap around my neck, drawing me closer. Unlike our cemetery kiss, this holds no hesitation, no questioning. Hermouth opens beneath mine, tongue seeking entrance that I gladly grant.
Time loses meaning as we explore each other with increasing boldness. Her hands slide beneath my shirt, fingers tracing paths across my back that send lightning through my veins. When we finally part for breath, her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with desire that surely mirrors my own.
“Inside,” she whispers, taking my hand to lead me from the balcony into our room.
The space we’ve shared yet kept neutral transforms into something else entirely as night falls around us like a protective veil.
Chapter Seventeen
Raven
The gentle pressure of Lucius’s hand in mine feels like an anchor as I lead him from the balcony into our room. Every nerve ending is hyper-aware of his skin against mine, the calluses on his palm from sword work, the way his fingers tighten slightly as we cross the threshold. Walking into our shared space feels different now—charged with possibility instead of careful politeness.
The champagne buzz mingles with a deeper intoxication—the heady knowledge that tonight, we’re crossing a boundary we’ve both circled since our first meeting in the cemetery.
Inside, moonlight provides the only illumination, casting silver patterns across the antique furniture and the queen bed we’ve so carefully shared. The soft click of the balcony door closingbehind us seems to seal us into a world of our own making—somewhere between his time and mine.
“Are you certain?” he asks, his voice carrying that formal care that makes my heart ache. Even in desire, he maintains boundaries, offers choices.
In answer, I reach for the buttons of my blouse, slowly unfastening each one while holding his gaze. Each button reveals more skin, and I watch his pupils dilate as the fabric parts. When I let the garment slide from my shoulders, his harsh exhale is audible in the quiet room. The hunger in his eyes makes me bold—I arch my back slightly, letting him drink in the sight of me.
The air between us carries his scent—herbal and ancient, like incense lingering in sacred halls, yet tempered by the warmth of living flesh, not carved marble. When he steps closer, I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, warming the cool night air around us.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
His movements hold a different quality than modern men I’ve known—deliberate, almost ceremonial as he removes his shirt. The sight of his bare torso catches my breath. Moonlight transforms his pale skin to living marble, muscles shifting beneath like secrets being revealed one by one. My mouth goes dry with desire. Despite seeing him shirtless during the ritual painting, this feels different. That was sacred; this is intimate.
Now, every inch of exposed skin is offered to me alone, a private revelation. The pale expanse of his chest bears scattered scars from his arena days, stories written in flesh that I long to trace with my fingers, my lips. I imagine the taste of him—salt and warmth and history preserved in muscle and bone.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell him honestly.
Something like surprise flickers across his features. “Beauty was not what gladiators were valued for.”
“Then they were blind.” I step closer, closing the distance between us. My pulse pounds in places I’d forgotten existed, anticipation coiling tight in my belly. “May I touch you?”
The formal request draws a smile. “Yes.”
My fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, feeling the subtle tremor that runs through his muscles at my touch. His skin feels like warm silk stretched over steel—soft to the touch but with unmistakable strength beneath. The pale expanse of his chest rises and falls with quickening breath, and I’m mesmerized by the way moonlight seems to gather in the hollow of his throat.
“Your touch…” he murmurs, eyes half-closed. “It’s been a very long time.”
Those words hit me on several levels at once, making me shiver. Long since physical contact. Long since connection. Long since trust.
His hands rise to mirror my exploration, tracing the line of my collarbone with reverent slowness, as if memorizing the geography of my skin. When they reach the lace edge of my bra, he pauses, seeking permission with his eyes.
At my nod, his hands continue their exploration, my bra moving down my skin in a tantalizing, silken slide. His roughened palms create the most exquisite friction as his hands map the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. Every touch sends hot sparks through me, pooling low in my belly with an intensity that makes me gasp.
“You know what we both want,” I whisper, guiding his hands to the clasp at my back.
He manages it with surprising dexterity, and then the garment joins my blouse on the floor. The cool air pebbles my nipples, but it’s his gaze that sends heat coursing through my body. He looks at me with such wonder, such appreciation, that any self-consciousness evaporates.
