He was hers, at least for a little while longer.
She cleaned his seed off her hand and his cock, but when she made to lie next to him, he shook his head. “Not done with you yet.” His voice was still breathless, slurred.
He patted the spot on the mattress next to his head. A smile grew on her lips as she realized what he wanted. She climbed up his body, sinking her quim down onto his face. A moan escaped her lips as his tongue found her. She was throbbing and slick, her desire inflamed by the pleasure of tormenting him as she had.
Velia flattened her hands against the wall and arched her back to settle her hips more fully onto him. She felt him groan against her, and his hands slid over her thighs, holding her tight.
His lips clasped around her most sensitive spot. A tremor shot through her, the pleasure sharp and tingling. “Right there,” she panted. “Just like that.” Her hips flexed, moving in rhythm with the suction of his mouth. She rode his face, taking everything he gave her.
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside her. One hand slipped from the wall to find his head, fingers anchoring in his hair. Her eyes fluttered shut, blocking out everything but the feel of him beneath her, the soft yet demanding way he worked her with his mouth. She chased the pleasure with every twitch of her hips, every quiver of her thighs.
Finally, it crashed over her, consuming her in blissful spasms that felt endless. She moaned, the noise raw and frenzied. His fingers dug harder into her thighs as she writhed atop him.
“Enough,” she gasped as the shudders faded. She lifted herself off him, thighs trembling. Somehow, she found her way to collapse beside him. He wiped a hand across his mouth, then kissed her forehead.
As she settled against him, her gaze lit on the new pitcher on the other side of the room. Bittersweet emotion welled in her chest. How was she supposed to say goodbye to all of this? Her eyes stung, and she hid her face against his shoulder. She released a long, unsteady breath.
“Velia?” His fingers traced through her hair. “Are you all right?”
She smoothed a hand over his chest and strove to steady her voice. “Just tired.”
He curled his arm around her shoulders. “Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
22
Thenoiseofthecrowd roared in Ferox’s ears as he made his way to the center of the arena. The announcer gesticulated, coaxing the crowd’s fervor to new heights even though only the privileged few could hear him.
This was Ferox’s second of three fights, which meant he was halfway through his allotted time at the games.
Halfway through his time with Velia.
The past two weeks had been a blur of days spent sweating in the sun barking at Achilles, and nights entangled with Velia. She’d been aggressive in booking Achilles for three more matches. It was unusual for a gladiator to fight that often, but these games were quite possibly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a novice to make a reputation for himself, and Velia was determined to take advantage of it. Ferox admired her doggedness, the unyielding way she pursued what she wanted.
Her strategy was working, for Achilles had won each of those three fights. Each time he fought, the crowd cheered louder. Velia had even suggested that he forego his helmet, allowing his red hair to become his signature symbol in the arena. Fighting without a helmet represented a foolish degree of bravado in Ferox’s opinion, but Achilles soaked up the attention. The novicewas quickly becoming a rising star, and he grew more cocky with each win.
While Achilles’s triple victories swelled his ego, they also bolstered his discipline and effort at training. Like any gladiator, he was becoming intoxicated by the thrill of winning, not to mention the monetary prizes he gained. Many mornings, when Ferox finally pulled himself out of bed with Velia, he found Achilles already on the training ground, running laps to warm up or bludgeoning a boxing bag with his fists.
Achilles had even—just once—beaten Ferox in a practice match. It was really Velia’s fault. She’d been leaning against a column to watch them fight, and a breeze had whipped up, briefly lifting the hem of her dress. The flash of creamy thigh had been enough to distract Ferox, and Achilles seized the advantage.
Velia had cackled and teased him for a solid day after that.
Thankfully, today she was out of his line of sight, watching from the shadows with her uncle.
Ferox’s gaze snapped to his opponent, who entered on the other side of the arena. The man fought in the style of a retiarius: he carried no sword or shield, but bore a weighted net in one hand, a trident in the other. A dagger hung at his hip for close combat. Lightly armored, he wore no helmet.
Ferox assessed him as they drew closer to each other. They were matched in height, and the man moved with a long, easy stride. His wrist flicked the net out in front of him in a practiced movement.
As they took up positions opposite each other at the official’s direction, Ferox finally looked at the man’s face.
A jolt went through him. For a brief, dizzying moment, it felt as if the sand were falling away beneath his feet.
It was the very man he’d pulled off Velia two weeks ago.
“You,” he snarled as the official gave the signal for the match to begin. They circled each other, Ferox staying out of reach of the net as it whispered over the sand. The greatest danger in fighting a retiarius was how the net kept an opponent at just the right distance for the long trident to strike.
The man’s eyebrows shot up, perhaps recognizing Ferox despite his helmet. “Ah, I thought that might have been you.” His tone was relaxed, almost jovial. “Listen, I owe you an apology. I never would have laid a hand on the whore if I’d known she was yours.”
“She’s not a whore,” Ferox growled.But she is mine.
