In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (22 page)

“I did it. I broke the gauntlet.” Lucan smiled despite the bruising. “They chanted my
name
.”

Hektor allowed himself to smile back a little. “Yes, they did.”
And now you will have to fuck your victor.
There would be no getting out of it this time. Both Lucan and Hektor had paid off Remulon. If a third time came, the man was like to become suspicious. Gladiators did not engage in committed, monogamous relationships.

It was against every practice of the arena.

Jealousy reared up, and Hektor chided himself for it. The claiming was custom, religion. It would have to happen, but the idea of Lucan fucking anyone but Hektor moved him to violence. And yet, it had been years since he had accepted a man inside him, since he’d wanted a man inside him.

He moved his hand, but Lucan reached out and caught it. “I don’t want to,” he said softly, as though he could read Hektor’s thoughts in his eyes. “To fuck him, I mean.”

“You have to,” Hektor said plainly, taking all of his emotion out of it. “If you don’t, the odds-makers will drop you in the ranks.”

Lucan looked down at their hands. “I…I don’t care.”

Hektor got up and paced. “Well, you should.” Anger lit within him, but it was mingled with excitement. Desire. Lucan wanted no one but him. The delicious ardor of that went to Hektor’s head, but he let his mouth ramble on. “You cannot enter into the Grand Melee if you are not at least favored by a third of the odds-makers. And if you are not—”

I could keep him out of the Melee. Here and now.

Shame burned on Hektor’s cheeks. He could not sabotage something Lucan had trained for, fought for, bled for. Gladiators vied with one another inside the arena, not outside.

Hektor shook with anger, with jealousy, with a thousand uncomfortable emotions he didn’t dare name. “You must claim your vanquished. I will see you brought there and thrown into the cell with him, and I will not let you out until you plow him as you should.” He was clenching both hands into fists. The image of Lucan fucking another man was hot and heady, but whenever Hektor pictured the face of the other man, it was his own face that looked back at him.

Lucan was wide-eyed. He nodded, twisting his hands into the sheets. For a long time they said nothing.

Hektor searched for a subject. He didn’t want to leave and didn’t want to stay. “You should not fight so recklessly,” he said quietly. “You will have the chance for retirement even if you do not win the Grand Melee. You are a favorite. The masses call your name now. Those who are so favored are almost always granted the Mercy.”

Lucan raised an eyebrow. “Even in the Grand Melee?”

“Yes.” It was rare, but Hektor had seen it. Once.

“What would you have done if you’d won?”

Hektor smiled genuinely and closed his eyes. Golden fields of wheat stretched before his mind’s eye. “I would become a farmer and grow and tend things. I would”—he gazed at Lucan—“take a lover and never fight again.”

Lucan smiled as well. “That is a nice dream.”

“It is,” Hektor allowed. He sat back down.

Absently, Lucan reached for his hand, and Hektor gave it. They sat there, holding hands and not speaking until the shouts from the Empress’s Theatre faded and the sun began to go down.

And then Hektor pulled Lucan up and helped him on with a plain, clean tunic. “It is time to return you to your house. In the morning, you will take your Claim.”

Chapter Twelve

SEX IN CHAINS

As a rule, gladiators

Did not allow emotions to overwhelm them

It made one slow, unsure, hesitant

Both on the battlefield and off

—Marcus Zaerus, House Zaerus, the Rulers

Dawn was barely breaking, the first rays cresting the pillars of House Zaerus and filtering down in pale gold upon the lower houses and tiers of the Grand Palestra. Cast in the pallid light, the entire world seemed fragile.

Lucan felt the most fragile of all.

He trudged toward the Claim, knowing he should make haste. He should be excited. His first Victor’s Claim as a named gladiator. Once rumor sprang from the Claim dungeon, Lucan of House Vulpinius would be known for his prowess—both on the battlefield and off.

And yet, this was one of the hardest things. Harder than learning net and trident technique, harder than continuing the fight even when blood and sweat ran into his eyes and the pain and fatigue threatened, harder even than seeing the pride on Hektor’s face as Lucan was victorious and then feeling all that victory fade as he realized Hektor was not his Claim.

Lucan slowed his step as he entered the courtyard of the Ludus Magnii. The emptiness of it gripped him. Soon, it would be filled with gladiator hopefuls, each novice vying to be the next named. Each vying to be…
Me.

For half a breath, Lucan envied them. How uncomplicated things had been only a few months ago!

He faltered on the stairs. The familiar scent of the Claim wafted up from the passages below and permeated the air. Slowly, Lucan descended. Men lingered around the mouth of the dungeon, dicing with the Claim guard and making quiet side bets on the next Spectacle.

A howl of pleasure and pain echoed from within, and the men roared with lusty laughter.

They saw Lucan and stood. He barely heard their accolades, barely felt them slapping him on the back, their gazes admiring, their comments lewd. Of course. His conquest was from House Priassin. Mostly, that house was filled with architects and artists, but they trained a few fine warriors—all of them were renowned for their fair faces and their ability to please in the chains.

Flavian Priassin would be no exception.

“An ass as soft as a Priassin.”
It was an adage among the amatores who lurked about the Gates of Death looking for stray attentions from the gladiators.

Lucan should have been excited. But all he could think of were Hektor’s hands, his lips, his rough kiss at the back of Lucan’s nape, Hektor’s body hard and firm, his cock rooting in Lucan’s ass.

A small gasp escaped Lucan as his own shaft stirred, and the men chuckled again.

“Here is our champion.” Remulon’s voice was teasing as well as taunting, his smile bright beneath his bristly beard. He shifted the crutch beneath his armpit and gestured with his head. “This way, young master. A soft Priassin ass awaits your attentions.”

The men laughed uproariously. One gave Lucan a gentle shove, and he stumbled on after the Master of Claims. Wild thoughts gripped him. The cell would be dim. Flavian would be turned away from him. Flavian Priassin was dark-haired and dark-eyed—dark like Hektor. Maybe Lucan could fuel his fantasy, pretend it was Hektor who fucked him by guttering torchlight.

Remulon’s keys jingled as he pushed one into a lock.

Feeling like he was walking to his own execution, Lucan stepped into the chamber. He would have to do it. Hektor was right. If he did not, if Remulon did not report sounds of Lucan gleefully pounding Flavian’s ass, the vanquished wailing for pleasure, for mercy at the hands of the victor, the odds would go against him.

He took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the flickering, fickle light, and made out a figure in the chains. Metal links rattled softly, announcing the Claim’s submission.

At least his face will be turned away.

Slowly, Lucan stripped down to his loincloth. The sooner he got this over with, the better. He could not afford to be seen dawdling either. The odds-makers had their ways of finding out what happened in the Claim, and the gladiator who took overly long to plow another was looked upon with darkest suspicion.

Even the vanquished were taught to anticipate their pounding.

Now, his conquest hung, waiting for him. The man’s arms had been pulled up over his head, his wrists shackled tight, stretching out all that heavy corded muscle, his back rippling with power, his thighs quivering, calves tight, his muscular ass…

Lucan paused. He didn’t recall Flavian being that thick. A trick of the poor lighting, perhaps? And then his conquest moaned and threw his head back.

A black ponytail swished along his back.

Lucan’s heart gave a jolt.
No. It can’t be.
“Hektor?”

The man in chains turned. Immediately, Lucan recognized his mentor—that handsome jaw, his sky-blue eyes dilated in desire. They locked gazes, and anything Lucan might have wanted to say died on his lips. After weeks of close quarters—training, sweating, vying against each other in physical spar, fucking in the dark of night—Hektor so obviously needed this, needed
him.

He wants
me.
To plow
him. Yearning, keen as a blade, cut through Lucan, and suddenly, he needed back, needed to be inside Hektor, to push deep into that manly warmth and fuck his man until their lust resounded throughout the Claim.

Heady with desire, Lucan stepped in. He let one hand fall to Hektor’s back, let it slide across the sweat-sheened muscles to the man’s ass. Lucan massaged those heavy cheeks, stretching the skin and exulting in the feel of Hektor tensing.

Again, Hektor moaned and threw his head back, his luxurious hair sweeping across his back.

How Lucan loved Hektor’s hair! He ran his fingers through the thick ponytail. Vaguely, he glimpsed a dark smudge on the back of his mentor’s neck, but the lure of that luxurious mane stole his attention. He dug at the thong that held it back. He wanted it loose, flowing down over Hektor’s powerful shoulders as Lucan fucked him to completion.

His cock leaped at the idea, and he embraced Hektor from behind, running his fingers over his mentor’s chest and stomach. Hektor shivered, and the chains rattled.

From farther down the passage, a cry of pleasure echoed from another cell, followed by a dark, mirth-filled laugh. Remulon was giving Flavian’s ass a hard pounding. The dirty slap and rut of the other men fucking galvanized Lucan—Remulon’s exultant grunts, Flavian’s screams of pleasure despite himself. He slid his hands down and took hold of Hektor’s cock. Hektor was instantly hard. Lucan stroked the soft silky steel of it, sliding his hand up and down, reveling in the length, the girth. He remembered having it inside him and shuddered.

He wanted to do that for Hektor. And he would.

He thrust his own cock against Hektor’s ass, letting him feel the soft-hard prodding.

Hektor moaned—“Yes…yes…yes…”—with every nudge, with every stroke. His thighs grew taut, and he jerked his hips, pumping his cock through Lucan’s fist. Precum slicked the head, and Lucan used his fingers to spread it, to get his man wet.

Just as Hektor began to pant, he let go. Hektor’s bereft groan made it worthwhile.

Lucan dropped to his knees and pressed his face between Hektor’s ass cheeks. He delved in with his tongue, and used his hands to spread his mentor wide. The needy hole was there, and Lucan wasted no time laving over it. The musky, dark taste of the man—his man—was heady, intoxicating. He licked and lapped, flicking his tongue over the soft, puckering flesh, dipping in an inch and feeing the shudders course through Hektor’s strong body.

He twisted in his chains, his voice raw as he moaned.

Lucan had his way with Hektor’s ass. Blindly, he reached for the oil and dragged the small pot to him as he increased his lustful ministrations. Hektor squirmed, groaning, and Lucan smeared the dripping oil on his man’s waiting hole, smeared it around, and dipped one finger into him.

With a shout, Hektor thrust back, trying to suck in that finger, to draw Lucan deep, but Lucan pulled back. Then pressed in. He penetrated his mentor’s ass with one finger, then two, reveling in the way Hektor writhed beneath him, rocking his hips gently.

A searing pain stabbed through Lucan’s chest. The Ebon. It was rising as it always did with his lust. Desperate to flood the pain with pleasure, he pressed his fingers in and began stretching Hektor in earnest. His man’s hole was tight and unused.

No matter. Lucan would touch him and stretch him until he was ready to accept cock.

Murmuring encouragement, he stroked Hektor’s pole, adoring the way it jerked and spasmed with every caress. A spurt of precum spilled over Lucan’s fingers. The hot sting of it branded his skin, hotter than the Ebon, urging him to forget, to claim Hektor’s ass and drive in until sanity abandoned him.

Taking a wider stance, Lucan palmed his cock and lined it up at Hektor’s entrance, nudging his ass cheeks open.

Desire swept through him, fueled by the fire igniting in his chest. He didn’t want to be gentle. He wanted to fuck, to claim his man. He put both hands on Hektor’s hips and bent him over.

Hektor went willingly, his black hair hanging in his face, his ass wriggling.

Lucan ran his tongue across his lips. The sight of that glistening hole was more than he could bear. He spread Hektor, held him fast. Little by little, inch by inch, he pushed inside, tunneling into Hektor’s body. The tight heat squeezed him, and he nearly lost his load right then, but Hektor groaned. His ass flexed once, and he pushed out.

With a cry of triumph, Lucan rammed him hard, his cock stuffing Hektor’s hole full. Pleasure washed over Lucan, hot and constricting, nearly taking him under. He did not normally do the claiming, but he wanted this with Hektor. Desperately.

That first stroke was heaven and rapture. It took his mind from the pain of the Ebon.

Hektor’s clenching ass gripped Lucan’s cock, sucking him deeper. He moaned at every thrust, slamming his ass back on Lucan’s hard pole. Seizing a handful of black hair, Lucan drew back and pistoned forward, driving in, fucking Hektor hard and fast. He could not stop punching his dick into that tight warmth.

He would never get enough, never be sated.

Lucan cried out, adding his screams to the pleasures echoing in the halls of the Claim.

In unison, Hektor shouted and ground his ass back, trying to take all Lucan had to give. All Lucan’s pretense vanished, all his control frayed, until he was sweat and skin and the pump of an iron rod and the velvety dark clasp of his lover’s ass. He was a beast, an animal, rooting into his man in shameless wantonness.

“Harder,” Hektor panted, writhing beneath him. The chains pulled his arms, stretching him deliciously. “Fuck me harder.”