Ferox shrugged. “Lucullus said as much. But I didn’t notice.”
Velia rolled her eyes. His words had the air of false modesty. “You definitely noticed. At the very least, you saw his reaction at the end. He was cheering loud enough that he’s probably gone hoarse.”
Ferox reached for a slice of fig. “He did send a generous gift of prize money this afternoon,” he admitted.
“How much?”
“Five thousand sestertii.”
“Five thousand!” Velia let out a low whistle. “Not bad. I suppose that’s what being the emperor’s favorite is worth.”
“I’m not his favorite,” Ferox muttered.
Velia flicked a piece of eggshell at him. “It’s agoodthing, stupid.” Being favored by the emperor meant not just fame and money, but also safety. If Ferox were to lose, the emperor would be much less likely to order the death of his favorite. “Anyway, what are you going to spend it on? Maybe some silken tunics? Or a nice golden armband? You could have rubies set into it!” She was only half-joking; he would look very impressive in such finery.
He shook his head, plucking the fragment of shell from his tunic and dropping it back onto the tray. “I’m going to save it. After this is over—after my next two fights—I’m leaving. I only came back because I was barely scraping by after I bought my freedom. But now, with all this money…I could buy a vineyard. Or a farm. Something that will give me a quiet, peaceful life.”
Velia’s lips tightened at the reminder that Ferox wouldn’t be here forever. She didn’t like to think of him gone. But that was months away. Maybe this attraction would run its course.
Or maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe she could convince him to stay. They could be an excellent team, after all; if she acquired a few more gladiators, if Ferox lent his experience to train them up, they’d be unstoppable.
That image of the future spread before her, tempting but insubstantial as a reflection on shifting water.
She couldn’t dwell on such things. What mattered was the here and now, and Ferox was right here, right now.
He’d finished his half of the food, plus some of her half which she’d left behind. She lifted the empty tray from his lap and set it on the floor, pushing it beneath the bed.
“I can’t picture you as a farmer,” she murmured. She slid into his lap, looping her arms around his neck. “Or a…whatever they call someone who owns a vineyard.”
He tensed for a moment as her weight settled on him, then relaxed, hands finding her waist and pulling her closer. The position stretched her sore hips, reminding her of her body’s current unfortunate infirmity.
Luckily, there were things she could do that wouldn’t exacerbate her discomfort. She leaned close, allowing her breasts to brush his chest, then captured his mouth in a kiss. He let out a sharp exhale as their lips met. His arms wound tighter around her, pressing her to him. He tasted of the figs he’d ended his meal with, a lingering sweetness on her tongue.
Her hand found his jaw, tilting his face up to hers. Stubble rasped against her fingers. “You didn’t find a barbershop after your bath?” she asked. “I bet they would have paidyoufor the privilege of your post-victory shave.”
He gave a dismissive grunt. “That’s why I didn’t go. The bath was a necessity. The shave was not.”
She chuckled. He must be the only gladiator she’d ever met who treated fame as if it were a burden.
“If you’re determined to be modest, then perhaps you don’t want your prize,” she said, lips teasing the skin of his throat. Her hand searched downward, seeking the growing thrust of his arousal between them.
“What—prize?” he managed, the words cutting off as her hand closed around his cock through his tunic. “I told you—there was money—”
“Not that.” She squeezed gently, relishing the way his eyes fluttered shut. “Something more fun.” She slid off his lap, coming to her knees on the floor before him.He could do with a rug in here, she reflected as her knees pressed against the hard, cold flagstone floor. She’d have to convince him to use some of his winnings for a few comforts, even if he didn’t plan to stay for long.
But she didn’t let the prospect of redecorating distract her from her aim. She shifted aside his tunic and wrapped her hand around the hot, hard flesh. He shuddered at her touch. She leaned close, brushing her lips along his length.
“So,” she murmured. “Do you want your prize?”
He let out a long, unsteady exhale. “Yes,” he hissed.
She took him into her mouth. He groaned as she eased him as deep as she could, stroking him with her tongue. Her forearms braced on his muscled thighs as she withdrew and then sank her mouth down on him once more.
His hand slid into her hair and tightened, pulling to the point of pain. She reached up to tap his rigid fingers. “That hurts,” she murmured against him.
He withdrew his hand with a grunt of apology, clenching it into a fist at his side.
She kept going, finding a slow, deliberate rhythm. He was quiet, but she could hear the heightened rasp of his breathing, feel the twitch and shudder when she did something he particularly liked.
