Page 12 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with a possibility I’ve never allowed myself to imagine. Scott made it clear early in our marriage that such intimacies were unnecessary, messy, and not worth his time.

But Quintus looks at me like tasting me would be a privilege, not a chore.

“Yes,” I whisper.

The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out, back arching off the bed. I’ve never felt anything like this—the focused attention, the patient exploration, the building desire that has nowhere to go but up. He hums against me, and the vibration lights every nerve like a fuse.

He learns my responses with the same careful attention he gave to fixing my window, adjusting pressure and rhythm based on what makes me gasp, what makes me clutch the sheets, what makes me grind my hips. Every movement is deliberate, designed to drive me higher.

“Please,” I hear myself saying as my heels scrabble against the sheets. Though I’m begging, I’m not sure what I’m asking for.

He seems to know, maintaining steady pressure and rhythm, focused entirely on my need. My first climax takes me by surprise, my whole body going taut before I cry out, fingers tangled in his hair.

But he doesn’t stop. Perhaps he knows my body is capable of more, and he seems determined to show me what I can do when someone pays proper attention.

The second orgasm builds more slowly, and he coaxes me through it with patient devotion until I’m sobbing his name, overwhelmed by sensation.

I shake apart, pleasure rolling through me in waves until I’m boneless and breathless.

I’ve never felt anything remotely like this. My body is singing, every nerve ending alive and electric, and I can’t seem to stop the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

“I didn’t know,” I gasp when I can finally speak. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

He moves up my body slowly, pressing gentle kisses to my skin as he goes. When he settles beside me, gathering me against his chest, I feel cherished in a way that’s completely foreign.

“You deserve to feel good,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The words hit me harder than they should. How many years did I spend believing I didn’t deserve to feel good, that my body existed for someone else’s convenience?

“I want you,” I tell him, surprising myself with the boldness. “All of you.”

“Then open for me,” he rasps, shifting his hips. “And feel what it’s like to be filled by a gladiator who has carried two thousand years to this moment.”

He settles over me carefully, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t overwhelm my smaller frame. The lamplight catches the silver in his hair and the intensity in his storm-gray eyes as he positions himself at my entrance.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, and I meet his gaze as he begins to press inside.

The stretch is exquisite. Heat sears through me, the ache of being filled colliding with the shock of how perfectly he fits, as if my body has been waiting for this shape, this man.

He fills me inch by deliberate inch until I’m gasping at the overwhelming sensation. His fingers dig into my hips, not quite hard enough to bruise but firm enough to hold me steady as my body adjusts to accommodate him.

“Breathe,” he reminds me, his voice strained with the effort of going slow. “Let me in, Nicole. All of me.”

I roll my hips experimentally, and he groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. When he’s fully seated, we both pause, overwhelmed by the perfect fit, the way my body seems made to take him.

“Move,” I whisper, and he does—a slow withdrawal that makes me whimper, then a deep thrust that sends sparks shooting through every nerve ending.

The rhythm builds gradually, the wet sound of our joining mixing with our harsh breathing and his whispered encouragements. His hips snap forward with controlled power, each thrust deliberate and devastating, angled to hit that spot inside me that makes me see stars.

“Okay?” he manages as he pants through gritted teeth.

“More than okay,” I breathe, rolling my hips in invitation.

This is what sex is supposed to be like—partnership instead of performance, mutual enjoyment instead of one-sided satisfaction. He moves as if he’s making love to me rather than just using my body for release.

“You feel incredible,” he murmurs against my throat, and I believe him because everything about his touch speaks reverence.

The rhythm builds gradually, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until I’m balanced on the edge of something vast and overwhelming. Every movement sends sparks through my nervous system; every breath he takes fans the fire building in my core.

“You’re so tight, so perfect. I want to feel you come around my cock,” he whispers into the shell of my ear. The words hit like a lightning strike to my core; I clench around him, and his groan rips through me like silk tearing.

I cry out his name as my climax crashes through me, more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. Seconds later, he follows, my name on his lips like a prayer as he buries his face in my neck.

In the aftermath, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, hearts gradually slowing from their frantic pace.

I fit perfectly against his side, my head on his shoulder, one hand splayed across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

He presses an absentminded kiss to my hairline, and my chest goes hot and tight with a kind of aching contentment I don’t recognize—safety wearing the shape of a man.

I could stay like this forever—being held, feeling him breathe, basking in the glow of the most blissful sex of my life.

But reality creeps back as my pulse returns to normal. What we just shared was incredible—better than I imagined sex could be—but it was also more intimate than I’d planned. The emotional connection was supposed to be manageable, controllable.

Instead, I feel cracked wide open. Danger flickers under the sweetness—this is the part where, in my old life, tenderness turned into leverage. I can feel how easy it would be to fall, and that alarms me more than anything. Protect yourself, Nicole. Shut things down now.

“That was… amazing,” I say, rather than “beautiful,” which was on the tip of my tongue. Instead of letting him see how deeply this coupling affected me, I try to keep my expression stoic as I sit up, reaching for my scattered clothes.

“It was,” he agrees, but something in his tone makes me look at him.

There’s disappointment in his eyes, like he can see me retreating already.

“But let’s keep this simple,” I continue, pulling my sweater over my head. “No expectations. No complications. Just… this.”

“Simple?” He sits up slowly, his perceptive gaze searching my face. A muscle jumps in his jaw, there and gone, the only sign he’s been hit.

“No strings attached. Casual. We’re both adults, we’re attracted to each other, and we have great chemistry. Why complicate it with feelings and expectations?”

The words taste wrong in my mouth, and I hear the wobble in my tone that I’m trying to hide.

It isn’t the truth, not all of it. Fear is in the driver’s seat. In my marriage, every vulnerable moment became ammunition later. If I showed softness, it got used like a lever. What if I hand that power to someone again? What if the gentleness disappears once he knows he matters?

But even as I think it, I know it’s not fair to Quintus. The way he touched me tonight was reverent, not possessive. I’m punishing a good man for someone else’s sins, and I hate that I’m doing it even as I do it.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can practically see him processing my boundaries. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral.

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” I lie, although it feels caustic coming out. “For now.”

He nods once and reaches for his clothes. “I should go. Let you rest.”

“Right. Rest. Good idea.”

I walk him to the door, aware of the awkwardness that’s settled between us like a wall. At the threshold, he pauses.

“Nicole—”

“Thank you,” I interrupt before he can say whatever’s going to make this harder. “For tonight. It was exactly what I needed.” I swallow. “And I’m… I’m frightened. That’s not your fault.”

He studies my face for a moment longer, then nods. “Good night.”

After he leaves, I lie back in bed and try to convince myself I’ve done the right thing. I came here to find myself, not to lose myself in another relationship.

I was supposed to learn self-defense and maybe have some good sex before I’m too old to care. Instead, I’m falling for a two-thousand-year-old gladiator who sings lullabies and keeps his word. This is not how I pictured my midlife crisis going.

I can see what I’m doing—treating kindness like a threat because once, it was.

Quintus has never asked me to be smaller, never made me feel like my independence was inconvenient. If anything, he seems to admire my strength and want to support it rather than control it. He deserves better than this reflex to pull back.

As I brush my teeth and wash the scent of him from my skin, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made a terrible mistake.

This was supposed to be simple; my heart didn’t get that memo.

Visions of the way he looked at me—like I was something precious—won’t let me sleep. I’m not ready to name what tonight was, but I can’t pretend it didn’t tilt my whole world off its axis.