Page 20 of Roma Queen
“Take off your clothes. Give them to me,” I demand, removing my thumb from her mouth. Her eyes fly open, and a charge of energy passes between us. Electric. Alive. Dangerous. Her lashes are much darker than the red of her hair—they’re thick and curled like doll’s lashes, as delicate and beautiful as the vanes on a feather. She remains on the bed but removes her clothes with deft, sure movements. Her body is fucking breathtaking as she gathers up the material into a bundle and passes it to me.
I’ve been tattooing people since I was a kid. I always had an affinity for shape and form, and my family and other members of the Rivin clan would come to see me whenever I was back from school on break, asking me to ink them up with this design or that symbol. I fucking loved it. It was challenging, and it was fun. It wasn’t until I was banished that I took things deeper, though. I didn’t just want to be able to do a good job with a tattoo gun. I wanted to be able to paint. To draw. To become an expert at…at fuckingsomethingbesides ripping people off and taking advantage of them whenever I could. I went to a live art class every day for a year—the roughed up, bruised-knuckled fighter in the torn-up jeans—and during each session, another beautiful woman would pose naked to be drawn.
I’ve seen hundreds of different body types. Long, lean, dancer’s bodies. Strong, toned, muscular frames—the kind you find on gym junkies. Corded, graceful, yoga goddesses. Curvy, voluptuous women with feminine hips and breasts. Women with thighs you just want to dig your fingers into as you fuck them, and girls with asses you could watch bounce all day long.
But not once during my time attending those classes did I come across a body like Zara’s. I could say that she’s perfect, but perfection is so subjective. One man’s ideal is far from another’s. The way the plane of her stomach slopes to meet her legs. The way her hip bones protrude just a tiny, tiny bit. The way her left areola is slightly oval and tilted on an axis compared to the almost perfect circle of her right areola. The way her bottom lip is just that bit fuller than her top lip. These small details that complete her form might not excite another man the same way they excite me.
She isn’t perfect.
But she ismyperfect, and I would take her over a fake, flawlessly symmetrical, faultless robot any damn day of the week.
I discard her clothes, dumping them into the open blanket box next to the bed, and then I slam the lid closed. Her skin is pale and vivid. She looks like she’s radiating moonlight. My dick throbs with painful urgency as I place my hands on her shoulders, pushing her back down onto the mattress.
“Are you planning on punishing me with that belt, Pasha Rivin?” she whispers.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping to keep the surprise from my face. “No, Firefly.I’m not a monster.I’d never use a tool to hurt you. I’d certainly never take a leather strap to you. Jesus Christ.”
She laughs softly, curling a strand of my hair around her finger. “Then why isn’t it on the floor with the rest of your clothes?”
“Because I’m not planning on holding back. I’m about to fuck you so hard, you’re probably going to need to bite down on it, Zara. Just trying to be a gentleman.”
She picks up the belt, pouting at me. With her slender body stretched out diagonally across the bed, my palms are tingling like crazy. I can already imagine what the smooth, satin of her skin will feel like under the roughness of my hands, and trying to control myself right now is a serious practice in patience.
I just told her I wasn’t a monster, but perhaps that’s not true. I sure as hell feel like one sometimes. I’m so much bigger than her. When I lie on top of her, my body engulfs and restrains her. She’s fine boned, her wrists so narrow I can easily encircle them between my thumb and my index finger. The line of her neck is graceful and elegant like a swan. She reminds me of a ballerina, every part of her poised and controlled with absolute precision, every muscle trained and held in place—a vastly difficult task, made to look so effortless by the serenity on her face. She’s as intricate as a swiss watch. Expertly constructed like a ’69 Sting Ray, all flowing lines crafted to conceal a powerful, fierce engine beneath the hood.
I, on the other hand, was built with far less finesse. I was constructed with brute force in mind. I’m a sledgehammer. A fucking Sherman tank. I’m brash, and I’m direct—a pot on the verge of boiling over, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Ilikethe glaring differences between us. I like that she’s so small. I like that she’s so vulnerable in situations like this. I would never fucking hurt her. Never in a million years. But there’s a darkness in me that relishes her surrender. She knows I’m stronger than she is, that I’m fucking dangerous, and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid over killing someone if I had to, but it doesn’t matter to her. She turns herself over to me willingly. She places her care into my violent hands, trusting that I’ll be careful with her, no matter what.
This isn’t some testosterone-induced macho bullshit. I don’t like the fact that I’m bigger than she is and she’s so delicate because it makes me feel more of a man. I don’t understand that mentality. I don’t get why other guys would even feel that way in the first place. I like it because of that trust.
I like testing the boundaries of it. Seeing how far I can push her and waiting to find out where the limits of that trust start and end. I’ll never stop challenging her. There’ll never come a day when I cease to explore her bravery, or the mettle of her lion’s heart. I’ll never make lifeeasyfor her, because easiness breeds complacency.
Maybe all of thatdoesmake me a monster. If that’s the case, then it’s a cape I’m willing to wear.
“Is that pretty little mouth of yours going to take me again, Firefly? How badly do you want my cock? Should I shove it right to the back of your throat, hmm?”
She sighs, breath stuttering and uneven. Her mercurial irises are like twin pools of burning fire. It’s such a fucking turn on to see her desire build like this. She practically panting as she crawls toward me on all fours. “Do it,” she dares.
Daring me is tantamount to waving a red flag at a bull. “Oh, Firefly…you reallyshouldn’t.”
I wind her hair around my fist, baring my teeth and I tighten my hold. Zara gasps. I don’t even need to tell her this time: she opens her mouth voluntarily, and the sight of her pink, wet tongue nearly sends me into a fucking frenzy. “Wider,” I command.
She opens wider.
I grab hold of my cock, squeezing it to the point of pain, and then I slide it slowly into her mouth. It pulses like a fucking red-hot poker, harder than when I was a fucking teenager, and I drive her head down onto me, cursing through my teeth. “Holy fuck, Firefly. Holyfuck, yes.”
I don’t stop guiding her head down until I feel the pout of her swollen lips around the base of my shaft. She lets out a moan—a combination of need and warning—and I know I have her right on the edge. She can barely breathe like this. Her mouth and her throat are so fucking full of me that I’m robbing her of the oxygen she needs to survive.
I rip myself free of her, and the sound of her desperate draw of air is like music to my ears. My dick is wet with her saliva, and so are her lips.
I tighten my hold on her hair, and Zara’s eyes widen. She knows what’s coming. “Again,” I command.
Her lips slide all the way down to my fucking balls, and I can feel the back of her throat spasming; she’s on the verge of gagging, but I pull back a little, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. That’s not what this is about. This is not an act of degradation. I don’t want her coughing and spluttering, eyes watering, make up streaming down her cheeks. I want us both walking the tightrope between too far and not enough.
She looks up at me, her mouth filled with my cock, eyes issuing a challenge all of their own, and it’s just too fucking much. I have to. God, I fuckinghaveto. I rock my hips forward, holding her head in place, and I fuck her mouth. Hard, fast and barely controlled, I grind my teeth together as I shove myself past her lips, over and over again.
She moans, panting down her nose, her tongue massaging the tip of my dick every time I jerk back, and I feel like a fucking god. When she presses back, resisting against the pressure I’m applying on the back of her head, I release her. If she needs a moment, I’ll give it to her. But she doesn’t need a moment. Her chin is wet and glistening as she dips down and takes one of my balls into her mouth, and—
