31. Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

L aura

Just because I’ve been thinking of little other than kissing Varro all day doesn’t mean I should have blurted that out. But here it is; my brazen offer is pulsing between us like a living thing. Between one second and the next, I think the temperature rose ten degrees, and the way Varro’s gaze heated, then arrowed to my lips tells me he’ll be happy to oblige me.

My heart races with excitement. I know I’m giving him mixed messages, and a small voice in the back of my mind warns me to be careful. But the pull toward him is magnetic, irresistible. Last night I shut things down so abruptly it probably felt like a door slamming in his face. Now I’m asking for an instant replay.

He doesn’t look confused, though, because he wastes no time stepping closer, his body radiating heat from the day’s exertion. The scent of him, a heady mix of sweat, sun, and salt from the sea, envelops me, making me want to lick his skin to see if he tastes exactly like he smells. The intensity of my desire frightens me a little, but I push my fear aside.

He reaches out, his knuckles brushing my cheek with a gentleness that belies all his gladiatorial power. I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as I savor the sensation .

“ Dulcis .” His voice, low and rough, awakens dormant parts of me as he uses the endearment, sweet. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

But I don’t want him to stop. I want him closer, want to lick his plush lips, to feel them on mine. Opening my eyes, I meet his gaze to see my own longing reflected back at me.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper, my lips aching to feel his warmth, his firm pressure.

That’s all the invitation he needs. He leans in, his lips brushing mine in a feather-light caress that leaves me craving more. I tangle my fingers in his long, windswept hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

His mouth is hot and hungry against mine, his tongue sweeping across my lower lip, seeking entrance. I grant it willingly, parting my lips and letting him in. His hot, salty taste fills my senses, making me dizzy with need.

We explore each other slowly, languidly, our tongues tangling in a sensual dance. Varro’s hands roam my body, skimming along my sides, my back, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I arch into his touch, hungering for more, desperate to feel his skin against mine as I cup my palms on his nape.

He pulls me flush against him, and I can feel the hard planes of his body, the coiled strength in his muscles. The evidence of his desire presses against my stomach, sending a thrill of anticipation through me.

We kiss for long moments, lost in the sensation, the connection. The world narrows to this moment, to the feel of Varro’s lips on mine, his hands on my skin. Nothing else matters—not the uncertain future, not the challenges we face. Only this, only us.

When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard, our chests heaving. Varro rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breath mingling with mine.

“Laura.” His voice rasps with emotion. “I don’t want to rush this, rush you. You deserve better than a quick tumble on the ground. ”

I freeze as I engage in a quick internal debate. But I knew what I wanted when I asked for this kiss and I refuse to back out now despite all the red flags flying and warning buzzers clanging in my head.

“Then don’t take me on the ground, gladiator. Up against the wall is fine.”

His mouth pops open in surprise, but he doesn’t hesitate as he lifts me around the waist and dances with me to pin me against the closed wooden door.

Though I thought our kiss was passionate a moment ago, it’s ten times hotter now with the back of my head pressed against the time-weathered wood. Since I have nowhere to retreat to, he commands the kiss, his thumbs on the hinges of my jaw, his fingers gripping my skull.

His tongue spears into me, then retreats, making no secret that he wants to continue this same movement below my waist.

He stops long enough to murmur, “ Dulcis, Dulcis,” then barges back inside my mouth for more.

I can’t keep my hands off him. They roam along the sculpted muscles of his back, then sneak below the waistband of his borrowed sweats. I’m assessing the lay of the land.

The gray pants will be easy to pull off his body. The loincloth he wears under them will be hard work, though. It will be no easy feat to unravel the intricate series of twists and ties that keep the rectangular piece of a torn white sheet in place.

He grabs my attention with kisses that drift from the point of my chin, up my jaw, to that magic spot behind my ear. His chuckle is low, devilish, as I squirm in ticklish arousal, my hardened nipples grazing his naked chest.

It’s as though he’s trying to be in stealth mode as he keeps my focus on those magical kisses and caresses and strategic in-breaths in the channel of my ear. Because I’m so focused on that, I barely notice when he twirls me around to face the door.

The wood is rough against my cheek and smells musty, which is good. Without a physical reminder that I’m here on Earth, I’d think I’d been plucked right up to heaven.

Varro gently lifts my hair off my neck as he attacks my nape with sucking kisses and gentle nips of blunted teeth. I gasp with the pleasure of it as arousal zings from my neck to my clit as though they’re connected with an electrical circuit.

Pressing his lips to my ear, he husks, “What do you want, Flos ?”

It takes a moment for me to register his words—Flos means flower—because his cock is pressing at the small of my back, his hips thrusting in an obscene rhythm.

“Hmm? Do you want my cock?”

Did I think his tongue thrusts in my mouth were filthy a moment ago? Now he’s alternating circling motions with the thrusts of his rigid cock. If he weren’t clutching my shoulders, I think my weakened knees would collapse, and I’d sink to the ground.

“My tongue? Do you like long, slow licks from one hole to the other?”

Kill me now. I’m hypnotized, mesmerized, so crazy in lust that I shiver.

“Or do you like it like this?”

To illustrate, he nuzzles his nose in that narrow space between the back of my ear and my hair, then flicks the tip of his tongue in a frenzy of movement. It’s so well-executed, performed with such precision and gusto, that it almost feels as though his tongue is on my clit—just as he hinted.

“Varro.” I’m not proud that it’s the only word I can utter, or that I’m breathless with wanton need.

“Do you want my fingers?”

Slowly he slides the flat of his hands down my chest, pausing at my breasts, circling his palms on my pebbled nipples. Lower, keeping his hands over my jeans, he ghosts over my zipper and then cups between my thighs, his thumb pressed firmly on my clit as if beckoned there by a homing device.

“You want me inside you? Hmm?”

Jeans are thick, especially at the seam between the legs. How, then, does his touch manage to set me on fire as he circles outside my channel?

“You’re wet, Flos. Wet for your gladiator.”

His voice sounds unlike any time I’ve heard it before. I can’t put my finger on what has changed, but something is different about the rough cadence. Is it the level of his arousal? Whatever it is, the gravelly rumble ratchets my desire up a notch.

He nips my earlobe and continues, his voice seductive as he asks, “Would you like it in here?” He applies more pressure right where I’m desperate for it. “Or here?” He moves farther back between my legs to circle my back hole.

When I shake my head, he croons, “I see. But you need it here, Flos ?”

He increases his pressure as his fingers quickly circle directly over my channel and the heel of his hand pulses against my clit. This feels so amazing, I absently wonder if I could come like this. Then I shrug the thought away. With a man this talented, I won’t be limited to only one release.

“Tell me. Do you like a little pain with your pleasure?” He tugs my hair. Though no one has ever done this to me before, I can imagine it might be arousing. Except something is off. Bells are ringing in the back of my head, hinting that something is wrong, very wrong.

“Do you like that? Or maybe you want to give me pain?”

He grips my hand and places it on his head, waiting for me to pull his hair. This is when it hits me. His voice has lost that sexy, goading rasp that started this encounter. Now it’s strained, forced .

A cold dread washes over me, dousing the fire of passion in an instant. The change is subtle, but to me, it’s as jarring as if a stranger suddenly replaced the man I’ve come to know. My throat tightens as I realize what’s happening.

“Try it, Flos. Do you want to hurt your strong gladiator? Tell him what to do? Order him around?”

Fuck! This is a script. I’m sure of it. If I had to guess, this is what he says to women who have bought him for the night. I imagine he has a different, equally effective script for men. If I hadn’t spent every waking hour with him since he thawed, I wouldn’t have noticed the difference between how he’s talking now and when we started this encounter a few minutes ago.

But I do.

Varro left our exchange shortly after pressing me against the wall and nipping my nape. In his place is a robot trained to be present when he drifts to a safe place in his mind. It’s not Varro anymore, but a persona he’s crafted for survival. The realization breaks my heart.

Memories flood my mind—the nightmares that wake him in cold sweats, the flinches at unexpected touches, the guarded look in his eyes when he speaks of his past. How could I have been so blind?

“Do it, Flos. Pull my hair, or do you want to scratch me with your nails? I can handle it. I’ve endured so much worse in the arena.”

Flos. That should have tipped me off. He calls me Dulcis . Sweet. I imagine Flos is his generic name for the women who bought him with coins for his peculium. Women he didn’t want to remember. Women whose names he didn’t even want to know.

I crane my neck to look at him, to make sure my guess is right, but I can’t see him clearly at this angle, so I twist in his grip so we’re face to face. His words and tone feigned passion, but his face is vacant, with no more expression than a mannequin. It’s as though a fist grips my heart .

The contrast between the passionate man from moments ago and this empty shell before me is devastating. My chest aches with a pain that’s more than emotional. It’s physical.

He lifts me, still in his self-induced trance, so my back is pressed against the wood, his hands gripping my hips, easily holding me at the same height as him.

“Varro.” I cup his cheeks with my palms, willing him to look at me. Overcoming my urge to raise my voice, I lower it. “Varro. Marcus Fabius Varro, extraordinary gladiator, owner of Invictus, man who defied time itself. Talk to me.”

My voice trembles slightly, filled with a desperate need to bring him back, to reconnect with the man I’ve come to care for so deeply.

He blinks and shakes his head, struggling to return to his senses. Just as I suspected, it’s as though he’s returning from a stupor.

I watch as awareness slowly seeps back into his eyes. The vacant look is replaced by confusion, then dawning horror as he realizes what’s happened. My heart breaks for him all over again.

Though I want to lean my forehead against his, to breathe his air and let him breathe mine, I don’t. I don’t because he’ll just kiss me again, return to his trance, and try to seduce me as he’s programmed himself to do. Instead, I press the sweetest kiss to his forehead and can’t control my urge to call him Dulcis .

This pulls a faint chuckle from him. “I’m far from sweet, Laura.”

“And I’m not your Flos.”

The words come out softer than I intended, laden with all the emotions I can’t fully express—sadness, frustration, and an overwhelming desire to somehow heal the wounds that run so deep within him.

As I meet his gaze, I see a vulnerability there that calls to me. I make a silent vow to be patient, to be understanding, to be whatever he needs me to be. But we can’t do this again, can’t act on our physical attraction because he can’t be intimate with someone he has feelings for, and I can’t be intimate with someone who doesn’t have deep affection for me.