From our historical Roman WIP that we're tentatively calling "TMQF", currently on hiatus while we do a little freebie for the M/M Goodreads Group's "Love Is Always Write" event.
Marianus acknowledged his presence once again, and his regard brought the same mix of arousal and fear roiling in his stomach, then diffusing, sinking lower, transmuting into heat and hardness. Not bodily fear—Anazâr had been used for release by masters before, and ones much crueler and less physically appealing than Marianus—but fear of causing displeasure, of being valued lower, of having his place in this household irrevocably changed.
Anazâr thought his hesitance would earn him punishment, but Marianus’ face was sympathetic. “I’ll give you the choice of refusing, and Alexandros will bring me a kitchen slave instead. No?” Anazâr stood frozen, barely able to breathe. Marianus stepped closer. “On your knees, then. No, not the tile, you can move to the rug.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I know some masters take pleasure in the pain of their slaves, but I’m not one of them. I’d have you comfortable.”
“Dominus,” Anazâr acknowledged, allowing himself to be lead to the rug. Marianus didn’t grip him, just barely brushed his elegant fingertips across Anazâr’s skin with the faith that Anazâr would not let that touch be broken. Marianus’ power: the ability to command without threat, to have his expectations fulfilled without voicing them.
That same touch guided Anazâr to his knees.