Page 28 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Twenty-Five

R aven

The interview equipment sits packed and silent in the corner of the safe house living room, but the energy between us crackles like lightning before a storm.

Lucius stands by the window, still marked with the ritual paint from the recording—white symbols stark against his pale skin, transforming him into something between man and myth.

We spent time reviewing the tape and we both concluded that not a word needed to be edited. His words, his revelations, his story, his way.

“It’s done,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of the choice he’s just made. “No taking it back now.”

The vulnerability in his admission breaks something open in my chest. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s chosen to be seen—truly seen—rather than hidden or exploited. The trust implicit in that choice, the faith he’s placed in me to handle his story with dignity, overwhelms me.

“You were magnificent,” I whisper, moving toward him. “Completely in control. You owned every moment.”

He turns from the window, those impossible eyes reflecting the dying light. The ritual markings on his face and neck catch the shadows, making him look like a pagan god stepped down from ancient friezes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy with implication. We’ve crossed so many boundaries together—professional to personal, past to present, mistrust to faith. Only one remains.

“The paint,” I observe, reaching up to trace one of the symbols on his cheek. The mixture feels cool and slightly gritty beneath my fingertips. “You’re still wearing your armor.”

His smile holds a hint of darkness that sends desire flashing through me. “Perhaps I no longer need protection from you.”

“No,” I agree, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his skin and smell the spicy scent emanating from his pores. “Perhaps you don’t.”

His hand rises to capture mine against his face, those pale eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my heartbeat stumble. “Rosemary,” he says, using my real name like an incantation. “I want to claim you. Completely. The way Roman priests claimed their sacred vessels.”

The possessive edge in his voice should probably alarm me. Instead, it sends a surge of wet hunger through my blazing core, my nipples hardening beneath my shirt. “Yes,” I breathe without hesitation. “Whatever you want. However you want it.”

Something shifts in his expression—surprise giving way to raw hunger, careful control fracturing to reveal the predator beneath. For a moment, I glimpse the gladiator who survived impossible odds, the priest who commanded forces beyond mortal understanding.

“Dangerous words,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my lower lip before pressing inside. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

I close my lips around his thumb, sucking gently while maintaining eye contact. I lick the tip of his thumb in a slow, sensuous circle, then pull away just far enough to challenge, “Try me.”

His sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve found my mark. In one fluid motion, he spins me around, pressing my back against the wall. His body cages me in, hands braced on either side of my head as he leans down until his lips barely brush my ear.

“In Rome,” he whispers, his accent thicker with desire, “there were rituals for claiming what belongs to you. Sacred ceremonies that bound souls across the veil between worlds. Once marked, you would be mine in ways that transcend the merely physical.”

“Mark me,” I demand, arching against him until my breasts press against his chest. “Make me yours in every way.”

His laugh is low and dangerous. “Such a brave little death-walker. So eager to cross forbidden thresholds.”

His mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that’s pure possession—tongue claiming every inch as his hands tangle in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it. I moan into his mouth, my hands clutching at his shoulders as he consumes me like a man starved.

When he breaks away, we’re both breathing hard. “Strip,” he commands, stepping back. “Everything. Now.”

The authority in his voice makes my knees weak and my pussy clench with need. I comply, peeling away layers with trembling fingers as his eyes track every inch of revealed skin. When I’m finally naked, his gaze devours me with such intensity I feel branded by it.

“Magnificent,” he breathes, circling me slowly like a predator appraising his prey. “But incomplete.”

He moves to his bag, retrieving the ritual paint along with items I don’t recognize—small vials, dried herbs, what looks like incense. When he returns, his eyes hold an intensity that makes my core throb with anticipation.

“Give me your hands,” he instructs.

I extend them, and he begins painting intricate symbols up my arms. But this paint feels different—warmer, almost alive against my skin. Each stroke sends electric jolts of pleasure straight to my clit.

“What’s in this?” I gasp as he traces a spiral around my left breast, the mixture making my nipple tighten into an aching peak.

“Herbs consecrated to Pluto,” he explains, his voice rough. “Substances that heighten every sensation, that blur the line between bliss and transcendence. Combined with… other elements.”

“Other elements?”

His smile is wicked as he captures my nipple between painted fingers, rolling and pinching until I cry out with pleasure. “My essence. Mixed with the anointed oils. The binding requires it.”

The thought of his cum painted on my skin makes me moan, my hips grinding forward seeking friction that isn’t there yet. “You’re mixing magic with sex.”

“The Romans saw no distinction,” he says, moving to paint matching symbols on my right breast. “Sacred ecstasy was the highest form of worship. And you, Rosemary, are about to become my most devoted offering to the gods.”

He continues his work, painting symbols down my torso, across my hips, along my inner thighs. The mixture seems to vibrate with its own heartbeat, making every inch of painted skin hypersensitive. By the time he reaches the apex of my thighs, I’m trembling and soaked with need.

I whimper as his fingers circle dangerously close to where I need him most. “I’m burning for your touch.”

“The ritual must be completed properly,” he says firmly, though I can see his cock straining against his pants. “Lie down. On the bed.”

I comply on shaking legs, wondering where the calm, often priestly Lucius went and who this dominant man is.

As I lie down, the cool sheets are a stark contrast to my overheated skin.

Above me, Lucius strips with efficient movements, revealing the full glory of his marked body.

The paint covering his torso and arms seems to glow in the lamplight, making him look like some primitive fertility god.

“Now,” he says, voice carrying the authority of centuries, “we complete the binding.”

He kneels between my spread thighs, hands running up my legs with reverent appreciation. When his fingers finally reach my soaked pussy, I arch off the bed with a broken cry.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs approvingly, his thumb circling my swollen clit. “The herbs are working. You can feel how your body responds differently, can’t you?”

He’s right—every touch feels magnified tenfold, pleasure sparking through nerve endings I didn’t know existed. When he slides two fingers inside me, I nearly come from that alone.

“Lucius!” I gasp, my hands fisting in the sheets.

“Not yet,” he warns, his fingers moving with maddening precision. “In the temple, we believed that peak pleasure could transport the soul beyond physical boundaries. But you must earn your release, little death-walker.”

He adds a third finger, stretching me deliciously while his thumb continues its relentless assault on my clit. The painted symbols on my skin pulse with each thrust of his hand, creating feedback loops of sensation that have me sobbing with need.

“Please,” I beg, my hips bucking against his hand. “I need to come. I need—”

“You need to be claimed,” he corrects, withdrawing his fingers just as I reach the edge. “Properly. Completely.”

He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against my slick opening. The sight of him—painted in divine sigils, eyes blazing with possession—makes me clench with desperate need.

“Look at me,” he commands, one hand gripping my hip while the other tilts my chin up. “I want to watch your face when I make you mine.”

He enters me in one powerful thrust, stretching me to the point of exquisite pain. The herb-laced paint seems to make every nerve ending sing, the sensation of being filled so completely almost too intense to bear.

“Fuck,” I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re so big, so deep—”

“Perfect,” he groans, holding still to let me adjust. “You take me so beautifully. Like you were made for my phallus.”

When he begins to move, it’s with deliberate, measured strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside me. The painted symbols on our skin seem to vibrate in time with our joining, creating waves of sensation that build with each thrust.

“I can feel you everywhere,” I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him deeper. “Not just inside me, but in my soul. What did you do to me?”

“Bound you to me,” he answers, his pace increasing. “Body, mind, and spirit. The old ways recognize no half-measures.”

He reaches between us to circle my clit with fingers slick with my arousal, and the combination of his cock filling me and his thumb on my most sensitive spot sends me spiraling toward the edge again.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice strained with his own approaching release. “Let me feel you come around my cock. Give me your surrender.”

The command, combined with a particularly deep thrust that hits my G-spot perfectly, finally pushes me over. My orgasm tears through me like a force of nature, my pussy clamping down on him as pleasure radiates through every painted symbol on my skin.

“Lucius!” I scream, my back arching as waves of sensation crash over me. The herbs make it feel like my soul is separating from my body, transcending physical boundaries just as he promised.

“Mine,” he growls, his rhythm becoming erratic as my orgasm triggers his. “All mine, forever.”

He drives into me one final time, his cock throbbing as he fills me with hot spurts of his essence. The sensation of being claimed so completely, of feeling his cum marking me inside and out, triggers another smaller climax that has me gasping his name.

As we collapse together, both breathing hard, the painted symbols continue to flicker with residual energy. The herbs keep sending aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitive body, making me twitch with each small movement.

“What happens now?” I whisper against his chest, feeling fundamentally changed by what we’ve just shared.

His arms tighten around me possessively. “Now you belong to me, as I belong to you. The binding is complete, Rosemary. What the gods have joined, no mortal power can separate.”

As sleep finally claims us, still intimately connected with his softening cock inside me and our mingled essence sealing the ancient bond, I know there’s no going back.

We’ve crossed a threshold tonight that changes everything—bound ourselves with forces both sacred and primal in ways that will echo through eternity.

Whatever tomorrow brings, we’ll face it as one—marked, claimed, and irrevocably joined by powers older than time itself.