by Callie Hart
My head’s still flooded with endorphins from his mouth on my neck, but I scrounge up a cocky smirk for him. “Didn’t have you pegged as a hopeless romantic, Pasha. Most guys would be happy to have slept with as many women as they could before meeting a real, long term prospect.”
Pasha’s fingers dig a little deeper into my skin. “Who said anything about you being a long-term prospect?”
Oh. Oh fucking, shitting hell. My heart plummets through my body and explodes in a bloody mess at my feet. How? How have I misread this so badly? He doesn’t think I’m long term material. I didn’t even second guess the words as they left my mouth; they just seemed obvious. I’d begun to finally warm up, what with his body flush with mine and the wood burner blasting out waves of heat, but a nasty, penetrating cold begins to creep into my chest again as I try to gently push him away. “What was all that in front of your family, then? The whole, I’m hers and she is mine, bit? You were just saying that to make sure no one tries to stab me to death while we’re asleep?”
Fuck. I hate that there’s amusement in his eyes right now. I despise the fact that he seems entertained as he locks his arms around me, refusing to let me wriggle free from him. “Stop. Stop, stop, stop. Jesus, Zara, just quit squirming will you. You’re freaking out for no reason. You are not a prospect to me. You’re not a fucking possibility. That’s all I was trying to say. You’re a definitive. An absolute. And, no, I’ve never been a hopeless romantic, but somehow you’ve come along and turned me into one. Fuck! Stop staring at me like that. It’s already hard enough putting this shit into words. I’m no fucking good at it.”
He is far better than he knows.
I’ve placed so much stock in this wild, unlikely improbable connection between Pasha and me that the moment it looked like I might have acted rashly, tying myself to him so insanely quickly, I realized just how devastated I’ll be if I am wrong about this. I will be end-of-the-motherfucking-world level devastated, and that is a worrying prospect.
With a handful of simple words, Pasha has wiped away my fear and embarrassment, but a hint of panic remains now. Him being with an outsider is probably going to be hard for him, even with Cleo’s blessing. There could come a time when the attraction he feels for me dims, and the hassle of maneuvering through clan politics where I am concerned becomes annoying and not worth it for him anymore.
Pasha reaches up and rubs his index finger between my eyebrows. His face is so serious. “Stop. Whatever you’re doing in there right now, just…stop. It’s not going to help.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The fuck I don’t. You’re turning over possible scenarios that have no weight or bearing to our situation. I can tell.” He’s so damn confident all the fucking time. Completely and utterly sure of his place in the world. When he opens his mouth and speaks, there is no doubt or hesitancy in the things that he says.
“How can you be so sure? How the hell can you tell me that you’re not going to get sick of all this infighting once the shine has worn off and I’m not so new and intriguing anymore?”
Cupping my face in his hands, he gently presses his forehead against mine. “Do I feel new to you, Firefly?” he asks. His voice is as quiet as falling snow.
I open my mouth, words on my tongue: of course you do. How can you not? There’s still so much I need to figure out about you. But…none of those statements disturb the silence that has engulfed the vardo. Hesitantly, I steel myself and tell him the truth. “No. You don’t. You feel like a constant. You’re a song I’ve always known. I can hum you, the sound and the tone and the melody of you filling every single fiber of my being. I can’t seem to remember the lyrics of you, but every second I spend with you, I’m seeming to figure out where they fit.”
Pasha’s eyes are ablaze. He strokes his thumbs over my cheekbones as he leans forward and carefully, with great intention, places his lips against mine. At first, the kiss is slow and searing. It burns its way down to my soul, branding itself there. My lungs are void of oxygen, and I can’t seem to recall how to rectify the situation. My mind swims with him, the smell of him, the feel of his body against my body, his hip pressing into my side, his leg in between my legs, the weight of him settled against me, satisfying, and frightening, and safe.
When he parts my lips, his thumb teasing the edge of my bottom lip as he increases the pressure between our mouths, I forget my own damned name. His tongue slips past my teeth, probing and exploring, and I answer, tasting him, discovering him the way he is discovering me, and all the world falls silent.
This kiss is an armed robbery. Like a thief, Pasha takes everything from me as he grinds himself against me, pinning me to the wall of the vardo. My breath: gone. My hearing: gone. All cognitive abilities: gone. My vision: gone. My hearing: gone.
He ransacks my senses as he kisses me. He leaves me with nothing but my ability to feel, and holy fuck has my body come alive. On my deathbed, when all of the challenges, the triumphs, the trials, the tribulations, and the victories of my life are laid out bare before me, when the most important moments revisit me, showing me the pivotal moments when everything changed and I found myself traveling into the unknown, down a new, unplanned path, I know that this moment, this kiss, will be one of the most coveted highlights of my humble existence.
SECOND
Routine makes anything bearable. That’s what the man says.
There is no routine for the boy, though. Inside the room, there is only the endless anticipation of pain, and the pain itself. And the boy has begun to realize that the waiting is often the worst part. Now, the boy finds himself hoping for the door to open. Because at least when the man comes, the boy is not alone anymore. At least the pain the man delivers brings with it some sort of physical contact. A dirty, wrong kind of contact, the boy is old enough to know that much, but being alone, and cold, and hungry in the dark when the man is gone has begun to terrify him more than the man’s grunting attentions.
It’s been a long time since he left the room. It’s been a long time since he bathed. The boy doesn’t know if the cracked, flaky debris he picks off his body is blood, or dirt, or the greasy, musk-smelling wetness that the man leaves on his skin.
It hurts to squat over the bucket and go to the bathroom. The man only used to touch, to grab, to pinch, and smack and kick, but now he pushes, too. Pushes things where they’re not supposed to go. This excites the man far more than all of the other things put together. The pain feels bigger than the boy, and bigger than the room. Bigger than the boy’s memory of the sky, even. The pain becomes him while the man is pushing against him. Once it’s all over, it seems like the man is taking the pain he inflicted on the boy back inside himself, and it hurts more than he can tolerate. Often, the man crouches in the corner, naked, and cries, just like the boy does.
The boy made the mistake of trying to comfort the man once.
The man broke three of his fingers.
Nine
PASHA
I’ve never given the idea much thought, because I’ve always known deep down that I’d never be king, but now that I have to take on the role, if only on paper, then the possibility that I’ll need a queen has become very real, and so fucking weird.
This is all for show. It’s an act, posturing for Lazlo’s sake, but Jesus this one hits me in the feels. Once Sarah’s safe and the motherfucker who took her is either dead or locked behind bars, there really won’t be any need to follow through with this outlandish plan. But…for one moment…I let myself imagine it: Shelta gone. No more fighting. No more backstabbing. No more bullshit with Patrin. A different kind of a life for all of us. Maybe no more fair. Or far less traveling, at least. And Zara, somewhere in this blurry, warped, undeveloped picture, by my side, glorious and fucking amazing, and somehow my wife.
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Me?
I take a match inside my head, strike it and I hold the flame to that mental picture, making myself watch as it burns until it’s vanished. It
’s not wise to let such stupid ideas fester and take hold. They’re dangerous. They’re impossible. They’ll only lead to madness and heartbreak.
Zara can’t know that such ridiculous things are taking place in my head as I root out some bedding, a stack of blankets and a hot water bottle from the wooden chest I helped Archie to build when I was just a kid. She laughs when I pull back the thick brocaded curtain to the rear of the vardo, revealing the raised double bed beyond.
“I was beginning to wonder where we were gonna sleep,” she says, rubbing her eyes. She’s tired. I’m tired, too, but there’s something I need to do before I let her pass out, and it can’t fucking wait. My bedmaking skills leave much to be desired as I throw everything onto the mattress as quickly as I can. Zara helps fit the sheet and tuck it in properly, and is halfway through sliding a pillow into a pillow case when I rip both items from her hands, hurling them over my shoulder, and I push her back onto the bed.
“Pasha! Oh my god!” She squeals—very un-Zara-like—as she hits the swelter of blankets. “What the hell are you doing?”
I growl, the vibration rumbling at the back of my throat as I stand over her. Her hair has come loose from its tie, and her long auburn waves flow like silk over her shoulders and onto the sheets—a stark contrast of red against the white cotton. Her tits strain against the thin sweater she’s wearing, and all I can fucking think about it ripping the damn thing off her body and palming her flesh. Fucking feasting on it. “What do you think I’m doing, Firefly?”
The question did not need posing. It’s clear what I plan on doing, and it’s equally as clear what I want from her. I let her take me in, though, allow her scrutiny to pass over me, as I slowly unfasten my belt and pull it from the loops of my jeans. Her eyes round out, her lips parting ever so slightly as she studies the length of black leather in my hands. “You’re not using that on me,” she says.
“Oh? I’m not?”
“Absolutely not! Not here, with so many people around. They’ll hear.”
I take another step toward the bed. “What do you think they’ll hear?”
“I don’t know. Screaming?” She laughs, doing a bad job of pretending that the idea of such a thing’s funny to her, but I’m sensitive to the faint changes in the tone of her voice. Right now, she’s on edge and trying to hide it.
Poor, deluded Firefly. She can’t hide anything from me, just as I can’t hide a fucking thing from her. I place the belt down on the edge of the bed as I take hold of my shirt and pull it up over my head. The last time I took my shirt off in front of a woman, she’d ooh’d and ahh’d over my tattoos, tried to run her hands all over me, to touch the ink, but I hadn’t let her. She had no fucking right to touch them. Had no idea what they meant and didn’t fucking care, either. All she cared about was the dangerous edge the black symbols and intricate line work lent to me. I’d slapped her hand so fucking hard when she started pawing at me; she’d tried to claw my fucking eyes out when I picked her up and carried her out of the loft, dumping her on the other side of the front door before slamming it closed.
Zara cautiously eyes the ink on my skin as I proceed to kick my boots and socks off and strip out of my jeans. I know she’s so curious about my tattoos, but she doesn’t say anything, though. Doesn’t react as I remove my underwear and discard my boxers on the floorboards at my bare feet. Her eyes, a blue-green color most of the time, have darkened, bordering on brown, smoldering like hot coals as she blatantly scans me from head to toe without an ounce of shame.
Her eyes settle on my erect cock, wavering there, shuttering a little, and I can’t help but fuck with her a little. I take hold of it, squeezing it, enjoying the feeling of the pressure as I run my hand along the hard length.
Fuuuuck, that feels so fucking good. It feels even better with Zara’s eyes on me, watching my every move. She’s staring, fixed on the tip of my cock, and doesn’t look away when I wrap my thumb and my finger around the head, squeezing again, this time producing a bead of pre-come that gathers and rolls over the end of my dick, wetting my fingers.
Zara licks her lips, and I almost crow out-fucking-loud. She wants me in her mouth. She wants to lick that pre-come off me and savor the taste on the end of her fucking tongue. She glances upward, her gaze meeting mine, and she blinks slowly. “Quite the little pervert, aren’t you?” she whispers.
“Oh, Firefly. Seriously. You have no idea.”
She arches an eyebrow at me.
“Would you like me to show you?” I ask.
She swallows thickly. God, she’s so fucking adorable when she’s just that little, teeny tiny bit afraid. “I don’t know if I’m ready to face the true depths of your depravity. Then again, I doubt I ever will be. So fuck it. Sure. I…I guess I do want you to show me.”
“No worrying about people hearing you, then. You won’t be able to keep it all bottled up inside. You’re going to have to moan. You’re gonna have to curse. If you’re not free for me, then I won’t be free for you either, Firefly.”
She sinks back into the blankets, scooting back a little to make room for me as I climb up onto the edge of the bed. “I’m surprised you’d risk your people hearing us fuck when you’re hoping they’ll vote for you tomorrow.”
A honeyed smile spreads across my face. I take hold of her by the ankles and drag her toward me. Tutting, I untie her sneakers and pull them from her feet. “Firefly. We Roma are pretty closeted when it comes to sex. We don’t talk about it. We don’t bring it up. We don’t allude to it. But there’s one thing you can’t escape when you live at such close quarters with so many other people. We hear it all the fucking time. Give me your hand. Now.”
Zara’s lips are parted, pouting so fucking prettily. Her mouth is such a delicate shade of pink; her nipples and her pussy, too. The most intimate parts of her are so goddamn delicate—soft, pliable, pale and fine. I can’t wait to spread her out naked like she’s a goddamn all-you-can-eat buffet; I plan on gorging myself on her in every possible way.
A tiny line forms between the graceful arch of her eyebrows, suggesting that she might be a little intimidated by my command. Her eyes are wild, though, huge and round, the size of saucers as she tentatively extends her right hand and offers it to me.
“Good. Now…feel what you do to me. Feel how fucking hard you’ve made me today, with all that talk of masturbating and watching porn. And your ass in those fucking jeans, Zara,” I grind out.
I’ve been thinking about this for fucking hours. All fucking day long. Even when we were in the gathering hall, battling it out with Shelta, my dick didn’t fully cool its jets. That wasn’t my fault. If Zara hadn’t been so fucking magnificent as she tore my mother to shreds, my erection would have abandoned me for sure. She was a wild thing, though. An unstoppable force of nature. A deadly storm, with piercing hazel eyes and hair the color of a sunset. Or a nightmare.
As her hand closes around me, fingers curling around the shaft of my cock, a violent tremor passes through me, forcing my head back. Holy fuck. When she touches me… I can’t fucking cope. Her hesitancy sparks something dark and lust-filled inside me. She doesn’t stroke me like a woman who’s had plenty of practice. She runs her hand up and down the length of me so slowly, so cautiously, her eyes locked onto the sight of her own hand on my dick, eyes filled with surprise, as if she can’t actually believe that she’s doing such a thing…it’s all so innocent.
I don’t like innocent girls.
I don’t want innocent girls.
I want, have always wanted, a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. But it’s different with Zara. On the outside, she’s so fierce, holding a middle finger up to the world, ready to take on any challenge at any given moment. She’s so solid and sure of herself. That all disappears when she’s with me, though. I get to see this side of her. I get to be the reason why her heart beats out of her chest, and her pupils dilate so wide that her eyes are almost swallowed by black. It’s because of me that she’s shaking ever so slightly, an
d she doesn’t really know what to do with herself.
I fucking love that I have that kind of effect on her, because she affects me, too. My thoughts are a tangle whenever I’m with her. I’m second guessing every other word that comes out of my fucking mouth. I keep finding myself over-thinking every action, and every step, wondering if it’s an action or a step that she’ll approve of, or will make her like me more. These are the ways in which she affects me.
Here, though, in a bedroom, with a belt to hand and a closed door between us and the outside world? Here, I don’t second guess myself. Self-doubt is a categorical impossibility for me here.
Where I’d have been annoyed by her inexperience if she were just some one night stand I’d brought home from a bar to fuck, I am literally electrified by Zara’s innocence now. I allow my eyes to drift closed for a second, and her hand tightens around me. I have to grit my teeth together. “Fuck, Zara,” I whisper. “Fuck.”
One more second. One more heavenly, delicious second of her teasing her hand up and down me and I stop her. There’s another bead of pre-cum glistening on the head of my dick. I use my thumb to wipe it away, and then I take Zara by the chin with my other hand, lifting her face so that she’s looking up at me.
“Open your mouth,” I command. She licks her lips. God, I want to fucking bite them so hard. I want to break the skin. I won’t though. I would never dream of marring something so precious and perfect. I’d never fucking hurt her. She opens her mouth, and I stifle back the groan that’s begging to be released, pulling against my diaphragm. “Stick out your tongue,” I tell her.
