49. Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Forty-Nine

L aura

One minute we’re talking rationally like two adults negotiating a one-night stand. The next, he sweeps me into his powerful embrace.

It’s been months since those blazing moments we shared when my chest was pressed against the cottage door and he was touching me as though his fingertips sparked fire. I’d forgotten how rock-hard every inch of his body is. If anything, my fingers gripping the slabs of muscle at his shoulders tell me he’s even harder, stronger than he was before.

And then there’s his scent. Sweat and sea air, rich and intoxicating, overpowering the crisp outdoor scent of approaching spring.

I sink into him, inhaling deeply. His fingers caress the side of my face as I tilt my head up to meet his lips. He hesitates for a moment, just long enough for me to wonder if he’s changed his mind—but then he crashes down on me like a tidal wave, taking my breath away.

The kiss is all tongue and teeth and desperation, lips parting hungrily as we groan into each other’s mouths. Our tongues dance and duel, hot and wet, as we explore every inch of each other.

His stubble rubs against my cheek as he angles his head down, his lips brushing softly against mine before our mouths collide in a cataclysmic kiss that sends waves of desire washing over me. His warm breath mingles with mine, and I teeter on the edge of losing myself in him.

I gasp into his mouth when his teeth graze my lower lip, sending shivers down my spine. He growls low in his throat, a primal sound that makes my channel clench in anticipation.

Threading my fingers through his hair, I pull him closer still—I can’t get enough of him. He must share my desire to get as close as humanly possible because he cups my ass and tugs me tighter as his cock, covered only by the thin loincloth, jerks against my belly.

“ Dulcis .” He nips my lips, tugging my lower lip into his mouth and swiping it sensually with his tongue. “So fucking sweet, Laura. The Gods are smiling on me. You’re a gift from the Goddess Fortuna herself.”

My groan sounds almost pained, but it simply expresses that I’m bursting with desire. I always assumed Varro would be amazing in bed, but his words alone could bring me to my knees.

That thought reminds me of how many times I’ve lain alone in bed, picturing in detail exactly how I would love to sink to my knees to suck this man’s cock. If I hadn’t just told him he was in charge, I would kneel between his feet, rip his loincloth down his trim hips, and sink my mouth onto him.

He has other ideas.

He grips my skull, positioning my head so he can delve more deeply into the warm cavern of my mouth. His tongue is spearing into me, taking and giving and exploring all at once.

After quieting the kiss, so our lips are pressed together almost chastely, he lifts me in the bridal carry and barges through the door. The stark contrast of the cool early spring air with the heated cottage interior makes my skin prickle with awareness.

Varro doesn’t waste a moment as he sets me down and lifts my sweatshirt off. We’ve been dancing around each other, so cautious, so afraid of breaking boundaries. But those boundaries were decimated when I asked him to spear into me.

This isn’t the cautious male I met months ago—unsure of who he was, where he belonged—this is Marcus Fabius Varro, premier gladiator, master of all he surveys.

“Take it off.” It’s not a request, but a gruff order as he takes a half step back, eyeing my bra with something close to hatred.

“Ohh.” His word is half-speech, half-moan as my bra flutters to the floor. “Why do you cover those…” He licks his lips, not taking his eyes off me. “So beautiful, Dulcis .”

He bends to suckle at one tender tip, already hardened from arousal and the cold air. Pleasure jolts through me, arcing straight to my clit. Is his technique excellent, I wonder idly, or is it that I’ve been desperate for this for months?

He alternates between plucking, sucking, and scraping his teeth as he lavishes attention on first one, then the other nipple. Perhaps he knows how deeply he’s affecting me because his arm tightens around my waist just in time before my knees buckle. My brain is too occupied with all its attention focused on my pleasure receptors to concentrate on something as mundane as standing up.

“Your boots.” Another order.

I toe them off just in time for him to undo the button and zipper on my jeans and slide them and my panties down and off my body.

“ Fucking beautiful.”

He leans in, his nose following the lines of my neck. Is he scenting me? Or is it that he needs a moment to control his lust after seeing me naked? How could a woman resist that ?

“I need…” He doesn’t finish his thought, just eases to his knees, grips my thighs, and growls, “Open.”

I follow his command, widening my stance, and am rewarded with a soft kiss right on my clit. Perhaps he’s beyond rational thought. Maybe we both are. He’s helping to hold me up, my hands clenching his shoulders as he inches closer and spears his tongue into my soaked heat.

“Varro!”

He groans in answer, then returns his attention to my bundle of nerves, flicking, nuzzling, and creating such perfect suction that I almost topple over.

The deep moan of regret that reverberates through him is palpable as he reluctantly stops devouring me, stands, and carries me to the bed we’ve been platonically sharing.

He prowls up from the foot of the mattress, his hands tugging my thighs open wider as he travels closer to his goal. With a victorious hiss, he plunges his tongue into me, lapping, pleasuring, groaning his satisfaction.

In all the hours I’ve fantasized about him, I spent very few of them picturing this. It’s always been his heavy, muscular body on top of me, his weight almost fully pressing me down as he plunges into my all-too-desperate channel.

But I have no desire to ask him to stop what he’s doing. I doubt he would anyway. He’s a man on a mission.

Replacing his tongue with one finger and then two, he uses his mouth to lovingly attack my clit with a vengeance. Clearly, he’s not going to stop until I come on his tongue.

The sound of his mouth on my most private parts is salacious. The smacking, slurping, deep, guttural grunts of his pleasure at having split me wide and enjoying the banquet between my legs—is joined by my own sighs and whimpers and whispered urgings.

“Yes! Oh, Varro, so good. Right—Ahh! Right there!”

When a third finger joins the first two, it pushes me over the edge. All my muscles spasm in pleasure as I shout his name and grip his shoulders so tightly I imagine I’m drawing blood. His tempo speeds up as he plays my body like an instrument. Just when I think I certainly can’t go any higher, he changes his angle and makes such a filthy sucking noise that my muscles contract so tightly I wonder if I’ll break in two.

I absently try to calculate if this is one orgasm or half a dozen all linked together as I writhe in ecstasy like a rollercoaster, my pleasure ebbing, then peaking again.

Finally, I reach my limit and fall boneless, sinking into the air mattress.

I’m panting, too tired to move or even open my eyes. When I finally have the energy to look at him, he appears at least ten years younger. Perhaps it’s how proud he looks. Or maybe it’s my juices on his slick lips as he flashes me an unapologetic, smug smile.

Suddenly filled with boundless energy, I laugh. It’s deeper and heartier than I’ve laughed in years. Happier than when we were throwing snowballs the other day.

Gripping his chin and pulling him to lie down next to me, I furrow my brow, toss him an exaggerated pout, and accuse, “I thought you said you were good at this.”

It was a risk, maybe even a test to see how honest I can be with him, how much fun we can have together.

Shit! His face looks thunderous. He bounds out of bed, scoops me up as though I weigh nothing, and strides to the door, threatening, “Out with you. There’s still a pile of snow a few feet to the north. I’m going to throw you in it.”

I’m truly blessed! Somehow, this man I love is healing, growing, able to laugh with me and at me as well as at himself.

“ Misericordia .” I raise my index finger, the gladiator sign a request for mercy. “I’ll make it up to you. I swear.” All the desperation fades out of my voice as I pitch it low and offer, “I’ll make it better.”

I push against his granite shoulders until he releases his grip enough for me to slither off his body. When my feet hit the floor, I’m contrite as I channel my inner femme fatale and offer, “I know just how to soothe you, gladiator.”