He increased the pressure of his fingers, just as he knew she liked. He’d learned her body well by now—he knew how to draw out the pleasure, spinning it longer and longer like thread on a spindle, or, alternately, how to make the climax crash over her as quick and intense as a thunderclap.
This morning, the latter approach was in order, and he devoted himself to driving her higher and higher, giving her every bit of pleasure he could.
A moan slipped from her lips, and she thrust a hand down to hold his in place. Tremors wracked her as she came apart beneath his hand, around his finger deep inside her.
His cock gave a demanding throb at the sight and feel of her climax. She’d liked it last night when he entered her right after she came, so he did the same now, notchinghimself at her entrance and easing himself inside. Her warmth gripped him, and he muffled a curse against her shoulder.
She brought her legs up to wrap around his waist, affording him even deeper access, and she let out a gasp as he buried himself to the hilt.
“Did I hurt you?” he grunted, struggling to get the words out amid the pleasure flooding him.
She slid her hands over his shoulders. “It’s good,” she reassured him.
Still, he proceeded cautiously, withdrawing and then sinking back into her with torturous slowness. He wanted to make this last as long as possible—but the slick, tight feel of her quickly unraveled his control.
Ferox gritted his teeth and held back the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. He took her with as much restraint as he could muster, until he was shaking with need.
Only then did he allow himself to succumb to the pleasure grasping at every fiber of his mind and body. He shuddered, his movements growing rough as he rode out the explosive release. Velia’s hands stroked over and over his shoulders, urging him on, until it finally subsided.
Ferox collapsed on his side next to her. He pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her forehead. But even the comfort of her body couldn’t block out the ache in his leg, reminding him what awaited him in a few short hours. He prayed he’d regained enough strength to do what needed to be done.
There was relief in knowing this would be his last fight. One last match that would decide everything. Either he perished, or he’d start a new life with Velia by his side.
The crowd roared as Ferox made his way into the arena. He walked slowly, testing the feel of his leg on the sand, which was looser and more unstable than the dirt of the practice area. His leg ached as it had since his injury, but so far, it felt strong.
His gaze, partially obscured by his helmet, swept toward the viewing area where the emperor and his entourage sat, near the row of white-swathed Vestal Virgins. The emperor was on his feet, leaning against the balustrade with a blue-glass goblet in his hand. He chatted with a woman beside him, both richly garbed in garments of purple trimmed with gold.
Ferox bet the emperor’s mandate that the fight be to the death was not common knowledge. The audience would be excited enough for this match without that, and Ferox had a feeling the ruler would want to indulge in the drama of the life-or-death decision at the end of the match.
Ferox’s mind went back to his first match of these games, less than two months ago. He’d been nervous then, fearing his long absence had sapped his skill. But his greatest fear had been that he’d embarrass himself. He’d known the chances of dying were slim.
Velia had been more anxious than he was. She’d made him promise not to die. He’d given the promise easily, knowing he’d be able to keep it.
Today, he could make no such promise, and Velia hadn’t asked. She’d sent him off at the edge of the arena with one last fierceembrace, but that was it. No promises. No words at all, even. They’d already said everything that needed to be said.
The noise of the crowd swelled as Achilles made his way onto the sand from the arena’s other side. He was helmetless, as he now always fought, his red hair his signature.
The volume of cheers for Achilles gratified Ferox. The novice had garnered himself a solid fanbase in his fledgling career.
As they both approached the center of the arena, where the official stood, Ferox pulled off his helmet and tossed it aside. A murmur of interest ran through the crowd.
He knew Achilles would fight without a helmet, and Ferox could have simply left his at the ludus, but he also knew the crowd would appreciate the drama of discarding it.
The official directed them into starting positions. Ferox adjusted his stance slightly, angling his body to better meet Achilles’s left-handed attacks.
Their gazes joined across the short distance between them. Achilles’s hazel eyes showed nothing but grim determination. Ferox knew, as he’d never questioned, that if he faltered, if his leg gave out on him, Achilles would show him no mercy.
The crowd quieted in anticipation. Ferox sank his feet deeper into the sand, seeking as much stability as possible. He guessed Achilles was going to strike quickly; there would be no cautious circling, no careful evaluation. They didn’t need to take each other’s measure, having sparred against each other dozens of times by now. Besides, Achilles sought the glory of defeating a celebrated gladiator; he’d want to show himself in control from the start.
At a shout from the official, the fight began. As Ferox anticipated, Achilles leaped forward immediately with a powerful thrust of his sword. A strike like that from a left-handed opponent might have thrown another fighter off-kilter, but Ferox caught the blow easily on his shield.
Achilles hopped back a half step, then struck again. Ferox batted his sword aside with his own weapon and pushed forward, managing a shallow slice to Achilles’s upper arm. Achilles fell back, and Ferox gathered his strength for another quick thrust, but his leg wouldn’t move as fast as he needed it to. By the time he crossed the two steps to meet Achilles again, the novice had his shield up and easily blocked the next strike.
They battled on, painfully well-matched. Achilles’s lack of experience showed in occasional fumbling or graceless footwork, but Ferox failed to take advantage of those little missteps, unable to move quickly enough. Achilles scored a superficial cut to Ferox’s abdomen. It bled freely, earning roars of delight from the crowd, but Ferox knew it looked worse than it was and wouldn’t weaken him.
Soon, they were both breathing hard. Sweat gleamed on Achilles’s skin, plastering his red hair to his forehead. Ferox’s grip on his sword became slippery with sweat. Drawing each breath felt like hauling a heavy bucket of water from a well. They took longer and longer between strikes. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferox glimpsed the official step forward, as if to call a halt, but then hurriedly moved back. Ferox bet the emperor had signaled him to stand down. There would be no breaks, no draws.
With each lunge, each blow caught on his shield, Ferox’s leg became weaker, until it trembled with every movement. This wasdangerous: this was the point where Achilles’s superior strength could outweigh his lack of experience and overcome Ferox.
