Apparently, Ferox was one of the few. “I don’t care about gentle!” she protested.
“I do.” His hips rocked against her bottom, the friction of his cock slick and delicious. “You were adamant that you needed to be treated more delicately.”
“I never said that.” She arched against him once more, to no avail.
“In any case…” His hand slid between her legs, pinning his cock even tighter against her. The increased pressure made her squirm, and he let out a groan. “This is”—his breath hitched—“enough.”
“Not for me,” she complained, though she loved that her body could bring him pleasure without him even being inside her.
“Velia, if I go inside you, I’m going to spill immediately,” he warned. “And I don’t think you want that.”
She huffed. He was right; the risk of pregnancy was too great, despite her stockpile of helpful herbs. She realized there might bemore to his devious teasing than the desire to torment her. He was trying to be as prudent as possible in their encounters.
“Fine,” she conceded.
“Good girl,” he murmured. The words sent a dark spiral of pleasure through her, only heightening her need. “Why don’t you touch yourself for me?”
She stretched a hand down, her fingers quickly finding her most sensitive spot. Desire mounted as she stroked, and her muscles tensed. He kept up his rhythmic movements against her, and each thrust wound her tighter, drove her higher.
“Is this what you do when you think of me?” His voice was unsteady, hoarse. “Is this how you touch yourself?”
“Well, there’s not usually a man behind me, sliding his cock between my legs,” she answered with as much wryness as she could muster.
He let out a short laugh, a burst of heat on her neck. “I should hope not.”
“This is better,” she clarified, in case there was any doubt. “Muchbetter.” She rocked with him, the feeling different from when he was inside her. It was gentler, softer, but the sensation had a pull to it, a keenness that tugged her inexorably toward climax.
A tremor rippled through her. The tight ball of need contracted. She moaned, the sound high and desperate.
“Come for me, Velia,” he growled, and she shattered. His arm tightened around her chest, holding her in place as she quaked and writhed. Her head flung back, making contact with his shoulder, and incoherent noises burst from her mouth.
Behind her, he shuddered, breath hissing through his teeth. His hips bucked against her, rough and wild, and then he groaned.
He fell back a moment later, finally releasing his hold on her. She allowed herself to collapse backward as well, sprawling over his body. They were both breathing hard, and Velia felt sweat on her forehead despite the coolness of the morning. She stared up at the blank white ceiling as Ferox lazily stroked her hair. Soon, his movements became more purposeful, and she realized he wasn’t stroking her hair, but braiding it to prepare for the day.
She sighed, half in pleasure at his touch and half in resignation at the thought of removing herself from his bed. With him, she felt spoiled, cared for, cherished in a way she never had, and that blissful sensation would evaporate as soon as she got up. But noises—footsteps, the clatter of doors opening and closing—already sounded from outside, so the day would have to begin.
Ferox eyed Velia as they watched Achilles’s third fight. Watching her was almost more exciting than the match itself. She alternately jumped up and down, clenched her fists, chewed her nails, and shouted unintelligibly at the combatants. Her antics were quite entertaining, but Ferox dragged his focus back to the fight.
At some point in this match, Achilles would attempt a maneuver they’d been practicing for the past week, and Ferox was eager to see if it would pay off in a win. He wanted to give Velia the victory she craved. Achilles’s greatest strength, for now, was his left-handedness, but they hadn’t been exploiting it to maximum effect.
Achilles wasn’t yet well-known among the other combatants, so Ferox had decided to employ the element of surprise. He’d taught Achilles to begin the match with his sword in his right hand, and lull his opponent into a false sense of security with a clumsy start. Then, at the proper moment, he’d swap sword and shield, putting the sword in his left hand, and take the offensive.
It was risky; if Achilles fumbled the switch, he could find himself disarmed and unprotected. In some similar instances, the official would pause the match and allow a fighter to reset his equipment, but it could just as easily lead to a loss, possibly with a serious injury.
So Ferox had drilled Achilles over and over again on the swap until he was fairly sure the novice could execute it in his sleep.
Ferox kept his gaze on Achilles, sensing it would happen soon. He prayed the novice wouldn’t lose his nerve and try to conduct the whole fight with his right hand. That would surely herald a disastrous loss.
When his opponent stumbled, Achilles darted backward a step instead of pressing forward. Ferox held his breath. Sunlight flashed on the blade of Achilles’s sword, and when Ferox blinked, the weapon was in the novice’s left hand, the shield in his right.
Ferox let out his breath. Achilles had done it as perfectly as he’d ever done it in practice. The crowd roared at the daring maneuver. Even the emperor was paying attention, leaning forward against the balustrade in his section.
This trick would only work once, but if it secured Achilles’s first victory, it would be worth it.
Achilles’s opponent was flustered by the switch, and struggled to defend against the unexpected angle of attack. Achilles drovethe man backward, shoving him off balance with a sideways thrust of his shield.
Velia shrieked. “Come on! This is it!”
