Page 57 of Roma King
“I’m gonna tell her to go fuck herself,” he says, his eyes glinting in the blue light. “She’s made some pretty unreasonable demands on me. Forbidden me from pursuing you. And I was this close, firefly.Thisclose to giving her what she wanted. But, sitting here across from you, feeling what I feel, drowning in it, starved and insane because of it, I’ve just realized something.She is asking for too fucking much. She’s been lying to me since the day I was born, right alongside the people I thought I could trust to be honest with me. I have a fucking aunt. I’ve been living in the same city as her for the past three fucking years. I’ve been angry with Shelta for a very long time, but now I’m fuckingfurious. I’mnotgoing to give her what she wants. I fucking refuse. I’mhungry, Firefly. My body has been craving something for a while now, and I’ve been denying it. I can’t do it anymore. I won’t deny myselfyou.”
Oh...my god. This is all too much. I need another tequila. I need the waitress to bring the entire bottle over here, and I need her to pour it directly into my mouth. How? How can he say things like this? I can’t decipher my own tangled emotions right now, but I can’t seem to make myself get up and walk away. “The choice isn’t just yours. You don’t just get to fuck me because you want to,” I say.
“True,” he shoots back. “Butyouwant to fuckme, too, don’t you, Zara. You want me more than you’ve ever wanted anything.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’sfrightening. You hold yourself on such a tight leash. No alcohol. No drugs. No adventures. No fun. You haven’t had a boyfriend in years.”
I’m about to correct him, but he’s right. I haven’t had a boyfriend since I left college. “Why would I find myself a boyfriend? Life’s much easier when you don’t have to consider anyone else.”
“You haven’t needed a boyfriend, because you’ve been waiting. And now you’re shitting yourself because you’re so scared of what will happen if you make yourself vulnerable. You’re too scared of what will happen if you actually give yourself what you want for once.”
“I wouldn’t be sharing myself if I slept with you. I’d be performing a physical act.”
Pasha tuts under his breath. “See. There you go, lying again.”
“I’m not lying. It’s the truth.”
“Prove it, then. If you truly believe that, stand up and come sit next to me.”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Prove it to yourself.”
Such a stupid taunt. And that’s what he’s doing: taunting me. With those eyes, and his perfect mouth, and the way the muscles in his arms keep drawing my gaze to them, as if they’re fucking magnetized. Fuck him. I get up and move. The bastard barely shifts along the bench to make room for me. My shoulder presses up against him, and for a brief second our skin is touching, arm against arm, and my brain shorts out, unable to form a single thought.
“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he says. “Andyouhave been dreaming aboutme.”
I’m rooted to the bench. I can’t move. I can’t speak. How? How the fuck does he know I’ve been dreaming? And how does he know that I’ve been dreaming abouthim? This is all so confusing. And…he’s been dreaming aboutme,too? Impossible. I don’t believe in a higher power. I don’t believe in outside forces, puppeteering me through my life. I don’t believe in fate. There are so many things I don’t believe in, but…
How can I not believe inthis?
Too scared to even comprehend what any of this means, I take the only action I consider safe. I lie. “I don’t dream,” I whisper.
He says nothing, which is a small mercy, though there’s something disturbing in his eyes. Something that makes my body jitter with far too much adrenalin. I lean over and grab what remains of my tequila spiked apple juice, and when I lean back, there’s something solid wedged behind me—Pasha’s arm. He slides it down, winding it around my waist, his hand cupping my side, and then there are his fingers, gently digging into my flesh, somehow already underneath the hem of my shirt.
I try to scoot away from him, but he tuts under his breath, slowly shaking his head from left to right. “Whyare you afraid of me, Firefly? Did I hurt you in a past life?”
“There’s no such thing as past lives.” There’s a tremulous, traitorous hitch to my voice.
“Maybe not,” he concedes. His warm breath skates over my skin, and a shudder sets my nerve endings jangling. “But it seems like the only plausible explanation for your fear. Tell me what I’ve done.”
He’s not mocking me now. He’s confused. Concerned even. I grip the edge of the bench underneath the table, trying to steady myself.
“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid ofthis,” I whisper. “The feeling that I’ve been here before. That I know what’s going to happen when you kiss me, and I won’t be able to stop it.”
The pressure beneath Pasha’s hand eases. He begins moving his fingers in feather-light circles over my side, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps. He’s touching me.Touchingme. And not in a way that’s designed to comfort me because I’m sad, or scared. He’s touching me in a way that suggests so many things, so many heated moments, panted words and stolen kisses.
“I have to go home, Pasha.” I’m pleading with him to let me go at this point. I need to hurry back to my comfort zone, because right now I am so far from it that I don’t even recognize my surroundings. The place I find myself now is unknown to me, strange and alien, and I don’t know how to operate here.
“I won’t stop you,” he says. His face is only a few inches from mine now. The eyes I’ve resentfully admired since they appeared out of the darkness inside Madame Shelta’s tent are even more unique from this distance. Glowing, bright, a tapestry of aqua, turquoise, silver and jade, they’re perhaps the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
His dark hair, usually swept to one side, so wavy and thick, tumbles into his face now, but he leaves it precisely where it is. My senses are brimming over with him, overloading on everything Pasha. He smells like fresh wood shavings again. The slightest tang of smoke, mixed with something citrusy and bright. I love the natural scent of his body. More than freshly brewed coffee. More than freshly baked bread. More than the smell of the ocean or cut grass.
“I’m asking you, though…don’t go. Be brave, Zara. Let’s see what there is to see.Together,” he pleads.
“You said it yourself. Your mother will lose her mind if she—”
