Page 64 of Roma King
“God, yes.”
He pulls back, taking hold of my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye as he fucks me. “Are you mine? Do you belong to me?”
Oh, god. He pushes himself deeper somehow, and it feels like the world is tilting on its axis. “Doyou…belong tome?” I pant.
He takes my hand, and he places it over his heart. “Feel it beating?” he snarls.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m not dead yet. I’m yours until the day I fucking die, Firefly. Now answer me. Tell me that you’re mine.”
“Yes. I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.” With every breathless, chanted word, I feel that dizzying, heady pressure rising in my blood again. It’s going to obliterate me this time, though. I know it. I can feel it. Pasha grabs me by the wrists, taking my arms and pinning them up high above my head. His thick, dark hair is ruffled, the coloring of his eyes so pale and cool, yet they are burning with heat.
“Do you want my come inside you?” he growls.
My brain short circuits. “I’m not…I don’t…”
“Tell me what you want, Zara. Say the words.”
I’m not on birth control. There hasn’t been any need, since I haven’t been having sex. I’m hyper aware of my body, though. I’m going to get my period in a couple of days. Stupid or not, I give him the answer Iwantto give him. “Yes. Come inside me. I want it. I want to feel you…”
Pasha’s grip tightens around my wrists as he thrusts harder. “Fuck, your pussy feels so fucking good. Wrap your legs around me. Fucking tighter.”
He commands me, and I obey.
His body is directly rubbing on my clit now, and I’m fucking done for. He moves against me, and my eyes roll back in my head. “Oh, shit. Shit, Pasha…” I run out of words. I run out of breath. I’ve also run out of time. As I tumble head first over the precipice of my climax, Pasha, picks me up and lifts me. The room really does tilt now, but I barely notice. I’m so lost, spiraling, falling, and all I can do is hold on as he crushes me to him.
I’m locked within the steel bands of his arms, his hand cradling the back of my head as I come. It’s only a second later that he curses, the muscles in his shoulders and his chest straining as he comes himself. He roars as he releases, and for one moment, it feels like we’re floating, suspended by our own sheer force of will, and nothing can touch us.
Pasha’s grip loosens, and breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling quickly, he rests his forehead against mine and swallows. Somehow, he managed to pick me up and has sat back on his heels. I’m upright in his lap, my legs still wrapped around his waist, my breasts smashed up against his chest, my arms wrapped around his neck, and…
Fuck.
He is perfect. And I feel so fuckingsafein his arms.
“You’re not allowed to run now, Zara,” he says. “You don’t need to. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve fucking got you.”
I don’t know if he means literally or metaphorically, but I don’t care. He can have me either way, or both. I’m not planning on running from him. Not now. Not ever.
He kisses me, and our hearts calm—I can feel his pulse slowing as he brushes his hands over my hair, so gently, softly, petting me as if I’m suddenly a breakable, fragile thing and he wasn’t just rough as hell when he fucked the living shit out of me fifteen seconds ago.
“You’re a miracle,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re my fucking miracle.Mine.”
“I’m sure Roma kings are granted miracles all the time,” I answer, trying not to smile.
“Less often than you’d think.” He dips his head and licks at the swell of my breast, humming under his breath as he sucks my nipple into his mouth and gently rolls it between his teeth. He’s being playful, but I’m so sensitive now that the heat of his mouth and the threat of his teeth send me into sensory overload. I laugh, wriggling, trying to get free, but he doesn’t seem to be too keen on the idea of releasing me.
“No, no, no. You’re staying here, naked and covered in sweat, for the rest of time,” he informs me. “If you’re lucky, I might let you go for a bathroom break every once in a while.”
Smiling, I bite my bottom lip. “I could use one now. Unless you want your own come all over your legs.”
“I don’t give a shit. We can both be covered in my come. I want to paint every inch of your body wi—” A loud, shrill sound interrupts him, and Pasha stops short. He casts a look over his shoulder, searching for the offending article that’s making the noise, but he doesn’t find it. “Where the fuck’s that coming from? Did you leave your cell phone in the kitchen?”
The high I’ve been riding crashes and burns, disappearing in a puff of smoke, replaced by an oily, black kind of dread that coils itself around my insides.
Exhaling down my nose, setting my jaw, I slowly shake my head. “That is not my cell phone,” I say, grinding my teeth. “The payphone outside is ringing.”
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