Page 11 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)
Chapter Eleven
Nicole
My hands shake as I unlock my door, aware of Quintus following behind me. The moment seems alive with possibility, and despite my brazen behavior, I’m terrified.
“Are you certain?” he asks as I fumble with the key, his voice low and careful.
I turn to face him, taking in his weathered features softened with concern in the dim lighting. This is the man who sang to the Missouri night, who puts things right without making me feel small, who looks at me like I’m something precious rather than a burden to be tolerated.
“I’m certain I want to find out what this is,” I manage, finally getting the door open.
The small room feels transformed by intention.
The lamp casts everything in warm golden light, and suddenly the narrow bed that’s been perfectly adequate for sleeping seems to dominate the entire space.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I set my key on the dresser, buying myself a moment to breathe.
I’ve never been this nervous in my life—not as a bride, not as a mother, not even when I walked away from everything I knew. This trembling feels different. Anticipation tangled with terror and want.
He’s too far away, standing near the door like he’s ready to bolt if I change my mind. The careful distance feels wrong after the charged energy that’s been building between us all evening.
“Come here,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
He crosses the room slowly, as if he’s giving me time to reconsider. When he stops just within arm’s reach, I can smell his scent—clean soap with a whiff of leather that makes my stomach flutter.
“Tell me what you want,” he says softly.
His formal phrasing, even in passion, reminds me he’s from another time—when words carried weight and intention, when even desire was expressed with reverence.
The question catches me off guard. No one’s ever asked me that. Not really.
“I want to feel beautiful,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can censor them. Another part of me screams that this is reckless. Dangerous.
His expression transforms, something fierce and tender kindling in his silver eyes. “You are beautiful. Let me show you.”
When he reaches to touch my face, his calloused fingers trace my cheekbone with a reverence that makes my breath catch.
This feels like… worship. Dangerous worship, the kind that could undo me.
“May I kiss you?” Quintus asks, and the fact that he’s asking permission does something dangerous to my resolve to keep this simple.
I nod, not trusting my voice. When his lips brush mine, it’s nothing like I expected. Gentle at first, questioning rather than demanding. Testing, learning, waiting.
But the moment I sigh against his mouth, something shifts—hunger flares like a spark catching dry tinder. His smile curves against my lips as he deepens the kiss, no longer tentative but purposeful, coaxing me to open, to yield, to take.
His tongue teases mine, and heat blooms low and deep, racing through me until my knees threaten to give out.
“Mine to savor,” he breathes against my lips, as if the words themselves taste of possession and wonder.
My fingers clutch at his shoulders before I can stop them, needing the solid strength of him to keep me grounded as the world tilts around this kiss. I make a helpless sound into his mouth, and his answer is a low, pleased rumble that I feel all the way to my toes.
The slow burn catches fast, hunger sparking into something hotter than I expected. Every brush of his mouth demands more until I’m clinging to him, tasting salt and heat and inevitability.
“So sweet,” he murmurs against my lips, and I believe him because everything about his touch speaks truth.
My laugh is shaky. “I’m forty-five and out of practice.”
“You are exquisite,” he breathes, meeting my eyes. “And I have nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The patience in his voice undoes something inside me. No rush. No agenda. Only me. That’s the problem—I can feel myself slipping, losing boundaries I swore I’d hold.
But Quintus looks at me like we have all the time in the world.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” I admit, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Too much information, too revealing.
“Neither have I,” he says simply, and something in his voice makes me believe him.
His hands find the hem of my sweater, warm fingers brushing my skin underneath. “May I?”
The asking again. Like my consent matters more than his desire.
When I nod, he moves with unhurried certainty, slipping the sweater over my head and letting his fingertips trail heat along my ribs as the fabric lifts away. The cool air hits my skin, and I fight the urge to cover myself. But Quintus’s gray eyes are gazing at me like I’m a goddess.
“Incredible,” he breathes, his hands skimming my shoulders, my arms, charting me like precious territory.
The vulnerability in my posture must be obvious, because his touch becomes even gentler, almost worshipful. Every stroke feels like he’s carefully rewriting the story etched into my skin.
“Look at me,” he says softly when I turn away.
I force my gaze to meet his, expecting to see disappointment or criticism. Instead, I find wonder.
“Beautiful,” he repeats, letting his hands speak the words as they trace the soft curve of my waist, the line of my collarbone, the place where my pulse flutters rapidly at the base of my throat.
I’m trembling, but not from cold. When he leans down to press his lips to that racing pulse, I gasp and arch into him.
“I want to worship every part of you,” he murmurs against my neck. “Will you let me?” The question, the way he waits for my nod, makes everything clear.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Just like that,” he murmurs, his voice low and worshipful, as though every sound I make is a gift.
His mouth on my throat sends electricity shooting straight to my core. When did I become this responsive? When did my body learn to sing under someone else’s touch?
His hands are everywhere, teasing fire along my skin but never quite giving enough, like he knows how close I am to begging.
My knees weaken; my body betrays me. His warm hand follows along the fabric of my bra and lingers at the clasp.
One patient breath, then steady fingers find the hooks and free them like he was born knowing how.
The fabric falls away, and for a moment, I feel exposed, vulnerable. But then he’s looking at me with such devotion, such genuine appreciation, that shame can’t find purchase.
“Perfect,” he says again, and this time I almost believe him.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He helps when I get tangled, is patient with my nervousness, and when the fabric finally hits the floor, I release a soft gasp.
Scars scatter across his chest and shoulders, telling stories I can’t read, but his skin is warm and solid under my palms. Real muscle, real strength, offered to me without demand or expectation.
When he guides me backward toward the bed, I go willingly, trust overriding anxiety. Or maybe it’s lust overriding common sense. Either way, I don’t for a moment consider stopping him.
I sink back against the pillows, suddenly aware of how I must look—chestnut hair fanned around my head, wearing nothing but my jeans, breathing hard with want.
He follows me down slowly, settling beside me rather than over me.
No caging, no trapping. Just offering himself as my equal partner in this exploration.
“Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to my shoulder, my collarbone, the soft swell of my breast.
My back arches when he takes my nipple into his mouth, a gasp escaping my lips that sounds almost surprised. Like I’d forgotten my body was capable of this kind of pleasure.
“Oh,” I breathe, fingers threading through his hair. “Oh, that’s…”
He takes his time, alternating attention between my breasts until I’m squirming beneath him, soft sounds of pleasure falling from my lips like music. Every sensation feels magnified, like my nerve endings have been sleeping for years and are finally waking up.
Too much. Too good. I’m drowning in sensation, caught between losing myself if I let go and breaking apart if I don’t.
His mouth is patient and skilled, finding places that make me gasp and arch and lose track of coherent thought.
His teeth scrape lightly, and he soothes the sting with his tongue, causing heat to pool low and urgent.
When his hand skims down my stomach to the waistband of my jeans, I tense involuntarily.
“Okay?” he asks, pausing immediately.
“Yes,” I manage. “Just… it’s been a while since someone…”
Since someone cared about my permission or my pleasure, I don’t finish. But his expression tells me he understands.
“We have time.” He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “All the time you need.”
The gentle reassurance breaks down another wall I didn’t know I was clinging to. When he resumes his exploration, helping me out of my remaining clothes with careful attention to my comfort, I let myself sink into the sensation instead of worrying he’ll become impatient.
There is no impatience. Only focused attention that makes me feel like the center of his universe.
His responses to my touch are intoxicating—the way his breath catches when I find a sensitive spot, how his muscles tense under my exploring hands, the soft sounds he makes when I press kisses to his throat.
But when he settles between my thighs, positioning his face near my sex, I tense again.
“I don’t need—” I start, then stop.
“What don’t you need?” he asks gently.
“You don’t have to… Scott never…”
Understanding flashes in his eyes, followed by something that looks like anger—not at me, but for me. Of course, Scott didn’t. Selfish lovers focus on their own pleasure, treating their partners like convenient receptacles rather than people deserving worship.
“I want to,” Quintus tells me, meeting my eyes so I can see the truth. “Very much. Will you let me?”