Page 19 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Seventeen

R aven

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 closing behind 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.

When he lowers his head to place a tentative kiss against my sternum, I can’t suppress a soft sound of pleasure. The heat of his mouth against my skin draws another gasp from somewhere deep inside me. My back arches as I offer more of myself to his exploration.

His lips trail upward to my throat, then across my shoulder, learning the contours of my body with meticulous attention.

Each kiss leaves a burning imprint, a map of desire that makes me tremble.

The sweet torment of his slow discovery makes me want to beg for more, but I hold back, savoring the exquisite tension building between us.

It feels as though I’ve waited a lifetime for this.

“You taste of life,” he murmurs against my skin, echoing his words from our cemetery kiss.

My hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the silky white-blond strands as his mouth continues its exploration. When his lips close around one nipple, a gasp escapes me, back arching to press more firmly against him.

“Lucius,” I breathe.

He gives equal attention to both breasts, learning quickly what elicits the strongest responses. His tongue circles each nipple with a deliberate pressure that sends sharp spikes of pleasure straight to my center.

When he draws one hardened peak into the wet heat of his mouth, I cry out, my fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.

The gentle scrape of teeth followed by soothing strokes of his tongue creates a rhythm that my body recognizes, my hips lifting unconsciously to seek friction that isn’t yet there.

For someone from a distant century, he proves a remarkably attentive student of pleasure.

His mouth is impossibly warm against my skin, his breath coming in controlled pants that betray his own growing need.

I can taste the lingering sweetness of champagne when he claims my mouth again, along with something uniquely him—clean and slightly mineral, like mountain springs.

The gritty sound he makes when I arch against him vibrates through his chest and straight into my bones.

My hands move lower, finding the waistband of his pants.

My fingertips trace the defined muscles that disappear beneath the fabric, feeling them tense beneath my touch.

The unmistakable evidence of his arousal presses against my stomach, and I grind against it deliberately, drawing a strangled gasp from him that sounds like victory.

“May I?”

His nod grants permission, though I note the flicker of vulnerability in his expression. Slowly, I unfasten his belt, then the button, then the zipper. As the fabric loosens, I can feel his arousal straining against the remaining barrier.

“And yours?” he asks, fingertips brushing the button of my jeans.

In answer, I unfasten them myself, pushing the denim down my hips until I can step free. Standing before him in only black lace underwear, I feel powerful rather than exposed. The naked desire in his eyes is its own intoxicant.

“The bed,” I suggest, taking his hand again.

Together we move toward it, the sheets cool against heated skin as we stretch out facing each other.

Our bodies align like pieces of a puzzle finally finding their match.

The slight friction as we settle against one another—thigh against thigh, hip against hip —creates small stuttering shocks that make me tremble.

His weight partially covering me feels like a homecoming I never knew I sought.

For a moment, we simply look, taking in the reality of where this journey has brought us.

Then his hand traces the outline of the sugar skull tattooed on my right shoulder. “Tell me about this one?”

“My first,” I explain, voice husky with emotion and desire. “After the accident. A reminder that I glimpsed what waits beyond the veil and returned.”

His lips replace his fingers, placing a gentle kiss over the tattoo. “And this?”

His touch moves to trace a small symbol just below my ear, a delicate ankh I had inked there years ago.

“Egyptian,” I whisper. “Life eternal. I got it after researching different cultural approaches to immortality.”

“The crux ansata ,” he murmurs in Latin, recognition immediate in his voice. “Montu, a comrade from the Nile lands, had one. You chose wisely—it represents the continuation of essence beyond physical death.”

He kisses the tat sweetly, respectfully, then licks and nips until I squirm with pleasure. He gives the area one more sweet kiss, then his touch moves to the three coins inked on my wrist.

“Charon’s payment,” I whisper. “For safe passage across the Styx.”

Understanding dawns on his expression. “You marked yourself with symbols of the underworld you glimpsed.”

“Yes.” The simple acknowledgment feels like unburdening a secret carried too long. “No one else understood what I saw. What I felt.”

“I understand,” he says softly, and I know he does—perhaps the only person who truly could.

My fingers find one of his scars, a thin white line across his shoulder. “And this?”

“A ritual sacrifice gone wrong in the temple. The bull wasn’t properly subdued, and his horn cut me.”

“This one?”

“My third professional fight. Against a retiarius—a gladiator from Gaul who fights with a weighted net, three-pointed trident, and dagger.”

Each scar tells a story of survival, of endurance. I learn them with my fingers, then my lips, mapping the history written on his body. When I reach the waistband of his underwear, I glance up, seeking final permission.