Page 34 of Roma Queen
“King fire?”
“Mmm hmm. The lightning loves to play in the sky, but King Fire pushes him back toward the Earth, his mother. If he gets lost on his way to the ground, he petrifies, transforming into a thunder stone.”
“Fire is a person? A king, no less?”
“Yep.Raj Yag. The youngest son of all the kings. He lives in the center of the Earth.”
“Are there more kings? Besides you andRaj Yag, of course?”
“Naturally. King Moon,Raj Shon,” he says, pointing to a round icon on his lower abdomen. “King Serpent,Raj Zap.” He points out the winding, subtle snake that weaves its way through the sleeve on his left arm. Next, he taps his index finger against the blazing sun over his right pec. “O Kham,” he says. “You can probably guess which king he is.”
“King Sun?”
He nods. “This is Raj Vátola, King Mist,” he says, tapping a stooped figure, standing in front of a tree, inked with stunning detail onto his ribcage. “His tree bears three apples. The fruit’s guarded by creatures that are half man, half dog. The first apple makes a man wealthy. The second makes him happy. The third brings him eternal health.”
“Sounds like a pretty rad tree.”
Pasha nods sagely. “And this isO Bavol, King Wind.” He takes my hand and places it on the other side of his ribcage, over what looks like a range of mountains with jagged peaks. “He owns an iron flute that he’ll give to you if you help him.”
I scan Pasha’s ink, feeling a little awed. He’s covered in folklore, decorated beautifully in his people’s history. “So many kings,” I say, gently tracing my finger over the mountains on his side. “Seems a little sexist, if you ask me.”
“Why? The entire Earth is a woman. A mother. The most important thing of all.”
“And where is she, amongst all of your royal men?” I ask, pinching his side.
He takes my hand and places it around the base of his throat, on top of what looks like a sprawling chain of flowers, wrapped around the blades of knives. He slides our hands over his right shoulder, passing over an intricate depiction of a pair or birds, circling around one another, one diving down into the sleeve that covers his right arm. He moves me down further, over a number of beautifully drawn animals—a fish, a bear, a horse, a raven—then down again, where the roots of trees form an intricate woven design that cuffs his wrist.
“She’s right there,” he says softly. “My right hand. But the most important tattoo of all is, and will always be,thisone.” He stacks our hands together over his heart, over the firefly tattoo that’s already inked there. “This one’s yours, Firefly.”
He stares at me, the moon turning his skin to silver and his hair the color of coal, and I battle against the urge to turn away from him. He’s looking at me like he’s somehow seeing more of me than anyone else ever has, and he’s fascinated by what he’s found. The weight of a gaze that potent is difficult to bear, especially when you’re three sheets to the wind. In the end, I poke my tongue out at him like a fucking five-year-old, hurling his own playful barb back at him. “What areyoulooking at?”
He cracks a smile, but there’s a heavy, almost sad quality to it. “A beautiful, naked woman, sitting on a kitchen counter,” he says quietly.
“No, Pasha. What are youreallylooking at?”
He places both his hands on top of my thighs, hanging his head. “I’m not sure. The future? Something good? Hope?”
Fuck. How?How can he just use so few words, and mean so much? I feel like it’s him who has his hand at my throat now, and I’m not even slightly worried by the possibility that he has the ability to crush me at any given moment.
Does he know how badly I fucking love him?
“Pasha?”
He looks up at me, steady, calm, his eyes piercing me down to my soul.
“Touch me. Kiss me. Fuck me,” I whisper. “Make me lose myself in you. I want to forget where you end and I begin.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. I’m readying myself for him to pick me up and throw me down on the bed, but he doesn’t do it. Instead, he drops down to his knees, spreading my legs, and ho…holy fucking shit, his tongue is on me beforeIcaneventhinkand….
I bury my hand the thickness of his hair, and I let myself sink into the sensation of his tongue on my pussy. “Ahh! Shit, Pasha! Oh my god.”
Hegrowls, winding his arms around my thighs so he can get a better purchase on me, and my whole body spasms when he flicks my clit with his tongue. I arch my spine and immediately crack the back of my head against the cupboard door behind me, but I barely even notice the pain. Pasha doesn’t surface for air to find out what the loud bang was, so I let him continue on his mission. I angle my hips forward, tightening my legs around his head, and Pasha moans into me, his breath hot, skating over my sensitive skin.
“You like this,” he pants. “You like having me bury my face in your wet pussy?”
Let’s face it, I’m drunk. This is only reinforced when I grab his head and I shove it back down between my legs. “Yeah, I like it. Back to work, Pasha Rivin. You’re not allowed back up until I say so.”
If he minds, I’ll never know. He doesn’t say a word. That could have something to do with the fact that he’s using his tongue for a purpose other than speech, but fuck.
