Latina Writer Gabrina Garza

June 24 2007 marked the release of Gabrina's contest winning story!  In September it became a featured release at www.fictionwise.com. As a new release it was discounted by 15%, but you can also buy it straight from the source at http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/Adeno.html It's often on sale through Amber Heat, and who doesn't like a bargain, eh?

"When do I fight next?"   He twisted, straining against the stitches before apparently deciding it was futile. Black eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched against a grunt.

"I don't know," she lied, knowing Turvo would send his slave into the arena tomorrow if he could walk. 

"Where is…?" Adeno paused and his eyes closed. 

She glanced over her shoulder at the armor and weapons draped in black cloth, and shuddered.  The leather arm belonged to Jetta, the man who had cut Adeno.  His corpse lay somewhere within the basement while his head remained staked in the arena for all to see. When the remains had been jeered to the crowd's satisfaction, it would be boiled, the skull returned to Adeno's owner as a trophy.

Her heart wrenched in her chest. She remembered seeing Adeno and Jetta crouched together in the corridor as they awaited battle.  She knew they had often exchanged meals, one man starving while the other ate before his fight.   Cynically she reminded herself that it would do no good to mourn this dead fighter.  No one else had, no one else would.   

"Did you see to him?"  Adeno questioned.

"He was not mine to see," Nasora answered.

For a long while he stayed quiet, his shallow breathing the only sign of life.  Encouraged by his silence, she placed several towels on the edge of her table and moved two large, crescent-shaped bowl from her work table to where Adeno lay.  Hot, perfumed water continued to simmer over the modest fire in the corner of the closed off room.  She ladled enough into the bowls to wash his face and hair and properly clean the smaller wounds she had no more strength left to tend.

Water trickled from the soaked rag and he watched her, his gaze intent on her balled fist. 

"Close your eyes," she murmured.

He didn't speak, but he didn't obey either, and without the will to argue with him, she dabbed at his chest with a beige colored rag.  Goosebumps rose along his upper arms and once flat nipples stood hard and erect.

"You're cold," she commented.

The lengthened bulge in his trousers told her otherwise.  For half a moment she stared at the distraction and wondered if he displayed lust for her or the lingering excitement of battle.  Men frequently died with stone-hard erections, the body's answer to both desire and violence. 

At last she tore her gaze away and found him studying her, his dark eyes heavily lidded.  Shifting her weight, she leaned over him in order to reach the bowl of medicinal water.  Her breasts hung over his face, nipples hardened with the sight of his erection, inviting his lips and teeth.

She swore she felt him lift his head, but once she realized the danger in their game, she took a step back and dunked a fresh rag into the water.  In silence she scrubbed her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp.  His eyes finally closed, but the erection remained.  He hunched his shoulders, relocated his arms until his hand lay across his hips and directed her eyes toward the unmistakable outline of his penis.

With each stroke of her hands through his hair, he touched himself, slow and deliberate.  She wondered if he realized that she completely ignored her duties in favor of his mesmerizing actions.  Back and forth she rubbed her fingers through his hair, knuckles occasionally pressed to his scalp.  Back and forth his outstretched hand moved over his trousers.  She ached for him to caress her there, at the point now dripping wet with need.

"Would you care for a blanket?" she questioned.

He grunt a firm, "No."

"Are you certain?"  Her voice trembled with voyeuristic guilt.

"You'll get the blanket wet."

Embarrassed, she paused and wondered if he knew the effect his actions took on her.  "No, I will not," she answered firmly.

His eyes slit open.  "You always grab blankets with your wet hands."  A sly smile tipped the corners of his mouth when he gazed up at her. 

"Your hand is shaking.  You must be freezing."

"Is that what I feel?" he murmured, the tips of his long fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers.  "What do you feel?"

Danger had never enticed her.  She pressed harder against his skull.  "A lump," she said irritably.  "A massive lump on the side of your head."

The muscles in his face tensed but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  Both hands rested at his sides, his erection still painfully obvious. 

Her eyes flitted from the door to the table. Turvo returned to his home, she assumed.  Guards wouldn't disrupt her and other Healers busied themselves with their own fighters.  All she had to do was step closer and touch him, release him the way she'd always dreamed of.  She wanted to know if his penis twitched when he was awake as it did when he was asleep and she examined him.  She wanted to know the feel of his testicles in her hand while she stroked him, loved him the way she had wanted to from the moment she saw his square face framed in dark waves of hair. 

"Why do you heal me, Nasora?" he asked suddenly.

Emotion had always been worthless here.  She placed her hand on his bare chest and attempted to slow the rhythm.  So often he'd been brought to her with his heart racing, muscles tense, body aroused by fear and the rush of fight left in his blood.

She'd wanted to drape her arms over him, press his face to her neck and run her fingers down his naked back as he filled her in one swift stroke.  At night she dreamed of his muscular form, healthy after she'd placed her hands on his wounds and closed them with her life force.  She envisioned his face cradled in her hands, his fingers pressed into the soft curve of her hips as he lifted and lowered her onto him.  Sometimes she even saw their children, eyes pale gray like hers, hair midnight black like his.  One tall, slender daughter and two broad-shouldered, muscular sons:  The offspring of a former Healer and a slave warrior—the children who would never be born. 

Buy ADENO now at http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/Adeno.html Regular price is $4.00, though Amber Quill Press always runs fantastic sales each month.

Adeno
by Gabrina Garza
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-068-8 (Electronic)

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Read what the reviewers are saying... Coming soon... Read a short excerpt... ...In an attempt to loosen the knots in his muscles, Adeno hunched his shoulders. With a grimace, he remembered his first night spent as a slave nine years ago. He recalled the wonder and relief he’d found in his own space, the dread that had come when he realized his father’s cruel hand would never touch him again, but in its place were sabers and whips that never showed mercy. Having no desire for one last night filled with nightmares, he tilted his head back and licked his lips. “You’re no longer on me, Nas,” he murmured weakly. The Yarin root he’d been forced to drink made his throat raw, which would prevent him from screaming in the arena. The slave masters had realized long ago that it disturbed patrons to hear terror accompany a blood bath. “No longer with me,” he continued with the dreaded realization that the essence of her breast and lips had faded from his mouth. Yet it had existed, he reminded himself, and her unique flavor belonged to him alone. Perhaps in twenty years another man would fondle her breasts, but he’d claimed her first, however briefly. Possessive male thoughts allowed a smile of satisfaction, but pain and regret quickly swallowed it up. “But I want you. Now.” Each silky caress of her hand, the tight grip of long fingers around his cock, none of it had left an imprint on his mind. No matter how he’d touched her, he maintained his lowly place. Still a slave, still a prisoner, still a piece of property bought, sold, and destroyed. With a growl of frustration, he pushed to his feet and stalked the width of his dark, musty cell. Need pulsed through him, invaded his blood like sweet poison. When he’d awakened upon her table, the spear still jutting from his chest, he’d promised himself he’d hold her once, only once. But now once wasn’t enough, and perhaps a thousand times still wouldn’t sate this sudden hunger, this awakening he’d found with her hands in his hair and his lips sucking her nipple, tongue laving her throat. An iron door opened and shut, and he stood stock still in his cage, eyes trained on the cell bars. The torches along the wall flickered as a gust of urine-scented air wafted through the lower corridors. “Deno.” Nasora spoke his name in barely a whisper, but she beckoned him to her. He stood, hands gripped tightly around the bars, and shook them hard to guide her forward. The men around him fell silent, their interest piqued by something soft and warm. Footsteps cushioned by leather sandals padded along the stone and damp straw until she stood before him, her dark colored gown billowing around her, face pale as the moon he hadn’t seen in nine years. “Where are the keys?” she whispered. He shook his hand and pointed at his throat. “Turvo,” he rasped. With a frown, she wriggled her hand through the rusty bars where it stopped at her elbow. Bowing, he drew her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. The scent of her perfumed skin filled his lungs, lifted him momentarily from his prison cell and nestled him in her grasp. “How?” he questioned, the single word almost indiscernible. “I walked here,” she answered. “Eleven streets.” She smiled faintly and clutched his hand. “My governess sleeps deeply. She didn’t wake when I climbed through the window and landed in the bushes.” “No,” he said. If his voice still existed, he would have told her to return home. Agony burrowed into his heart as he thought of someone discovering her here, now. “I won’t let him kill you,” she promised. He reached through the bars and touched her cheek and chin, ran his finger along her lips. With his eyes trained on hers, he caressed her, promised her a night spent far away from this place. Bodies naked and trembling, hair dampened with the rain like sugary mist on the meadows as they lay together, joined as they both craved. He looked her over, imagined his hands cupping her hips, thought of his fingers tangled in her hair grown long once more. Immediately his gaze focused on her belly and the empty womb he wished to fill. He needed her more than ever on the eve of his death, but more than need, he loved her and feared for her. “Don’t die,” he forced himself to say. He squeezed her hand harder than necessary. “Nas, don’t die for me.” “Deno—” “It’s not worth it.” She squeezed his hand, then pulled away. “You think it is worth living if I see you die?” Helpless behind the bars, he watched her pad away, a phantom in a billow of dark silk...