Page 19 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)
Nicole
Inside his quarters, we stand facing each other in the lamplight, suddenly awkward now that we’re alone. The weight of our separation, the things I said, the hurt I caused—it all hangs between us.
“I missed you,” I whisper, and the simple words break whatever dam we’d built.
Then we’re on each other, desperate and starved.
A week of forced separation explodes into need.
His mouth crashes against mine with a ferocity that steals my breath, and I respond with equal intensity, my hands fisting in his shirt like I’m afraid he might disappear if I don’t hold on tight enough.
“I missed you,” he growls against my lips, his voice rough with want. “Every damn day.”
“Show me,” I gasp, already pulling at his clothes with shaking fingers.
We’re a tangle of eager hands and hungry mouths, relearning each other after a separation that felt like eternity.
His calloused palms map my curves through my sweater, and I arch into his touch like I’m starving for it.
Because I am. Because this week without him has been self-preservation disguised as torture.
“I need you now,” I breathe against his throat, surprising myself with my boldness.
He spins us around, pressing my back against the door with delicious force. The solid wood is cool against my spine, but his body is furnace-hot where it holds me in. Not trapping—offering. Giving me exactly what I’m demanding with my desperate touches and breathless pleas.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me whimper, and his low chuckle vibrates against my skin. “Right here? Against the door?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.” My fingers work frantically at his shirt buttons, needing skin contact more than I need air. “I don’t care.”
Clothes disappear in a frenzy of impatient hands.
My sweater hits the floor, followed by his shirt, then my bra—everything in our way becomes an obstacle to be eliminated as quickly as possible.
I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but there’s no room for self-consciousness when desire this fierce is consuming us both.
His hand slips between my legs, finding me already wet and ready, and I cry out at the contact I’ve been craving for seven endless days.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, his fingers moving with devastating skill. “You’re ready for me. Slick. Welcoming.”
“Because I need this. Need you.” The words come out broken, desperate, more honest than I’ve ever been about my desires.
He works me with relentless focus, thumb circling while two fingers thrust deep, and I realize I’m not going to last long. The week of deprivation has left me hypersensitive, every nerve ending singing under his attention.
“Come for me,” he commands softly, increasing the pressure. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
The climax surges through me, sudden and overwhelming and absolutely devastating. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my body convulsing against the door while he holds me steady through the storm.
For a moment, we just breathe together, foreheads touching, his exhale syncing with mine. This isn’t just physical release—it’s… it sounds so corny, but it’s a soul connection. I tug him tighter, breathing in his scent and flicking my tongue against his pec just to taste the salty essence of him.
“Incredible,” he breathes, kissing me deeply while I’m still shaking from the aftershocks. “I could watch you come apart in my hands forever.”
The words should terrify me. Forever. Instead, they make me want to give him exactly that—every orgasm, every moment of vulnerability, every piece of myself I’ve been too scared to share.
“I want everything.” The declaration tumbles out as we stumble toward his bed, still clutching each other like we might drown if we let go. “All the things I fantasized about but never dared ask for.”
His eyes darken with understanding and promise. “Everything?”
“Everything.” I push him down onto the mattress, straddling his hips with newfound boldness. “I want to explore. To discover what I like when I’m not worried about someone else’s ego or schedule or petty judgment.”
For twenty-five years, sex was something that happened to me. Scott’s routine, Scott’s preferences, Scott’s timeline. But this—this is mine. My choice, my pace, my pleasure to claim and give.
I slide down his body with deliberate intent, pressing kisses to his chest, his stomach, the sharp cut of his hipbones. When I reach my destination, I look up to find him watching me with an expression of reverent anticipation.
“Are you certain?” he asks, even though his body betrays how much he wants this. The tip of his cock is leaking pearly pre-cum.
“Are you crazy? I’ve dreamed of this so often, I’m desperate for it.”
Taking him into my mouth is a revelation. Not just the taste of him—salt and musk and his singular masculine taste—but the power I wield. Every sound I draw from his throat, every ripple of strain beneath his skin, every whispered plea for more or for mercy—it’s all under my control.
“Goddess, your mouth,” he gasps, his hand tangling gently in my hair. “You’re incredible. Take more of me.”
I do, experimenting with pressure and rhythm, learning what makes him groan and what makes him curse in Latin. The knowledge that I can reduce this strong, competent man to sheer desperation fills me with confidence I never possessed before.
But this isn’t about taking from Quintus—it’s about finally being free to share everything I have without fear. He’s the first man who’s made me feel safe enough to want boldly, to revel in pleasure without shame. With him, my desire feels like a gift between us, not a theft or a burden.
“I love this,” I confess, pulling back to catch my breath. “Love the taste of you, the sounds you make. Love feeling powerful.”
“You are powerful. Beautiful. Fierce. Mine.” His voice is strained with the effort of control. “Fortuna herself would envy you.”
Before I can respond, he flips our positions with fluid grace, settling between my thighs with clear intent.
“My turn to worship,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me with devastating skill.
His mastery of my body is confident, every movement designed to drive me higher. He uses techniques I’ve only read about in books, creating sensations I never imagined my body was capable of. This isn’t our first time together. Was he really holding all of this back until I was ready?
“This is different,” I gasp, back arching off the bed. “More intense. Like you’re claiming every part of me.”
He pauses just long enough to meet my eyes, his expression fierce. “Because you needed someone who cares about your pleasure. Someone who understands that your satisfaction is the point, not an afterthought.”
The words hit as hard as his skilled mouth, and when he resumes his attention, I shatter completely. This orgasm is different from the desperate release against the door—deeper, more intense, rolling through me in waves that seem to last forever.
“I want you to take control,” I tell him when I can finally speak again. “Tell me what you want.”
His intensity flickers in his dark eyes, but it isn’t threatening—it’s the disciplined attention of a gladiator who survived because he never gave less than everything to what mattered. Now his lethal concentration is aimed entirely at my pleasure.
“In the arena, absolute focus meant survival,” he says, his voice dropping to a commanding rumble. “In bed, it means ecstasy. Do you trust me to show you the difference between a man who takes and one who worships until you surrender willingly?”
I’m speechless at the command in his voice. All I can do is nod slowly.
Something feral flickers in his dark eyes. “Are you certain? Because once I start, I might not be gentle.”
The promise sends heat spiraling through me. “I’m tired of gentle. I want to feel claimed by you.”
His answering growl is low and rough. “Not claimed. Treasured. Utterly. But I’ll take you hard if that’s what you want.”
With a single motion, he lifts me into his arms as though I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The sudden strength of it steals my breath—and excites me in ways I never imagined.
He presses me back against the rough log wall, the wood cool against my spine, grounding me even as his warmth surrounds me.
His blunt head slides against me, seeking, and when I arch into him in silent invitation, he thrusts deep in one slow, relentless motion. The stretch is exquisite, tearing a sensual moan from my lips as he fills me completely.
“Perfect,” he groans. “You take me like you were made for me.”
His hands keep me aloft, guiding my body with absolute control, driving me down and pulling me up in a rhythm so perfect it feels like he’s always known exactly how I need to be taken.
Every lift and plunge steals my breath, every stroke deeper than the last, until I’m trembling in his grasp, nails biting into his shoulders.
He doesn’t falter—his strength is inexhaustible, his rhythm relentless yet precise, each thrust a declaration that I am his to pleasure, his to cherish. My moans echo through the cabin, blending with the guttural sounds he makes as his control begins to fray.
“Tell me how it feels,” he commands softly.
“Mmm… too much.” Before he can stop, I add, “And not enough.”
“Intense?” he asks, his voice strained with control.
“God, yes,” I gasp, clinging tighter. “Don’t stop.”
“Take me, Nicole,” he groans, adjusting his grip as though I weigh no more than a cloak. “Take all of me.”
The rhythm he sets is demanding, consuming, nothing like the careful consideration he’s shown before. This is raw desire unleashed, and I meet him thrust for thrust, trusting his strength to hold me steady.
“Yes,” I gasp, shocking myself with my boldness. “Harder. I want to feel you for days.”