27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

L aura

Although I haven’t had many lovers, in my limited experience, kissing has always seemed like a perfunctory box that needed to be ticked before moving on to the next step in a sexual encounter. It’s like an appetizer, an optional choice before the entrée.

This? This is as good as a main course—hearty and delicious.

I can’t keep my hands off him. When I tire of roaming my palms over his naked back, my fingertips skimming over his glistening skin and hard-as-granite muscles, I card them through the dark hair that hangs partially down his back.

Am I crazy? Because I break this magical kiss to tuck my nose into his neck and take a deep breath of him. He’s warm and smells like man—testosterone-surging, pheromone-pumping man—it’s mouth-watering.

With my palms on his cheeks, I tip his head slightly so I can better explore his mouth. Never have I so desperately needed to map a partner before, to know the cavern of their mouth, the ridges on its roof, the sharpness of their teeth. But I urgently need to know not only all his intimate spaces; in the back of my mind, I’m claiming them all .

His hard ridge is rubbing against me. If I let this go on much longer, he might expect things I’m not ready to give. There are two thousand years between us. I don’t understand his ancient customs. I should let him know I don’t intend to do more than kiss right now. It’s just that I’m too greedy to stop. I’m already addicted to his rasping breaths, the tightening grip of his hands as he pulls me even closer, his grunting moans as he takes his pleasure from this kiss.

Pulling back, I leave our lips touching as I press my forehead to his. We’re both panting, clutching each other. Though we’re slightly separated above the waist, our pelvises are melded together. Erotic.

His intense brown eyes shutter slowly, as though his vision is blurry and he’s having trouble focusing. He told me he’d been used sexually, so I imagine this man knows more about sex than the Kama Sutra . Why is he looking baffled and disoriented, as though this was his first kiss?

I stroke his burred cheek with my palm, our gazes still locked though our mouths have parted.

“That kiss was mirabile .” It means amazing. It’s such a beautiful word, all four syllables.

“ Fantastic ,” he says, not knowing that the word translates perfectly into English.

Ancient Romans were smaller than people are today. Five feet to five and a half. But Varro is pushing six feet, and despite all those years in the water, he’s still built as hard and big as Mr. Universe. But the tender way this huge man is looking at me is making me melt. When he trails a calloused fingertip along my jawline, it not only makes me shiver, it liquifies me.

As he leans in to start the next round of kisses, I back away.

“Varro, I-I’m afraid I don’t…”

With his fingers on the hinge of my jaw, he swipes his thumb tenderly across my lips as he says, “No more today, Dulcis .” Sweet. He called me sweet. He gives a rueful laugh. “Time is one thing we have plenty of.”

I like this man more with every passing minute. This gladiator could take what he wants, yet he steps back, graciously accepting that my no means no. It makes sense. I guess he, more than anyone, should understand the value of consent.

After crawling into my sleeping bag, I press my calming-music playlist. I would have thought things would be awkward between us, but it’s relaxed, comfortable, as we say our goodnights.

For a moment, I consider reaching out to hold his hand. I even imagine turning on my side and being the big spoon behind him despite our size differences. But I turn away from him and try to drift to sleep.

The more he tosses and turns, the quieter I become, feigning sleep as I wonder if he’s changed his mind and is gearing up to pressure me for sex. But I soon realize that’s not what’s causing all the rustling on his bed. He must have reached into his pants, because I’m pretty sure he’s stroking himself. There’s something about the rhythmic movement of the bedclothes and the uneven hitching of his breath.

His tempo becomes more frantic, and it’s impossible to imagine he’s doing anything other than pleasuring himself. My face flames with embarrassment. I conduct an internal debate on whether I should interrupt him and say something. Shame spikes through me as I picture what he’s doing just one foot away from me. I visualize him, his head thrown back, his Adam’s apple outlined in profile as he takes his pleasure.

Did he spit into his hand? Because the unmistakable sound of slick flesh rubbing together makes stark pictures fly through my head. His swarthy hand, the one that just held my chin so tenderly, doesn’t sound gentle now. No. He’s moving wildly, as little moans escape his throat.

My nipples are hard, the tender tips scraping against the soft fabric of my t-shirt. I’m wetter than I was during our kiss. A huge part of me wants to roll over and relieve him of his burden by finishing his hand-job or, better yet, using my eager mouth.

I’m almost ready to give in to that urge when his strokes speed up and his mattress, side by side with mine, shakes. I picture his heels digging into his bed, his back arching as he releases. He leaves no question as to his pleasure as he comes with a deep, satisfied groan, then sags into his mattress.

How am I supposed to sleep now? My little battery-powered vibrator will do me no good sitting in the storage area beneath my bed.

Pictures of the one-room cottage we discovered today fly into my mind. I imagine how it will look in a few weeks. It will have a sturdy roof and a clean hearth. We’ll have toted our worldly goods from here to there to begin what promises to be a life together. Although I have a crush on Varro, I didn’t really think we’d become a couple.

How are we going to live in close quarters, possibly for the next several decades, without acting on this blazing attraction? And what if we do make love? What happens when the spark of new attraction grows dim? When we have our first fight and then have to share a house for the rest of our lives?

And what about this, this sexual frustration that’s already killing me? How am I supposed to live with that?

First thing tomorrow, we’re going to have a talk.