36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Six

L aura

From the day we moved in, I noticed Varro’s habit of taking frequent trips outside, even on the coldest days. At first, I thought nothing of it, assuming he was gathering firewood or checking on the garum. But when he leaves now, even though it’s flurrying out there, a realization hits me.

He’s taking care of himself. I guess I should appreciate that he’s not rubbing one out in the cottage like he did that night when we shared my little tent.

A mixture of emotions washes over me: embarrassment, irritation, and… arousal. I try to push the thoughts away, but they persist. It’s not like I haven’t been dying to do a little self-care of my own, but I’m always afraid he’ll walk in on me.

My mind throws me images of the handsome gladiator, partially obscured by flurries, his sweats pulled just low enough on his hip bones so he can pull his cock out, his tanned hand stroking his length. I’ve seen him naked, though never hard. I caught glimpses right around the time he was trying to choke me to death. But still, I’ve seen enough of his perfect body to be able to picture in 3D and living color what he’s doing out there .

Maybe what irritates me is the imagined look of bliss on his face as he comes in ropey spurts with a pleasured groan. I, on the other hand, haven’t come since Varro awakened. Between the stench of garum, the crushing boredom, and Varro’s outdoor forays which are unpredictable in length, I’ve never found the right time. For whatever reason, the frequency of his “walks” has gotten on my last nerve.

With a little grunt of confidence, I decide to tackle the elephant in the room. When Varro returns, cheeks flushed from the cold (and probably something else), I clear my throat.

“You know…” I try to keep my tone casual, “if you’re going to… plant your seed so often, you might as well do it in the garden.”

Varro freezes, his eyes wide. For a moment, I worry I’ve overstepped. But then a slow smile spreads across his face.

“Is that so?” His voice is low, amused. “And what kind of crop do you think that might yield?”

I feel my cheeks heat, but I forge ahead. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe… cucumbers?” Odd how that particular phallic vegetable popped into my mind.

Varro throws his head back and laughs, the sound filling our small cottage. “Cucumbers, eh? I’ll have you know, my seed is far more valuable than mere vegetables.”

“Oh really?” I raise an eyebrow, relief flooding through me at his easy response. “And what exactly do you think you’re growing out there? A forest of gladiators?”

He grins, playing along. “Perhaps. Though I’m not sure why I’d do that. You can barely tolerate one gladiator, much less a legion of them.”

I snort, unable to contain my laughter. “A legion? If memory serves, that’s five thousand men! That’s a lot of… yield.”

He tips his head with a sly wink—he can be so smug when he wants, but damn, it looks good on him.

“Well, whatever you’re growing, just make sure it doesn’t kill whatever herbs or veggies that might surprise us in the spring.”

From that day on, “planting cucumbers” becomes our inside joke. Whenever Varro heads out for one of his “walks,” I’ll call after him, “Don’t forget to water the cukes!”

He’ll respond with increasingly ridiculous suggestions. “I’m thinking of branching out into turnips today,” or “How do you feel about cabbage?”

It’s silly and a bit crude, but it breaks the tension that’s been building between us. We may not be able to act on our attraction, but at least we can laugh about it.

One evening, as we sit by the fire, Varro has been struggling to mend a pair of trousers for most of the evening when he turns to me with a serious expression. “Laura.” His voice is soft, sincere. “I want you to know… I appreciate your understanding. About the cucumbers and everything.”

I feel a lump form in my throat. “Of course,” I manage to say. “We’re in this for the long haul. We have to be able to talk about… everything.”

“So… if we can talk about everything…”

Crap! I fell into a trap. There’s a naughty gleam in his eye and he’s building up to something.

“When we kissed, you seemed like a lusty woman. Tell me, how is it I’ve never caught you… watering your own cucumbers?”

Okay, moment of truth. I could wave this off, pretend my bodily urges are completely under control—or nonexistent—or I could come clean. And really, how long can I continue with absolutely no outlet while I share this little cottage with not just the handsomest man on the island, but the handsomest man on planet Earth?

“I wasn’t raised in a gladiator barracks. I need privacy and there’s a scarcity of that in our cottage. ”

Flabbergasted, flummoxed, and gobsmacked are the only words to describe the look on his face.

“You haven’t relieved yourself in all this time?”

“Sadly, no.”

“You can’t… do it quietly when I’m asleep?”

“It’s hard for me to remain quiet.”

I can’t blame him for smirking. For a guy raised with a bunch of gladiator slaves, I think he’s shown remarkable restraint, considering the subject matter.

“You’re a screamer.” He’s gloating.

“Well, I tend to make noise. It’s also…” Come on, Laura, spit it out already. “I have a little machine and although the online description said it was quiet, that was a bit of an exaggeration.”

As I made that statement, he was taking a sip of water. If this were a play, his reaction would be described in the stage directions as a spit-take.

“A machine?”

“Well, yeah.”

“The people in your time actually made a machine for pleasure?” His brown eyes, almost golden in the firelight, are rounded in interest. “Modern men must be severely lacking in technique.”

I begin to exclaim that phallic objects are nothing new and that there is extensive evidence to suggest they were popular in Ancient Rome, but all I can manage is a swallowed, “Yes.” If he’s this intrigued by one sex toy, I guess I shouldn’t mention that we have catalogs of them, online stores, franchises.

“I must see it.”

Is he punking me? Fascinated by modern technology? Or is it just that he’s trying to see how red my cheeks can get ?

“It’s private.” I am not going to show him my battery-powered rabbit.

“Laura, you must show me. My mind is reeling with pictures.”

“No! A woman just doesn’t flaunt her personal tools.”

“Personal tools!” He squawks with amusement, then rises to grab a pen and one of my notebooks. He sketches for a moment and then turns the pad toward me. It looks to be a takeoff of an ancient trebuchet, perhaps five feet tall, with a mechanism that, if properly operated, would a) kill the woman on the receiving end or b) pulse against her body about once every two minutes. An utter engineering failure.

“Not even close. Where, pray tell, do you think I’ve been hiding a machine as big as Jenny?”

“You tell me.”

“No!” But I know I’m a goner when my gaze darts to my bed frame.

He stalks closer to my bed. “I’ll find it, Laura. I know it’s an invasion of your privacy, but the first time you step outside to use the latrinae , I’ll find it.”

Shit. I might as well give in. If I don’t show it to him now, he’ll rummage around under there and not only find my rabbit, but he’ll find my stash of Oreos, still in their plastic sleeve. I feel a wave of guilt about it. It’s not pretty keeping something so wonderful a secret from my roommate, but I keep telling myself the ends justify the means.

“There are rules,” I say primly, then purse my lips.

He nods solemnly.

“You can have all the fun and hilarity you want for five minutes, then we never speak of it again.”

“How about fun and hilarity until we go to sleep tonight?”

Really? He wants to bargain about the time limit ?

“Fine,” I snip, then manage to purse my lips to clarify just how much I regret doing this.

I shove the mattress to the side, exposing the small trove of personal treasures I keep in the hollow platform. The object in question is in a bin, wrapped in a small towel. I’m not stupid. I figured he’d go snooping sooner or later and thought it might be safe from his prying gladiator eyes. But no, I gave myself away and have no one to blame but myself.

I grab it, turn toward Varro, and unveil my sex toy.

I expected a derisive burst of laughter, but his response is a silent tip of his head as he stands in place but leans closer.

“What am I seeing?” He cocks his head the other way. “Obviously, it’s a phallus, but…”

“Remember our deal,” I warn before I launch into a guided tour, “you’re going to get all your yucks out by bedtime and we never discuss this again.”

“Deal. Yes. Explain.” He inches closer.

“This, gladiator, is called a rabbit.”