The Gladiator's Touch (3 page)

Slowly, as if unsure that I could really
mean as I said, he stepped out of the pool of clothing at his feet, moving
toward me. His flesh gleamed in the dim, flickering light of the room, shining
with a faint sheen of sweat, one that I could all but smell—the heady aroma of
a man who used his body, and used it well.

Though a small voice in my head told me
that this was not the wisest idea, I hushed it. I had been deprived of a male
touch for far too long, and I wanted this man’s hands on me.

He stopped an arm’s-length away from me.
Seeing this big beast of a man, one who was so sure in the arena, with
uncertainty painted over his features caused my stomach to clench with
something that I could not quite identify.

I needed the endless cycle of thoughts
to cease. I had always thought too much.

“Kiss me.” My words caused him to start,
then to hesitate again. “Kiss me!”

My every muscle clenched as I waited. I
knew that he would do it—he had no choice but to, after I had commanded him to.
I knew that he felt, as I did, that these actions were not proper. But even
more than that, what if he did not want to? What if this man, this man who had
surely not had a woman in a very long time, could not find me attractive enough
to even feign enjoyment?

I kept my eyes open wide as he leaned
forward. No part of him touched me except his lips, and they were dry, firm,
and salty.

I groaned and rocked myself closer to
him, until there was but a whisper of space between our naked flesh. I expected
him to draw me close, to lift me up and shove his cock into me, as Lucius would
have done once.

Instead, as the kiss ended, he
straightened and again stood still, his eyes deep and dark and revealing
nothing.

I felt tears prickle at the backs of my
eyes. What was going on? Was I that undesirable? My beautiful mirror told me
that that wasn’t so—again, my hair was thick and long, my features even, my
skin smooth and unblemished. I had ample hips and breasts, and a small waist
with the curve of belly that was pleasing to the eye.

And his cock still quivered under my
gaze. So why would he not take me in arms and do as he would?

“Kiss me.” I demanded this time in a
voice more guttural than it had been, for his first kiss had aroused me, and
the arousal combined with my confusion to create a deep morass of . . . I was
not sure there was a word for it. “Kiss me again. Now.”

And again he leaned forward and pressed
his lips to mine. Just a press, nothing more. Angry now, I opened my mouth,
licked at the curve of his mouth, slid my tongue in to trace his teeth.

He echoed my movement, kissing me back
with lips, with teeth, and with tongue.

Again, he seemed to enjoy it, but would
move no further.

Well, the kiss was more than I had had
in a long while. I would enjoy it while it lasted. Breathing deeply, I slanted
my mouth against his own, rising up on tiptoes to gain purchase. My fingers
sought his shoulders, then his neck and the thick glory of that flaxen hair.

After a hesitant moment, his movements
echoed mine. His hands slid up my arms, over my shoulders, and then twined into
my long, scented hair. There was still space between us, but I could feel the
hard ridge of his cock pressing against my belly.

Ah. I was beginning to see just how
obedient a slave he was.

I arched my hips against him. After
pausing a moment again, as if to make sure that I had really meant it, he
rocked against me in return, and the friction of his coarse cock hair against
my labia made me gasp.

I now saw. He would not do anything
unless I told him to, or indicated that it was what I wanted. He truly was a
man bound by the oath of honor undertaken by the gladiators.

For reasons that I could not quite
explain, this excited me terribly. Drawing him to me, my arms struggling for
purchase against the solidity of his flesh, I let myself kiss him as I had
wanted to be kissed for years, hot, wet, and open.

His breathing was as ragged as mine when
I drew back, shuddering through his great frame, and his skin flushed. He
wanted me as much as I wanted him, this I knew.

So I would take it, and I would enjoy
it—
we
would enjoy it—this opportunity that the blessed gods had thrust
in front of us. It seemed that Venus was in a fine humor that day. I would have
to pray to her later, would have to offer up wine and bread in thanks.

“Drusilla, you may go.” I was taking a
risk, allowing my slave to leave—being alone with a gladiator, a man whose only
purpose in life was to fight, was not a smart or safe thing to do. I knew that
she would be irritated beyond belief with me, and that I would endure the sharp
side of her tongue later on.

But I did not desire an audience. I
wanted to drown in the feeling of man and woman fucking, and nothing more.

My slave girl exited silently, shaking
her head but not daring to speak in front of a fellow slave, for fear that he
would see our closeness. The friendship was not something that we hid, but nor
did we flaunt it, for fear of upsetting the balance of the household.

Had we been alone, Drusilla would have
had much to say. But we were not, and she did not. She left, and I was alone
with the gladiator. My gladiator, the one who waited silently for orders.

I shivered with anticipation.

“Enter the pool.” I gestured toward the
stone steps that were swallowed by the wet, and heard the soft slice of his
body through it as he descended and the silky water lapped at his hips. I
seated myself on the side of the pool, ass against the chilly marble, legs
dipped into the liquid from the knee down.

I saw his eyes move from the breasts
that were half hidden by the long coils of my hair to the area between my legs
that he would not get a clear glimpse of until I parted them.

He kneeled in the shallow water, facing
me. Slowly, bit by bit, I opened my legs and let him see what he wanted to see.

I saw the smallest of flickers in his
eyes when I finally was spread open wide, and a slight tremor in those
tremendous muscles.

He wanted to do this, but would not
until I gave him permission.

It was intoxicating.

“Place your mouth between my legs.”
Before he could reach me, I took up the goblet of wine that sat at my side and
poured it over my belly. The bittersweet liquid ran down my pale flesh in
rivulets, streaming here and dripping there, the excess falling in fat drops into
the water, where it dispersed quickly, a kiss of ruby in the deep blue.

“As you wish, Domina.” Bending at the
waist, he moved into the space between my legs, pushing them further apart to
accommodate his large frame.

I gasped at the first touch of his hard
fingers on the soft flesh of my inner thighs. He looked up and smiled for the
first time, just the faintest kiss of a smile that held a tinge of wickedness.
Then he pushed me back, flat, the ridges of my shoulder blades pressing against
the damp, chilled stone until I could no longer see him. His touch was gentle,
far softer than I had ever felt the touch of my husband’s hands upon my skin.
Startled by this, I immediately rose back up to my elbows and stared at him,
brow furrowed.

“You need not be gentle.” My voice was
guttural, raw with wanting.

His stare never wavered from my face as
he nodded in acknowledgment, though the press of his hands on my flesh did not
deepen in their pressure. “I would not hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

My mouth opened to reply, but my words
were lost as he moved his face roughly until it brushed the hot outer folds of
my cunt. I understood that though he would wait for permission, and though he
may not be gentle, I was safe with the warrior.

He bit first, and a strangled scream
escaped my throat. I tried to swallow it, for though I doubted that Lucius was
home yet, he could be, very soon. It was a risk that I would take. But it was
so very hard to swallow the sounds that kept exploding from my throat when
Marcus buried his face between my thighs, the rasp of the stiff hairs on his
jaw scratching and inflaming skin that was growing more tender by the minute.

He soothed the sting left by his teeth
with his tongue, though there was no softness in his movements. He swiped the
rasp of his flesh through my slit firmly and forcefully, occasionally
connecting with the inflamed area hidden a little deeper, and I couldn’t hold
still.

Raising my hips from the hardness of the
floor, I begged him soundlessly for more. Replacing the hand that branded one
of my thighs with an elbow, he used his newly free fingers to separate the
folds of my labia, baring my clitoris. I hissed when the cool air hit it, but
the air stopped when his mouth closed over the engorged nub, hot and wet,
because the sensation shocked the breath out of me.

I tried my hardest not to scream, and at
the same time to close my legs, because the sensation was nearly too much to
bear. But I had told him that this was what I wanted, and he was following
through. His strength kept my legs apart, and his mouth stayed busy, stroking
with his tongue, long, firm strokes, and I could feel myself careening out of
control. My fingers scrabbled for purchase on the slick marble but found
nothing to grab hold of, so I clenched them in my own hair and tugged as the
whirling pleasure built.

It had been so long that the orgasm
nearly drowned me. I didn’t know if my screams had echoed off the corners of
the room or merely off the walls of my mind when the shaking had subsided, but
I shook my head from side to side regardless, knowing that I wanted still more
and also knowing that time was coming to a close—Lucius would be home soon.

Lauren Hawkeye
is a writer,
yoga newbie, knitting aficionado and animal lover

who lives in the shadows of the great Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. She’s

older than she looks—really—and younger than she feels—most of the time—and she

loves to explore the journeys that take women through life in her stories.
Hawkeye’s

stories include erotic historical, steamy paranormal, and hot contemporary.

Make sure to check out her work as Lauren Jameson, where her erotic romances

take a walk on the wild side.