Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

  She paused, frozen. ‘Do you not wish to imagine that I am your wife?’ she asked.

  Such a simple question, born of a staggering kindness. ‘No, my darling, I do not. I wish to see you.’

  Silence. Slowly, she rolled over to face him. ‘There is nothing to see, I fear,’ she said, though her tone conveyed relief. ‘It is too dark.’

  ‘Then I must imagine your face,’ he said. He propped his head in his hand and stared at her across the darkness. ‘I remember the first time I saw you,’ he mused. ‘You stumbled against the fighting-pit wall just as they were announcing my name.’

  ‘I remember,’ she murmured. ‘Your eyes startled me. They seemed to change colour in the torchlight. I did not think they were real.’

  ‘I did not think you were real. When I saw you lean over the rails, I thought I was being visited by a goddess.’

  She chuckled. ‘As if I—’ she said, but he gently ran his finger over her lower lip and she ceased to speak.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. He removed his finger, realising his mistake. How could he presume to touch her lips after rejecting her only hours ago? An apology was in order and at the very least an explanation. But how could he tell her what was in his heart if he did not understand it himself?

  Arria, you have haunted my dreams, ruined my plans and caused me to betray the memory of my wife. I return your curse, for yours has consumed me utterly.

  He could feel her uneven breaths on his face. Her departure was imminent. He could feel it in his bones. When finally she spoke, he could hardly believe his ears. ‘Cal, do you wish to make love to me?’

  He drew a long, incredulous breath and as he exhaled he was no longer locked inside a dungeon. He was running across a long, grassy plain with the sun on his face, looking out over the sparkling sea.

  ‘Yes, Arria, I do.’

  He moved closer, pulling the blanket over both their shoulders, his heart full to bursting. The woman that he had shunned only hours ago had just offered herself to him again. This time, he would not be a fool.

  ‘May I kiss you, Arria?’

  ‘You wish to kiss me? But I thought you did not kiss—’

  ‘I have wished to kiss you since the moment you pressed your face against the bars of my cell.’

  To Hades with his rules. They did not apply to the woman who now lay by his side. She had come to know him and, by some miracle of the Fates, she wanted him anyway. And by the Hound of Hades he wanted her back.

  He made bold to touch her lower lip once again. It was soft and cool, but its small quiver betrayed her excitement. ‘I have thought of this moment, Arria. Dreamed of it.’

  She drew a breath and held it, and the moments stretched out. ‘Will you deny me a kiss?’ he whispered at last, fearing her answer.

  ‘I will not,’ she muttered.

  He exhaled his relief, though he could sense that her breath was still trapped inside her chest. ‘Is it so hard to believe that I have wanted you?’

  She paused. ‘I admit that I have doubted it.’

  ‘Arria, I am cursed with wanting you.’ He slid his hand behind her neck. ‘And now you will have no reason to doubt it ever again.’

  There was only one first kiss and this, he sensed, would be hers. He pressed his lips to hers gently, breathing her in, coaxing her lips to move with his own. How many times had he imagined this? How many nights sitting alone in his cell, picturing how her lips might feel against his? Even then he had known that he had been vanquished, but not by Rome—by this fearless brown-eyed sorceress who had turned his will to dust.

  He paused, his heart pounding. This was going to be tricky. He was already rock hard. He would not be able to control himself for long. Nor was there any time to waste. Dawn neared and soon the guard would unlock the gate and quietly whisk her away. Then she would be gone—possibly for ever.

  This was unfair, unnatural, wrong. In a just world they would be lying together in a marriage bed, not locked inside some padded prison. In a just world, they would have not a single night together, but the rest of their lives.

  But it was not a just world and Cal knew that he had this one chance to create something beautiful. If he could give them something special—something that was theirs alone—then perhaps some small part of his soul would be redeemed.

  He let his tongue slide softly across her lower lip, relishing her sigh. Gods, how good it felt to kiss her. How incredibly right. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth and sucked it gently, coaxing another delicious sigh. He kissed her harder, feeling himself begin to pulse with want. His hips thrust forward, the tip of his desire finding the resistance of her legs. He kissed her harder still, because the way she was moving her lips, the pulse of her breaths, her smell, her taste...

  He took a breath, pulled back. It had been fifteen years since he had desired a woman in this way—with all of himself—and he feared he might swallow her whole. This was her first time, he reminded himself. He needed to take it slow.

  But not too slow, lest he erupt like ancient Vesuvius.

  He was bending to kiss her once again when she craned upwards and seized upon his lower lip.

  His body quaked with lust as she tugged it into her hot mouth and began to suck. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Clearly not, because she released him with a coy little giggle that left him panting. Dark thoughts invaded his mind.

  So she wanted to play a teasing game, was that it? He coaxed her lips as far apart as he dared, then dipped his tongue into her mouth and waited.

  The moments pulsed by. Had she changed her mind? Had her boldness retreated? But, no—there was her desire. He could feel it in the heat of her breaths. She flicked her tongue around his, experimentally at first, then with growing boldness.

  He mirrored her movements, letting her tease and taunt to her heart’s desire. If such was the nature of her lust in this, her first encounter with it, then Cal could only imagine the kind of lover she would make in time. If only they had it.

  Her kisses grew hotter, wetter. He gently lifted her tunic to her waist, then over her head. He did the same with his own tunic. Now only the fabric of their loincloths remained between them, along with air so thick he could have cut it with his gladius.

  He moved closer and felt the soft bumps of her breasts brush against his chest. Sacred suns, she felt good. Too good. Better than he had imagined, better than he ever could have hoped. He wanted to be inside of her, to pour fifteen years of buried affection on to her soft, hot core.

  Slow, Cal.

  ‘Come, lie back,’ he said. He manoeuvred her beneath him and settled her head upon the pillow. ‘Just rest now,’ he instructed. ‘I want to show you pleasure.’

  * * *

  Rest? He wanted her to rest? A hundred new sensations were coursing through her body and he wanted her to rest?

  She closed her eyes and took a breath, attempting to obey his will. But as he threaded a string of soft kisses down her belly, she knew there would be no rest. There would be only this angst—this soft, aching angst that seemed only to worsen as he journeyed ever downwards, until she could feel the warmth of his breath tickling the curls of her Venus mound.

  Oh, gods. It was the thing she had so often dreamed of, then scolded herself for dreaming, then dreamed of again. He was so close.

  ‘I am not ready...’ she said, though she knew she was ready. ‘I—I cannot...’ she stuttered, though she knew she could. ‘I do not...’

  The cell was growing lighter with the dawn. Outside, she could hear the early birds chirping out their urgent tones. His green gaze travelled across the plain of her stomach and locked with hers. ‘Are you afraid of this?’ he asked. She felt the soft pressure of his finger pushing gently into her folds.

  ‘Oh,’ she cooed. ‘Oh, no.’ He held her gaze, watching her closely as his finger began to move, spreading pulses o
f heat wherever he touched her. She shivered, feeling exposed, yet strangely...obliging. It was as if her body were a lock being opened by his deft finger.

  ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he whispered. ‘I will take care of you.’

  Keeping his finger inside her, he stretched over her and pressed his lips against hers once again. His tongue pushed into her mouth just as he moved his finger deeper into her folds. She moaned at the disintegrating pleasure.

  ‘That is it,’ he whispered. His tongue and finger began to move in tandem, exploring the softest parts of her in slow, sultry circles.

  His movements were exquisitely gentle, like a loving ode whispered on the breeze. Sweetness and languor. Softness and light. She felt her hips begin to move in rhythm with his finger.

  ‘Yes. Now lie back, my darling,’ he whispered in her ear, then disappeared down the length of her once again. ‘Just feel.’

  She closed her eyes, for her eyelids had grown heavy, as had her limbs. Her very thoughts seemed slow and leaden. She sensed him unravelling her loincloth and heard the intake of his breath as he beheld her. Then all that existed was the warmth of his breath on her skin and the slow wandering strokes of his finger.

  He seemed to be drawing a map, a path traced in flesh—pointing her towards an unknown destination. He moaned, as if he were enjoying his work, and she replied with her own soft whimper.

  She wanted...more. ‘Cal, please,’ she said. She arched her hips, tried to coax his finger deeper. He was teasing her for certain. The higher she arched, the lighter he touched. Soon his finger was in retreat; her hips were bereft. Finally her entire lower half was suspended above the bed.

  And in that instant, he slipped his tongue inside her.

  Soft wetness. Sizzling heat. A secret bond. ‘Zeus,’ she crooned. If his finger was a surprise, his tongue was a revelation. Soft and wet, wickedly long, coaxing and thwarting all at once. The sensation was both sweeter and more tortuous than she had ever dreamed.

  She reached down and touched his bare head, opened her eyes. Yes, this was really happening. The man of her dreams was real and he was pleasuring her, worshipping her in the most intimate way. She could not feel any more wonderful. She could not be any closer to the heights of Olympus.

  His tongue still caressing her folds, he slid his finger into her deepest part.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. A wave of pleasure sent her sprawling on her back. By the gods, what was that? That strange fullness? That clutching want? She gripped his skull.

  His voice seemed to come from far away. ‘You are so...small. And so very wet.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said mindlessly.

  ‘No, no.’ He seemed to be speaking to himself.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘Cal?’

  ‘Oh, by the gods,’ he said, his voice tinged with alarm.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  He lifted himself off her and removed his finger. His expression was pained. ‘It is just that...you are so very sweet, my darling...and I am...’

  ‘What is it, Cal? Are you all right?’

  He was squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I fear that I may release.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  What a foolish thing to ask. She was not so very innocent that she did not understand the end result of joining! What she had meant to ask was why he was resisting it so. He was taking long breaths and staring up at the ceiling. He looked utterly pained.

  ‘It means that you drive me mad with desire,’ he said.

  They were words she had never believed she would hear, from a man too good to be real, but she was too distracted to revel in them properly, for the birds were growing louder now, and she thought she could hear the morning’s first cart rolling down Harbour Street.

  Could they not squeeze a bit more bliss from the waning night? It was all she wanted. If this was to be their only night together, then a crumb was not enough. She wanted the whole pie.

  ‘Please, Cal,’ she began. ‘I must know all of it. I want it to be you.’

  * * *

  He was vexed. Perturbed. Chagrined. He wanted to give himself a good lashing. The art of self-control was something he had mastered long ago, or so he had erroneously believed. The problem, it seemed, was that he wanted her too much. So much that the simple act of pleasuring her was bringing him to his limit. He had never had such a problem and it troubled him to the bone. It seemed she had reduced his stamina to that of a lust-addled youth.

  Time was growing short. He was determined to help her find her pleasure before he took his own. This was her first time, after all. It should belong to her.

  In an act of pure will, he rolled on to his back, pulling her atop him. Her soft body pressed against his and, in the growing light of dawn, he could see the contours of her face. Ah, sweet Arria. Her luxurious arched brows, her full cheeks, her plump, curious mouth. And now he could just see her eyes: big, dark moons, half-lidded with longing.

  This was well. This was good. He could study her face a while and try to forget how much he wanted the rest of her. If only there were a bucket of water she could throw on him—something to calm his renegade lust.

  Then she did something utterly cruel. She sat up and straddled his waist. There she was—curvy, naked and glorious—hovering over him like a triumphant goddess. With a single rock of his hips, he could be inside her.

  He held his breath as her eyes travelled down his chest. She reached out to his shoulder and touched the tip of his scar. ‘It is healing,’ she observed, ‘but it requires tending.’

  She began kissing down the length of it, following the long diagonal path across his chest. It was as if she was slowly erasing the wound, making it as though it never was.

  By the time she had reached the end of the scar, his will was nearly destroyed. It lay on the floor in a heap, along with his tunic and all his wits. She returned to her position hovering over him. She was so close, so very close to him. And he was so very close to the edge once again.

  He cupped both of her beautiful breasts in his palms: two ripe pears he wanted badly to consume.

  ‘Let me kiss them,’ he begged. Obligingly, she stretched over him and dipped one of her nipples between his lips.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, as he teased it with his tongue. This was the way. He would coax her desire until she was pleading with him once again. If he could just control himself until that time came. He gently took the whole of her nipple into his mouth.

  Hours later, he would recall this moment as the beginning of the end, for when he began to suck, he seemed to ignite a fire within her. First she cried out, then sighed, then wriggled down and positioned herself over him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked huskily.

  ‘I do not know,’ she said, though clearly her body knew, for it began to move with a purpose all its own. She moved her womanhood up and down the length of him—slowly at first, then with an increasing rhythm.

  ‘By the gods, Arria, that feels too good,’ he groaned. He had meant the words as a warning, but she seemed to take them as encouragement. Faster she went, grinding against him in slow, rhythmic sweeps.

  ‘Arria, you must stop. Please. I will not be able to... Oh, by Jupiter,’ he said. He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her more tightly against him, moving her faster up and down him until he could feel the wave begin to crash.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he gasped. His body bucked and seized, exploding into a great rolling tremor of pleasure that seemed to shake the very heavens. ‘Demons,’ he said, for it felt as if he had been possessed by them. He had never felt such a powerful release and, as he gazed up at Arria’s fascinated smile, he knew why. ‘Please forgive me,’ he begged as he spilled on to his stomach. ‘Please...’

  ‘There is no need for apology.’ She rolled over and lay beside him, wrapping her hands around hi
s chest and holding him as his tremors slowly abated.

  ‘Oh, sweet Arria,’ he whimpered. ‘I could not stop myself.’

  ‘I am glad you did not stop yourself,’ she said.

  He could have cried. He could have torn up his mattress and poked out his eyes. ‘I was selfish. I denied you your pleasure.’

  ‘You gave me pleasure,’ she said. ‘I feel it still. I am satisfied.’

  In that instant, he heard a rooster herald the arrival of dawn.

  It was a disaster of universal proportions. Arria’s initiation into the pleasures of the flesh had been no initiation at all, but an explosive exercise in his own fulfilment.

  He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to find a hatchet and sever the neck of that cursed rooster—nay, of all the roosters that had ever lived since the beginning of the world.

  He was a gladiator, by all that was sacred. His currency was physical control. So why had he been unable to control his own lust?

  But he knew why. He had known it since the day she had gazed into his eyes and laid down her curse. This woman had control over him. Total, utter, terrifying control.

  Already the other gladiators were stirring in their cells. He could see them moving beneath their blankets in the increasing light of dawn.

  She reached for her tunic and he felt a deathly hollowness overtake him. She was still in his bed, but she might as well have been gone. Their night together was over. He might never see her again.

  ‘I must explain to you that we did not make love,’ he muttered. ‘You are still a virgin.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. She lay back down beside him. ‘But it was still special. I am grateful.’

  She was grateful? No, no, no. This was all wrong. She was not supposed to feel grateful. She was supposed to feel flipped and spun and lifted from the ground. She was supposed to feel as if she had blossomed into the world’s most beautiful flower and all of nature was rejoicing.

  ‘Gratitude, Cal.’

  Gratitude? He pinned her with his gaze. ‘I wanted to show you the meaning of bliss. I wanted to make you float on clouds of pleasure.’