Page 20 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)

His response is immediate and overwhelming, the pace becoming almost punishing in its intensity. But it’s exactly what I need—this complete surrender to sensation, this abandonment of every careful boundary I’ve ever maintained.

“Tell me what you want,” he commands, one hand cradling my head as he continues to move me with effortless power. “Don’t hold back.”

“I want… I want to try everything with you.” The confession spills out between gasps. “Things I never even asked for before. Things I was too scared to want.”

He stills for a moment, pressing me against the wall with his body while his hands cradle me securely. “Anything. Everything. But always with your yes.”

And then, still buried deep inside me, he turns, strides to the bed, and lowers me with reverent care, never breaking the rhythm, never letting me go.

The mattress catches me, but it’s Quintus’s weight, his presence, his unyielding devotion that holds me steady.

He moves above me with relentless precision, every thrust deeper, sharper, until the storm inside me can’t be contained.

Sensation builds so high it feels dangerous, like my body might break apart if he makes one more thrust. My cry rips free as my pleasure peaks, ecstasy tearing through me in violent spasms. I convulse around him, clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth.

He doesn’t let up—driving me through wave after wave, coaxing out every ounce of bliss until I’m wrecked and trembling beneath him.

My body milks him ruthlessly, and with a guttural groan, he follows me over the edge.

His rhythm falters, then breaks, as he spills into me with a force that makes his whole frame shudder.

For a moment, it’s chaos and fire—two bodies burning each other alive—before we collapse together in a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing.

“Goddess,” he rasps against my temple, his voice ragged. “You undo me, Nicole. And I never want to be whole again without you.”

We lie there for a heartbeat, slick and trembling, his hands smoothing over me like he needs to remind himself I’m real. The tenderness of it makes my eyes sting, because no one has ever worshipped me like this—not with words, not with touch, not with body and soul all at once.

What follows is an education in pleasure.

Each careful caress feels like ritual healing, ancient wisdom applied to modern wounds. This isn’t just sex—it’s transformation, all his understanding of desire focused entirely on my needs.

He learns me with a scholar’s patience and a warrior’s devotion until nothing about my body is a mystery to him.

When the storm finally ebbs, he eases out of me and gathers me against his chest. My muscles tremble, boneless, but he holds me with a gentleness that makes my throat ache.

Instead of rushing for another conquest, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear and murmurs, “Breathe with me.” We lie there like that, his steady rhythm teaching my body calm after chaos.

The contrast undoes me—warrior and protector, conqueror and caretaker, all in one. He leaves my side only long enough to pour a goblet of watered wine, the Roman way. As he lifts it to my lips, he urges, “You earned a moment of rest, love.”

His eyes are so kind, so accepting. I want to live in this moment forever. As I catch my breath, I return the favor, pressing the metal goblet to his mouth, allowing all of my affection to beam at him through this gesture and through my gaze.

Hours pass in a blur of desperate coupling and tender recovery, only to build again into furious need. We fall into a rhythm—wild one moment, languid the next. At some point, he scoops me up and carries me into the shower.

Steam curls around us as he presses me to the slick tile, water sluicing over our overheated bodies.

The hard spray pelts my shoulders, but all I register is him, his strength pinning me and his thrusts pounding out a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.

When I come this time, it’s blinding, a starburst behind my eyes that leaves me gasping his name against the mist.

“Again,” I demand breathlessly. “I want you again.”

“Greedy,” he chuckles, but he’s already hardening against me.

“Twenty-five years of bad sex to make up for,” I reply, nipping at his earlobe. “We have so much work to do.”

Later, tangled in damp sheets, we experiment, laughing and groaning in equal measure. Sixty-nine overwhelms me—giving and receiving at once, as if the only purpose of this night is to learn every way our bodies were meant to fit.

Finally, I ride him while he plays with my breasts, taking control of our rhythm while he watches my face with reverent attention.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands spanning my waist. “So beautiful when you let yourself have what you want. What you deserve.”

This final joining is slow and intense, more about emotional connection than physical release. We move together with synchronized breathing, gazes locked, souls as naked as our bodies.

Dawn light filters through his window as we lie tangled together, thoroughly satisfied and glowing with the kind of exhaustion that comes from transcendent physical connection. My body hums with remembered ecstasy, every nerve ending still singing from hours of worship.

“You gave me more than I dreamed possible tonight,” I whisper, fingers tracing his scars. “You made me feel safe enough to explore parts of myself I never dared touch before.”

“And you gave me your trust,” he answers softly. “Your pleasure. Your heart. That is the greatest gift.”

His words are gentle but weighted with meaning that sends warmth blooming through my chest with something that might be recognition rather than panic.

Heart. Yes, I suppose I trusted him with that too, didn’t I?

Somewhere between demanding everything and receiving more than I ever imagined possible.

But as the endorphins fade and rational thought creeps back in, the magnitude of what just happened settles over me like a warm blanket rather than a cold threat.

“This terrifies me,” I whisper against his chest. “Feeling this much. Wanting this much. Caring this much. What if I’m still not good at knowing the difference between love and need?”

His arms tighten around me, but gently, like he’s trying to anchor me without caging me.

“The difference,” he says quietly, “is that love doesn’t make you smaller. It honors who you are and supports who you’re becoming… We choose each other—one day at a time.” His hand strokes my hair with infinite tenderness.

“But what if I make the wrong choice again? What if my judgment is still broken?”

“Then we figure it out together. When you’re ready.” He tilts my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. “Nicole, I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to decide everything tonight.”

The patience in his voice, the complete absence of pressure, does something to the tight knot of fear in my chest. This isn’t coercion. This is partnership—real partnership.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” I whisper. “I’m tired of being afraid of the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Then don’t run. Stay. Let’s figure this out one day at a time.”

I press my face against his chest, breathing in his scent, letting his steady heartbeat calm my racing thoughts. For the first time since our reunion, I feel settled. Not because all my fears have disappeared, but because I finally trust that we can face them together.

“I love you,” I tell him, meaning it completely.

“And I love you. All of you. Including the parts that are scared.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “We have time, love. All the time we need.”

As I drift toward sleep in his arms, I realize this is what emotional safety feels like—not freedom from fear, but courage born of trust. Tonight, I am braver, bigger, more myself than I have ever been.

Tomorrow we’ll wake up together and figure out what forever looks like. Tonight, I’m exactly where I belong.