32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
S kye
We walk, fingers entwined, our pace growing faster and faster until we’re running to my room. Poor Thrax, I’m sure he had no idea that he was so enthralled with what my hand was doing to him under the table that his face wore a vacant expression during all of dinner. Sorry, not sorry, Thrax. I think in a few hours he’ll admit it was worth it. I certainly hope so.
The moment the door slams—too loudly—behind us, anxiety hurtles through me, a tight coil in my chest. The atmosphere shifts, thickening with electricity and desire. We’re finally here, and though I’ve imagined this moment countless times, I’m not sure what to do next. Because of his history, I wonder if Thrax will be even more uncomfortable than me. How often had others made him feel like a tool of pleasure, performing at their whim? Has he ever been allowed to embrace his desires?
When I remember I’m not alone in the room, and look into his eyes, the man looking back at me is nothing like the awkward gladiator who was reluctant to join me in bed to watch a movie not that long ago. He stands, his form illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, thick muscles tense and poised, every sinew radiating primal energy .
His luminous brown eyes hint at the predatory emotions swirling inside him. That expression does funny things to my stomach, reminding me I’m slightly on the short side and he’s well over six feet of stacked muscle. His mix of power and vulnerability is intoxicating.
I turn up my phone and toss it on the bedside table just in time to hear him say, “I’ve been given women in the past, Skye. This won’t be new to me, but I’ve never been with you before. There are so many ways I want to please you tonight, but it would kill me to overstep.”
My breath catches in my throat. His words hit me with a force I hadn’t expected. Perhaps the feeling wouldn’t be so powerful if I didn’t know his past. This amazing man who has been through so much wants to know my boundaries. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the warrior and the gentleman fighting for supremacy. I already knew I was falling for him, but this just makes me adore him so much more.
Parsing my words carefully, I tell him, “I want to explore with you tonight. And…” My thoughts fly as I make sure I want to say the rest. “I wouldn’t want a powerful gladiator like you to have to ask permission.”
His eyes flare, a smolder igniting behind those depths, speaking volumes beyond words. It tells me I’ve reached him, that I’ve struck some chord deep within him that resonates with a long-forgotten part of himself. I don’t want him stuffing down his masculinity tonight, don’t want him begging for scraps. I need him to feel the freedom that comes with my trust. It will be liberating for us both.
“You take the lead. You’ll have to trust that I’ll ask you to stop if I want. I’ll trust you to stop if I say so… and not to treat me like glass otherwise. And Thrax? I hope you trust me, because you can say no too, you know.”
Instead of launching toward me, to my surprise, he backs up a step and bends at the waist, his muscles rippling beneath bronzed skin. With surprising ease, he hefts me over his shoulder like a barbarian claiming his spoils. The thrill of it courses through me, prickling my skin and igniting a rush of excitement.
Just as I’m wondering if I’ve lost my mind by giving him carte blanche, or if he’s lost his mind by becoming a caveman, he laughs. It’s a delightful belly laugh, rich and vibrant, spilling from him in waves that warm the air around us. So deep and genuine his shoulders tremble with mirth, his laughter wrapping around us, cocooning us in a shared moment that feels more precious than gold and diamonds. Without missing a beat, he crosses the room, his confidence palpable, and dumps me unceremoniously on my bed, which is now connected to a second bed I rolled in earlier today in anticipation of tonight.
“You’re perfect, Skye. So…” His laughter stops abruptly and his face gets as serious as it was the morning before his surgery. “So…”
He shakes his head as if to clear any lingering doubts, and suddenly the moment shifts. With swift but tender ferocity, he slides forward, his fingers deftly finding my waistband and in one smooth motion, he pulls my pants and panties down and off, exposing my skin to the cool air and his hungry gaze. He discards the fabric like it was nothing more than a veil of tissue paper. He glances at me and a spark of challenge leaps between us, his chin thrusts upward as if daring me to tell him to stop.
The mix of vulnerability and boldness leaves me breathless. My response? A bright laugh erupts from my lips, a sound filled with mischief, delight, and something deeper—something that resonates between my affection and desire. It’s a sound that dances in the space between us, and oh, the look he gives me, filled with appreciation and undisguised lust. It could make a woman do naughty, naughty things. Gee, I hope that’s coming next.
“This is good, Skye? I can let you see this part of me?” His voice thickens with need, his dark eyes searching my face for confirmation, for a sign that I won’t shatter under the intensity of the moment, that I’m courageous enough to step into this arena with him .
“This is good , Thrax.” My voice trembles slightly, but the strength underlying the words is there, vibrant and inviting. “Show me more and we’ll discover parts of ourselves neither of us have yet discovered.”
He stands taller, as though his strength is resolving, the warrior within rising to the surface. Without breaking eye contact, he pulls my t-shirt up and over my head with such speed and strength it’s a miracle he doesn’t tear it apart. The raw energy is radiating from his body so fiercely I half expect to see it.
The fabric slips silently to the floor and suddenly I’m almost bare before him, rendered vulnerable yet oddly empowered. After struggling briefly with the clasp of my bra, he gives up, his irritation obvious.
As he stands before me—tall, mighty, radiating an aura that pulls me into his orbit—I shiver at the glory of his body, so clearly aroused beneath his clothes. Every muscular line tells a story, a tale of endurance, strength, and the gentle power he possesses. My heart thunders as if my body is now resonating with his, each thump echoing in tandem.
He removes his clothes with a growl, the low sound reverberating through the room.
“Get rid of that,” he commands, pointing to my bra, his tone thick and commanding.
“Yes, Sir.”
Our gazes snap to each other as that last word slipped from my lips. There was something about it that touched some latent, untapped desire in me, awakening a primal instinct that must have lain dormant. By the look of unfettered lust in his eyes, I think my immediate deference had the same effect on him.
I’ve been so focused on the way my channel clenched, the deep, aching need building within as my already-hardened nipples strained against the cool air, that I forgot to remove my bra. Hot with desire, I can barely process the meaning of his harsh, “Now! ”
It doubles the effect of a moment ago, electrifying the air and heightening every sensation coursing through me. My hands, almost on autopilot, fly to the clasp, unhooking my bra with trembling fingers before it flutters to the floor.
“Fuck, Skye.” He discovered the word weeks ago, relishing its delicious harshness when he spoke it, but it’s never carried this lusty, gravelly tone before—this tone that echoes the urgency of our moment. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he adds for good measure, and I feel it vibrate through me like a melody. “You’re so beautiful.”
This pause in the action provides my first chance to take in the sight before me—his cock, thick and veined and inviting, points directly at me. I’d worried that the people who tortured him had done something horrible to his cock, but they left it alone. Lucky me, because it’s, “Magnificent,” I breathe, the word tumbling out like an offering to his Goddess Fortuna, a prayer for our encounters yet to come.
My praise barely registers, however, as he’s consumed by the sight of me. He’s devouring me with his gaze, indulging in the moment. I marvel at the intensity of it. Then, without telegraphing his next move, Thrax joins me on the bed with a sudden shift, pulling me on top of him. A relieved moan escapes me, almost a sigh of relief. It feels like I’ve wanted to be naked with him forever, and here we are, skin to skin.
A delightful rush of warmth floods through every inch of my body that connects with his. My breasts, full and vulnerable, are smashed against his rock-hard chest, the heat radiating from him making my skin tingle.
My little nipples poke against his hot flesh, tiny buds begging for attention. My body needs no instruction; it reacts instinctively. I widen my thighs, straddling his pelvis, my knees sinking onto the plush mattress near his hips. His cock, like a heat-seeking missile, nestles between my slick lips.
Our gazes collide as the intimacy of the position strikes us both. We moan in unison and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head .
For a moment, I wonder if we’re going to skip directly to the good part, the culmination of every stolen glance, every heated brush of skin. I imagine we’ve both been desperate for this for a long time, our hearts and bodies aching for the connection that time itself seems to have arranged.
But Thrax is having none of that.
With a swift motion, he rolls us, a not-so-subtle reminder of this man’s strength. He reverses our positions with surprising gentleness. Then, in an almost playful scuffle, he jostles me, the sheets sliding beneath us, and jams a wad of bedding between us, corralling his cock away from my eager, waiting pussy. I never took him for a “delay gratification” kind of guy, but I guess he’s going to surprise me a dozen times tonight.
With our desperate alter egos now under control—just barely—this man, this gargantuan man, this tower of lusty muscle, leans to kiss me with such slow sweetness it brings tears to my eyes. It’s impossibly tender, yet deeply powerful, and I want to bask in this moment forever.
His kiss is languorous and affectionate, accompanied by a noise that is part growl, part moan, part praise, part prayer. He pulls himself away just far enough to whisper in my ear, the heat of his breath sending chills racing down my spine. He may think he’s telling secrets my phone can’t pick up to translate, but I’ve been listening to him talk for weeks. I can pick out a few words; mirabilis— wonderful; donum ab ipsa Fortunae— a gift from Fortuna herself; sum felix homo —I’m a lucky man.
Each phrase is a testament to his ardor, spoken with a reverence that touches something deep inside me.
And then he’s kissing me again, his lips crashing against mine with an urgency that feels electric. The moment we separate is only fleeting, yet it heightens the desperation coursing through us both. Our teeth clack together, a collision of passion that pulls a laugh from both of us, but it’s quickly drowned out by the fervor of his tongue invading my mouth.
He explores as though he’s on a mission, mapping every ridge and outcropping. His taste is addictive— a combination of warmth and spice that makes me wonder if I could ever be satisfied with just one sampling. I want to bottle his essence, to carry it with me always, capturing the sweetness that blooms like wildflowers confined in a jar. I can’t get enough of him, the way he ignites my senses, every kiss burying me deeper into this heady haze of desire.
My hands roam the expanse of his back. The thick cords of muscles ripple beneath my fingertips, and I feel the rough bumps and strands, the scars and gouges that mark him—remnants of his pain-filled past and the battles he fought. Another day, when we’re not engaged in ecstasy, I promise myself I’ll take the time to use the tip of my tongue to trace every inch of that damage. If I could, I would heal this man—body and soul, piece by piece, breath by breath.
His mouth soon slides down my body, lavishing my nipples with attention, and I lose myself in the intoxicating rhythm of his lips. He sucks and plucks, rolling them between his fingers with a mix of passion and reverence, sending shockwaves that render me completely vulnerable. Every touch sends fire racing through me and I can’t suppress the moan that escapes my lips as my legs instinctively scissor against the mattress.
When I finally gather the courage to open my eyes, I find him watching me, his gaze filled with delight yet laden with something deeper that leaves me breathless.
He’s lighting every inch of me on fire, kindling a conflagration of need that has built up over days and weeks and is now bursting into a roaring inferno.
Keeping his voice loud enough for the phone to translate, he leans closer, his lips brushing against my ear, igniting sparks that dance along my spine. “I don’t understand all your ways. I don’t want to offend,” he murmurs, each word laced with earnest passion. “But Skye, I wonder if perhaps I’ll die if I can’t thrust my tongue between your legs and taste you.”
The desperation in his voice tugs at something deep within me, awakening desires I’ve been tamping down since shortly after we met. It makes my breath hitch, my body lean toward his like a flower seeking sunlight.
Then he dives between my legs, hooks his arms around my thighs, and pulls them farther apart until I doubt I can stretch any wider. Just as he requested, he goes for the gold, his tongue delving inside my drenched channel, then pulling back just enough to lap my juices like a jungle cat. The sensation jolts arousal through me, making every nerve ending burn with electric warmth. I find it impossible to suppress the low moan that escapes my lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated desire.
In my experience, men avoid going downtown if possible; they treat it like a chore meant to be done as quickly as humanly possible. Those who do make the obligatory attempt have never managed to rock my world. After a few begrudging minutes of lackluster effort, they move on to the penis-in-vagina action—the quick route to their real goal.
But the way Thrax is attacking me is nothing short of astonishing. It’s as though this is his favorite part of sex—his favorite thing in the whole world. He laps at my entrance with determined ferocity, sampling my essence with an enthusiasm that sends my senses into a frenzy. The heat pooling in my belly intensifies as he uses his lip-covered teeth to gently pluck at my clit—each flick and tug drawing me deeper into a world I never want to leave.
Then it’s no-holds-barred as he flicks and sucks my clit with what feels like an insatiable hunger, a need that he’s only just beginning to sate. A moment ago, I was going to warn him that no man has ever gotten me there with his mouth, but I think in about a minute, that’s going to be a lie. My muscles are tensing, my legs quivering in response, and I’m moaning in a timbre I’ve never reached before, the sound an echo of ecstasy that fills the room.
“Thrax!” His name blurts out of me in surprise, reverberating around us like a prayer. I’m coming. It rushes over me in waves, a torrent of ecstasy crashing against my senses with a force I’ve never experienced before. When he slides a finger inside me, the sensation is so intensely pleasurable that I shout again—a wordless monosyllable of bliss that seems to rise from the very depths of my being.
I grip his hair, anchoring myself to him. Unable to stop because every muscle is spasming beneath the sweet onslaught and I can’t control my movements. It’s as though I’ve been swept up in some tidal wave of pleasure that has no intention of letting me emerge for air.
The orgasm has peaks and valleys, a relentless series of climaxes that extend and elongate as Thrax seems to have transcended the need for oxygen. He just keeps pleasing me, uncaring that the filthy noises he’s making would embarrass me if it were anyone but him. A second finger breaches me, coaxing forth an ecstasy I didn’t think could rise any higher, making me writhe beneath him as I dive deeper into pure euphoria.
I spiral down, still spasming, but slower now, until I can force my eyes open. I want to see him, to capture this moment, but all I see is his dark head, unwavering, focused as he laps me clean. He nuzzles against me, shamelessly gathering my scent on his face, his devotion unmasked. I know enough of his story that I’d bet my last dollar he’s never done anything like that before. Perhaps he’s gone through the motions as demanded by owners, but not with the generous affection bestowed on me.
I’m an idiot, because the words, “I love you,” are threatening to jump out of my mouth, raw and unfiltered. Ridiculous. I’ve known him for such a short time, he’s from another millennia, and there are a thousand reasons this will never, ever work. And yet, my heart races with the thought. Still, I have to physically clamp my lips together, swallowing those three words before they ruin everything. What could they possibly mean in the world we inhabit?
Instead, I motion for him to join me as we right ourselves on the bed and lay our heads on the pillows. The way I look at him—eyes soft, lips slightly parted, and a smile that encompasses everything I want to express—says it all. Nor does he shy from my gaze. He holds nothing back as he lifts his head, my juices glistening on his lips like the most delicious ambrosia .
We just bask in this moment, our breaths syncing as if we share a heartbeat. I know he must be ready to burst, the tension palpable in the air between us, but he gives us, our relationship, the time and respect it deserves. It feels monumental, a defining moment in our shared journey, and my heart swells at the realization of how profoundly connected we are.
“I guess I should tell you,” I begin, my voice still breathy with aftershocks of pleasure. “I’ve never… experienced that much pleasure before.” The words tumble out unfiltered and I wonder if dozens more revealing sentences are lining up in my mind to vomit from my mouth and embarrass me.
“Nor I.” His deep voice rumbles softly, grounding me in the moment and shutting up all the craziness spiraling in my mind.
He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger, his movements gentle but curious as he relishes the way the curl springs back into shape. His laughter echoes softly in the stillness, a sound that brings warmth to the air.
As we settle into shared silence, this moment is big—so big—that I won’t cheapen it by asking him what he’s thinking. Although I don’t ask aloud, I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about those three little words, too.
“I imagine someone would love some relief,” I tease, a playful lilt in my voice as I lean closer to him. “Lie back and let me make you feel good, Thrax,” I whisper, the heat of the moment still clinging to my skin like a second layer, my heart racing with the prospect of returning the favor.
“In good time, Skye. Let me hold you. Watch you go to sleep.” The tender authority in his tone melts the words into something so soft it sends a cascade of warmth through me. I tell my guilt to take a hike. He has free will to say no, after all. So I curl beside him, tucking my head against the broad expanse of his chest, reveling in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
With my head on his heart, I drift into a world where our passions are accepted. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing is both a lullaby and a reminder of his presence. I fall asleep listening to that steady drumming, feeling exquisite contentment and knowing I’ll sleep all night with this peaceful smile on my face, dreaming of what we just shared.