Seduced by the Gladiator

by Lauren Hawkeye

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  This book was a difficult one for me to spit out. I owe thanks to a lot of people who helped to make it happen. First and foremost, my editor, Chelsey, who was so incredibly supportive and who held my hand when my computer ate a massive chunk of the book. You rock, Chelsey! And to the rest of the Avon team, who do things for books that I don’t even know about. Then there’s my amazing agent, Deidre Knight, who always makes me smile. My mom and my sister both came to my rescue more than once during the writing of this book, wining and dining me and (most important!) watching the toddler so that I could rock the word count. Thanks to my fantabulous critique partner, Suzanne Rock, and her mad plotting skillz—and word sprint challenges. To my girl Avery Aster, who cheered me on more than once. As always, to the Sirens and Scribes—Suzanne Rock, Amanda Vyne, Barbara J. Hancock, Juliana Stone, Sara Fawkes, D.L. Snow, Grace Conley, Elle Ricci, Nini Angell, and Cora Zane. It’s been years for most of us, ladies, and I couldn’t do it without you! And of course, to Rob and Ben. I love my boys.

  Can’t get enough of the gladiators?

  Keep reading for a sexy peek at Lauren Hawkeye’s erotic

  MY WICKED GLADIATORS,

  available now from Avon Books,

  and find out how the story began . . .

  An Excerpt from

  MY WICKED GLADIATORS

  I did not want to want him.

  Yet as I stood on the balcony that overlooked the training area of my family’s ludus—the most prestigious of gladiator training schools—my husband by my side, want is what I did. I could see nothing of the mock battle beneath me but him. His sweat, his blood, falling down to the dry dust that ground beneath the worn leather that covered his feet.

  Never mind that I could never have him. Dreams of what his touch could bring me only increased the need that thrummed through my veins like flocking birds.

  “You’re quite flushed, Alba.” Lucius, my husband, touched a hand to my elbow and peered into my face with concern. “We should retire inside. Drusilla will draw a bath for you.”

  A bath . . . clear cool water, the thick silk of oils that smelled like herbs. The slither of limbs through water, and the sheen of dampness on muscles taut from incessant training.

  “Come.” I could hear the alarm in Lucius’ voice, though it was my slave girl, Drusilla, who moved to support me, not my husband. “Your skin is quite red. Inside. Now.”

  I alone knew the reason for my flush, but I certainly could not tell it to my husband. And actually, I was not the only one—there was one more who knew in what direction my thoughts lay.

  I caught the eyes belonging to that one, and their dense black seemed to swallow the golden gleams given off by the sun. My heart fluttered in my chest, like a young girl with her first feelings of lust, but his expression revealed nothing that was not there when he thrust his battered wooden training sword through the air.

  I knew that he felt it, too.

  And what kind of domina was I, imagining myself seducing a slave?

  Uneasy shame brought clamminess to my skin, and I stopped refusing Drusilla’s ministrations, allowing myself to be helped inside. Lucius followed closely behind, barking orders at the other slaves, though I could tell that his mind had already moved on, something to do with the ludus, no doubt.

  I could not complain, at least not out loud, at his lack of focus on me, his wife. Since my father had given me from his control to that of Lucius, Lucius was my pater familias, the head of this house.

  Much as our slaves had no choice but to obey us, I had no right to argue with my husband.

  And what would I have been complaining about, really? My belly was full, my body draped in silk and gold. The pool that Drusilla led me to was carved from bright white stone, and I could already smell the expensive oils that I could have rubbed into my skin, if I so desired.

  I stood still at the bath’s edge and waited for Drusilla to remove my garments. Lucius paced, raking a hand through his dark ribbons of hair before crouching to splash a handful of pristine water against the salty sheen on his face.

  When he again rose, I was naked. He let his sapphire gaze roam my bare curves, and the thin cloth at his groin tented.

  Still warm from the fierce stare of the other, the attention of my husband caused my nipples to peak and a shiver to roll over my skin.

  I so very rarely caught my husband’s attention. He preferred to take his pleasures quickly with one of the slave girls, women who did not require flattery or coddling. And since he had long ago decided that I was barren, there was no need for him to spill his seed inside of me unless he felt the desire to do so. To be fair, I also could have satisfied my cravings with any of the slaves that I desired.

  Any but the gladiators. And it was a gladiator, one particular gladiator, whom I wanted.

  But to have caught the attention of my husband, a man whom I did care for after a fashion, after so long a respite made me hopeful, and added to the heat that had begun to pool in my cunt.

  Added to the heat was a hope, one that I tried to keep hidden, that I could still, possibly, carry a child.

  I shook my head, a move fraught with impatience. It would not do any good for me to go down that route again, to think too long on the one thing I wanted more than anything and couldn’t have.

  “Lucius?” I held out a hand to him, beckoning him forward. “Join me for my bath.” Drusilla, anticipating what was to come, slid her hands from where they had rested at my shoulders, forward and down to cup my breasts.

  I had not had her touch me for a long time, though we had once been lovers, experimental young girls. But my husband liked to watch us touch, liked to watch us play.

  It excited him.

  Lucius’ stare grew more avid, and he absently rubbed a hand over his clothed cock as he watched my slave caress my nipples. Relaxing into my girl’s familiar touch, I allowed a sigh of pleasure to fall from my lips, and beckoned him forward again.

  The movement broke the spell. With a start, he shook his head and stilled his hand.

  “I do not have time for this, Alba.” Crouching again, he poured handfuls of cool water over his head, seeming not to care when they made large wet splotches on his crisp tunic. “I will be late for my meeting if I do not leave now.” And with that as his explanation, he took his leave, leaving me alone with nothing but the attentions of a girl who, though I knew found them pleasant, still had no choice but to give them.

  I watched him walk away, watched the beaded ornaments tied to the backs of his red sandals glinting in the undulating beams of light.

  A meeting. Of course. I knew better than to ask him with whom or where. I also knew better than to argue, which could result in his foul mood for days. His dealings here in Rome were what supported us, and I knew it. I should have been thankful for the popularity of the gladiators, and for our standing as the top school for them.

  We would not stay at the top if Lucius did not do as he did. And I knew that he felt tremendous pressure to live up to the reputation of his ancestors, those great men who had trained giants and champions.

  But I was envious of the wives who were doted on by their husbands, who were prized for their beauty and their grace. I missed the ministrations of my husband, the one who had once stroked my skin and whispered in my ear sweet words of wooing. I had not received one of those whispers in a long while, and had been deprived of his touch for even longer.

  Shaking Drusilla off, knowing that she knew my feelings well and would not take offense, I stepped into the sparkling pool unaided. The cool water clung rather than refreshed, sucking at me, pulling at my skin.

  Though I tried to stop them, thoughts flooded my mind.

  They were all thoughts of Marcus.

  Sometime later, the slight shuffle of worn leather on stone alerted me to a new presence. Assuming that it was simply Lucius, I took my time opening my eyes, hoping, as always, to lure him into the bath with me, if for nothing els
e but entertainment’s sake.

  I was incredibly bored. I had nothing to complain about, since my every need was cared for and my every desire granted, but I had no purpose. Nothing with which to fill my day but leisure.

  Leisure was tedious, the feeling of uselessness unpleasant. I was also suffering the inattention of my husband, and was beginning to wonder if perhaps I’d become dull, or unattractive. And here was something new, something bright.

  Something burning into my skin with its embarrassed yet entranced stare.

  “I beg pardon, Domina.” It took me but the blink of an eye to place him.

  How was he here, in front of me, as if the gods had suddenly willed it so?

  With a noise of distress, Drusilla moved to cover me. I should have let her, but the gorgeous beast of a man who stood before me threw my thoughts and wishes into turmoil. And so instead I cast a look at Drusilla, communicating without words to leave me be. Though she pursed her lips in disapproval—something I would not have tolerated from anyone else—she removed the towel and stepped away.

  “What are you doing here?” I made sure my voice was sharp, though in truth I was not at all upset by the appearance of this magnificent-looking man. Clad in nothing but his subligaculum, leather briefs worn to preserve modesty, and cheap leather sandals, his muscles were sculpted and raw from what I knew was incessant training, and his gleaming honeyed hair was a delicious contrast to the shadowy depths of the eyes that stared.

  My husband had summoned him upstairs, eager to show off his newest prize to the visiting noble with whom Lucius was meeting. But his visitor had fallen ill in the dreadful heat of the day, and Lucius had chosen to escort him home, through the streets of Rome, with the help of Justinus.

  It would not do for anything amiss to happen to the man, not when it had been known that he was in our home.

  In the confusion, no one had thought to show Marcus back down below, to secure him behind the iron gate that separated the quarters of the gladiators from our upstairs lives.

  He had wandered, or so he told me, admiring the beautiful things that were displayed in our home: the artisan vases; the rich, finely woven hangings of silk; the gladiatorial galley, where the stone busts—and cocks—of our former champions stood.

  This has brought him here, coming upon me in the bath, looking curiously through the arched doorway, while Drusilla rubbed scents into the long coils of my ebony hair.

  I was inclined to believe him, since it was a rare thing for a gladiator to wander, unaccompanied, through the halls of our home. I knew that I should have Drusilla escort him back downstairs immediately, back behind the iron gate—knew that that was what Lucius would have me do. Knew from watching Drusilla shift anxiously from foot to foot that that was what she would have me do, too.

  I also knew that Lucius would have him punished for coming upon his wife in the bath. I was also more than a little upset that a gladiator would know the contents of my husband’s meeting while I, his wife, did not.

  Though I did not want the man punished, still I could not say where the boldness that overtook me came from.

  I had never been bold, not even as a curious child. I had always been shy, acquiescent—qualities that my husband had praised at our marriage.

  I also knew that, despite my own feelings, he had not come to me. He had been summoned by my husband and had happened upon me accidentally. I had not premeditated our encounter, but I was still the one who had initiated it.

  He would not be able to refuse. A slave could not refuse his mistress, and though their lives were different from those of many who served, gladiators were still slaves.

  And still I proceeded.

  Remaining silent, I motioned Drusilla back and dipped my head under the water to remove the residue of the scented oils. When I surfaced, I refrained from looking across the room to where he stood, instead turning and rising from the water.

  I knew what I looked like, naked, with droplets of irresistibly chilled water running down my curves. My mirror, an ornately edged sheet of polished metal that had been a wedding gift from my husband, told me that my skin was fashionably pale, nearly as translucent as the wet, and a stark contrast to the shadows of my hip-length hair. My eyes were bright, my features even, and my body free from disfigurations brought about by disease.

  I knew that I was pleasing to most eyes, and I exploited that now. After a long moment in which I simply stood, the bath lapping at my ankles, the excess water running down my limbs, I turned. My nipples had peaked under what I knew was intense scrutiny, and I was not disappointed when the gladiator again came into view.

  His cock had risen, hardened, and pressed against the leather that covered him there. If it had not, if he had remained unaffected, I might have been able to stop then, to send him away.

  But he wanted me, too, obviously so, and so I shoved the nagging guilt away, buried it deep in my gut, and beckoned him forward.

  “Remove your subligaculum and your sandals.” His eyes widened, just a fraction, but he moved to comply. The leather ties around his ankles were loosened first, and then the ones at his waist. But instead of the gratifying sight of his skin, the leather stubbornly remained in place, a barrier between me and what I wanted.

  In my life it seemed that there was always such a barrier.

  “Remove your subligaculum.” Though I tried to school my voice into sternness, I could hear the tremor that sounded through it. I was certain that both Drusilla and the man could, as well.

  What would I do if he did not comply?

  When the clothing fell with a wet-sounding slap on the ground, I drew in a breath, one filled with both relief and desire.

  I had not seen a cock besides my husband’s for years, even though I was permitted to do so . . . so long as that cock did not belong to a gladiator.

  Though I was permitted to fuck a male slave, any slave but one of our warriors, the only one that we had was Justinus, my husband’s boy, and I did not care for the man at all.

  As such, it had been so very long since I had allowed arousal to whip through me. The thrill of the forbidden, added to the chance that my husband might happen upon us, collided with desire and drugged me. Swallowing thickly, I reached out a hand.

  “Come here.”

  “Domina?” He hesitated, but just for a moment. I was, after all, just as much his mistress as my husband was his master. Still, I could see the war between morals and desire swirling in his stare. Guilt washed over my skin, and with it came anger.

  Why should I feel guilt over taking something that I desired, finally taking something that I desired? Did my husband not do the same every day of his life?

  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 his 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.