Season of the Gladiatrix

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Season of the Gladiatrix Page 33

by David Adkins


  I kissed her hand and rushed off to see Aria.

  *

  I entered our apartment with just a little trepidation. Aria was standing on the balcony with her back to me. She did not turn around. “I was watching Domitian leave and I saw you arrive. He frightens me. Gracchus was evil and deserved to die but he was at least a restraining influence on the Emperor.”

  “There is no need to be frightened of Domitian,” I said, though I did not believe my own words.

  She shrugged and turned to face me across our large apartment. “Did you kill Marcus Gracchus?”

  “I did, with my own hand,” I admitted. “Paulinus is avenged.”

  She smiled. “And you didn’t mess up and kill the wrong man?”

  I smiled back. “For the first time I did not mess up.”

  “It must be my influence having an effect at last.” She stepped into the room and closed the balcony door behind her.

  “You are not angry with me then?” I asked.

  “I am angry that you didn’t take me into your confidence or seek my help,” she replied.

  “I thought it for the best, and I thought you and Corelia would try to stop me if you knew.”

  She took a couple of strides towards me and stopped. “We probably would have done,” she admitted.

  “Then you are not angry with me, Aria.” I put on my best pleading face.

  “Does this answer your question, Hylas?” She reached up and undid the clasp at her shoulder. Her robe drifted slowly to the floor revealing her nakedness. She knew only too well that when her clothes came off I was hers.

  Desire and love welled up inside me and were a heady combination. I rushed to her and picked her up in my arms and kissed her full on the lips. I rushed towards the bedroom with my precious load. She laughed at my passion but kissed me back hard and clung to my neck. “Don’t drop me,” she said as I hurried clumsily across the room. I kicked open the door to the bedroom, threw her on the bed, and then struggled out of my clothes as quickly as possible. “You are a captive of the head guard,” I warned her.

  “You hurt my shoulder again. It banged on the bed post,” she said, pouting.

  “I am sorry,” I said, feeling concerned.

  “A head guard does not apologize to his captive.” She laughed. “But you can massage my shoulder just the same.”

  I knelt on the bed beside her and massaged her sore shoulder with a gentle, tender, loving touch. “Is that better?”

  “You are still so easy to fool,” she giggled.

  “Only when I want to be.” I pinned her to the bed. “You are my gladiatrix,” I said.

  “And a gladiatrix can always get the better of a head guard.” She wriggled free but I grabbed her again and kissed her and she melted into my arms. I swept her down onto the soft blankets and pinned her once again. My lips descended onto hers and now there was no resistance, only acceptance of passion and pleasure. I stiffened and groaned and cupped and lifted her breasts and she moaned in turn. I heard shouts in the street outside the villa. “Marcus Gracchus is dead. Marcus Gracchus is dead.” The news was now common knowledge. We ignored the shouts; we had better things to do.

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