by Hart, Callie
He doesn’t ask me what I mean. He knows I don’t mean sex. His eyes are burning, twin jade flames, as he lightly presses his lips to my mouth. “I don’t know, either. But we’ll figure it out, Firefly.”
He kisses me again, and the tinder of my soul catches light and roars into life. His tongue explores me, tasting me, and I find myself doing the same thing to him. With my fingers wound tightly into his hair, I guide his head back as I press my mouth to his, and Pasha groans. I pause for a second, looking down at him, his head held in my hands, and the room feels like it’s pitching.
He’s so fucking strong. He’s at least double my body weight, if not more. The muscles in his shoulders, his arms and his chest are fucking unbelievable. His raw strength, and his commanding presence have taken my breath away from day one, but right now…he is at my mercy. He’s surrendering himself to me. I can see it in his eyes.
His expression is so serious. The thick, dark, delicate lashes that rim his eyes; the slight dip to his otherwise straight nose; his full, sensuous lips, that feel so fucking amazing on mine: everything about him is perfection. He stares into me, his gaze requesting courage from me, and I almost buckle.
Almost.
But I don’t.
He’s a goddamn miracle. I cradle his face in my hands, and it feels as though something is solidifying in me. I have no name for it. Have no way of identifying it. But whatever you want to call it, I accept it. If some external force is to blame for bringing this man to me, then I am glad of it. I might not understand it, but I am so, so glad of it.
“Take it off. All of it. I want you naked,” Pasha says. His voice is a dichotomy of sound—raw and rough, yet gentle and smooth as silk. My body hums with nerves as I first remove my shirt, and then my bra. I’m still straddling him, so my bare breasts are at his eye level. Pasha doesn’t raise his hands to me again. He doesn’t move a muscle. I can feel the weight of his gaze on my skin, though, and I shiver against it. He looks me over, assessing me, a ravenous hunger in his eyes, and I almost whimper at his fierce expression.
When he turns his attention back to my face, my hands twitch at my sides, wanting to snatch up my shirt so I can cover myself. Pasha rests his head against the back of the couch, his eyes shuttering. “I can’t touch you. I can’t even look at you,” he whispers. “I’m a fucking wolf. I need chaining. If I so much as breathe you in right now, I’m going to fucking devour you until there’s nothing fucking left.”
My voice is so quiet. So soft. “What if I want to be devoured?”
A deep rumble comes out of him—a wolf’s growl, from the depths of his chest. Slowly, his hands move to the belt buckle at his waist. He doesn’t look away from me as he unfastens it and unzips his pants. A moment later and I can see the flesh in his hand; I can’t tear my gaze away from it. His cock fits his body, in proportion to the rest of him, neither too big nor too small for his frame. For my frame, however… I shiver as I look down at him, wondering how on earth tall people and short people ever make their bodies fit together. “You sure you want it?” Pasha asks, his voice laced with suggestion. And desire. His words are dripping with need.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I reach out with confidence, taking hold of his rigid cock. His skin is warm in my hand, smooth and silken. He feels fucking amazing, solid and harder than concrete. Pasha locks up at my touch, his chest rises sharply.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “God, woman. That’s…”
I squeeze the length of him, thrilled by the response I get when he jolts. “What? You want me to stop?”
Pasha’s rolling laughter fills the living room. “Ask a man dying of thirst if he wants you to take away the glass of water you’ve just offered him. See what he says.”
In a slow, calculated, measured move, I gradually work my hand up the length of his shaft; Pasha stares down at himself, watching my hand as it glides up his cock, and a hazy look clouds his eyes. “If you don’t…stop…” The words sound like they’re being dragged out of him.
“If I don’t stop, will you lose yourself?” I ask.
Pasha glances up, and those astonishing eyes pin me from under his dark brows. “I’m already lost, Firefly. I’m already so fucking lost.” He’s a fury of motion, then. With strong, demanding hands, he lifts me at the waist, and the next thing I know I’m in the air, my stomach lurching as he twists, trading places with me so he can throw me down onto the sofa. I was going to take off the rest of my clothes, but Pasha is too impatient to wait. My boots thump on the wooden floorboards as he tosses them over his shoulder. He doesn’t say a word as he rips my jeans from me and drops them to the floor, my socks bundled up in the fabric with them. The sound of tearing lace fills the air as he rents the material of my panties, sheering them from my body with his teeth.
I would gasp if I had the ability to breathe. I’d cry out if I could remember how to make a single sound. I’d react if I knew how to tame my nerve endings and force my limbs to respond.
Pasha stands as he removes his own clothes, and I lie on the couch, my body thumping with the primal pounding of my own pulse as he unveils himself. His hair is mussed and ruffled as he tugs his t-shirt over his head with one hand. When I look down, I cover my mouth, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing. Not the breathtakingly intricate tattoos, which span the width of his chest, or the fact that his abs are so perfect, they look like they’ve been photoshopped. It’s the bruises that make no sense.
Purple. Blue. Yellow. Green. Angry, vivid and violent. They cover his ribs and his sides, a patchwork quilt of pain. “Oh my god,” I breathe. “What the fuck, Pasha? You look like someone used you as a punching bag.”
A reckless smile spreads across his face. “I fight sometimes. Cage fight. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Good. Because it looks really fucking bad.” I don’t know why, I can’t seem to stop myself, but my eyes are burning. The sight of all those bruises…individual marks, layered one on top of another, each one a moment in time when someone hurt him. I can’t fucking take it.
“Don’t do it,” he warns. Naked, magnificent, the most impressive sight I’ve ever seen—Pasha Rivin climbs up onto the couch and lowers himself on top of me. “I’m fucking good, Firefly. I’m really fucking good at what I do. Don’t worry about me. Stay with me. Here. Now. We’ve both waited for this long enough.”
He’s so right. But… “It’s kind of hard not to notice the fact that you’re black and blue, Pasha. God.”
Taking hold of me by the chin, he lifts my face so that I can’t look at his torso anymore. “There are far more interesting parts of my body than my bruises, Firefly. Pay attention to those.” As if to prove his point, he settles himself between my legs, grinding his hard cock against my pussy. I gasp, and Pasha’s mouth comes crashing down on mine; he swallows my surprise, consuming it with a kiss so hot and demanding that flashes of light burst behind my eyes.
His hands roam, finding my breast; he cups my skin, kneading my flesh, and then he’s dipping down, fastening my nipple between his teeth again. “Your tits are phenomenal. Your ass. Your pussy. Everything about you turns me on, Firefly. I’m fucking deranged because of you. The smell you’re giving off right now is making me lose my fucking shit.”
I’d laugh his comment off, dismissing it as dirty talk, but I’m feeling the same way. The scent of him is making it hard to even figure out which way is up, for fuck’s sake. I’ve never been driven out of my own mind by the way a guy smells before, but Pasha’s heavily inked, ridiculously muscular body smells so fucking amazing right now, I just want to crush my nose up against his chest and inhale until my lungs are about to explode.
Instead, I lie my hand flat on his chest, his warmth seeping into my fingers, and I feel the steady thrum of his heart beneath my palm. Strong. Even. Steady. His heart isn’t racing the way mine is, but it is laboring. It’s beating hard. I find the thumping metronome of its rhythm under my hand to be reassuring beyond belief.
He’s feeling thi
s. I’m affecting him. He’s confident, but he’s also aware of how prodigious this moment is. Pasha takes hold of my hand, and he moves it to his left, shifting it down a little bit. He releases it, and there, right next to my fingertips, I see the tattoo permanently inked into his skin. It’s small, but incredibly intricate. Beautiful. I run my fingers over it, my throat burning with emotion.
“Oh my god, Pasha,” I whisper. “It’s a…
“A firefly,” he confirms. “I didn’t know when you were going to show up, but I’ve been excited to meet you for a very long time, Zara.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words to convey how I’m feeling right now. The artwork that stretches across Pasha’s chest and down his arms consists of many small pieces and symbols, all linked and blended together. But the firefly, just to the left of his heart, is all by itself, separate, as if he’s taken great care to give it more room than it needs.
“How long ago? When did you get that done?” I ask.
He looks momentarily rueful. “Seven years.”
Fuck. Seven years? He must have been so sure that I existed, if he was willing to mark his body with an image like this. For me. I run my hand over the other tattoos—icons, patterns and shapes, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. They’re strange and beautiful, and I can’t take my eyes off them. “What do they mean?”
“Roma charms and symbols. They tell a story.”
“Will you tell it to me?”
Pasha flicks my upper lip with the tip of his tongue. “Yes. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll give you everything. Soon enough.” His hands move again, and I cry out as he slides his fingers between my legs. I’m so fucking wet, I’m almost embarrassed, but when Pasha snarls into my ear, his voice alive with lust, I cast my discomfort aside. “Fuck, Zara. Your body’s acting like I’ve made you come already.”
He finds my clit immediately and begins to rub me, using the pad of his thumb to draw tight circles on me as he uses his index and his middle finger to—
For a second, everything goes white. I grab hold of him, digging my finger nails into his back as he slides his fingers inside my pussy. “Fuck! Pasha!”
“Exactly,” he rumbles. “I’m going to fuck you with my fingers first. Then, I’m going to fuck you with my tongue. And when I’ve driven you to the point of insanity and you don’t think you can take it anymore, I’m going to fuck you with my cock. I am going to break you apart.”
I’m already broken. I’m already in pieces, and Pasha’s hands on my body are the only things keeping me from falling apart. With great care, he begins to pump his fingers inside me, drawing them out, only to slide them back inside me torturously slowly. “You’re amazing,” he whispers. “Watching you react to me is a fucking gift. Pant for me. Moan for me. Scream for me. I want to hear every ounce of your pleasure, Zara. Do it. Do it for me.”
I’m almost weeping at the buildup of pressure inside my body. I won’t be able to hold myself back much longer. He’s too fucking good. He pumps his fingers faster, his mouth finding mine, and then he’s kissing me, and I’m coming, and my ragged, desperate, needy cries stifled by his lips cutting them off as he drives his tongue into my mouth and steals my breath from me. He groans, the muscles in his back bunching as he tenses. “Shit. You come so pretty, firefly. Your pussy’s so tight around my fingers.”
I’m trying to catch my breath, but I don’t have time, because Pasha’s already moving, sliding down my body. I nearly scream when he spreads my legs apart and falls on me, his head between my thighs. “I need you on my tongue. I need to fucking taste you. I’m going to lick you clean, swallow your orgasm, and then I’m gonna make you come again. Are you ready?”
I’m not. I’m so sensitive from the explosive climax that just nearly blinded me, but Pasha’s not planning on giving me time to recover.
He pauses, rubbing his fingers over me, eyes filled with a ravenous hunger as he looks down at me and hums. “God, Zara. Such a pretty little flower. I’m not just going to lick. I’m not just going to suck. I’m going to fucking feast on you.”
I buck against him as he uses the flat of his tongue, sweeping it over my pussy. The groan that escapes him is savage, and I answer with a desperate one of my own. I’ve never had a man look at me the way he is. I’ve never had a man touch me the way he is. And no man on earth has ever teased and stroked my body into submission the way he is.
Pasha is a master musician, and I am a violin, and he’s playing me, making me sing the most excruciatingly sweet, highest note possible, holding me there, until it feels as though I can go no higher.
His tongue works over me, and I’m overtaken by my own need. Raising my hips to him, I slide my fingers into his hair, pulling his head down onto me in the most scandalous, demanding way. Pasha answers my action with a deep growl of approval. “Good girl. Take control. Feed me your pussy.”
A blast of heat scorches at my cheeks, but I’m unashamed. For years, the dreams that have disturbed my sleep have been so graphic and sexual that I don’t feel the need to deny what I want now. I don’t know if this is real, if we have been waiting for each other for so long, but I’m not going to waste a second of our time together now.
Pleasure commands every inch of me. I give it what it needs, and so does Pasha. His fingers dig into my hips as he licks and sucks, soon I feel the pressure inside me building again. I climb higher and higher, and Pasha must sense it. He slides his fingers inside me again, and it’s all I can take. My orgasm crashes over me, white hot and screaming, and then I am screaming and the living room is spinning.
“Shit! I’m coming.” I don’t need to tell him, though. He knows. He pumps his fingers inside me as I ride the wave, succumbing to it, and then Pasha’s moving, climbing up my body, kissing and biting my flesh as I shake and shudder. Less than a second later, I feel his cock pressing up against me, and then...
“Pasha!”
“Jesus. Fuck.” He hisses through his teeth as he settles himself inside me. I stretch to accommodate him, and I am filled by him, the hard, rigid length of him pulsing inside me. “God,” he groans. “Zara? Zara, look at me.”
I open my eyes, not even realizing that I’d closed them in the first place, and he steals my breath away all over again. His eyes are blazing with desire, as he surveys my face, my neck, my chest. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he grinds out. “No one will ever touch you again. Only my hands, my mouth, my dick…”
When he moves against me, rocking his hips, I whimper his name, and Pasha bows himself over me, claiming a kiss. He takes my heart and my fucking soul right along with it. “You’re mine, Zara. I’ll kill any other man who even fucking looks at you.”
This is the truth, and I’m unafraid of it. I won’t share him, either. I’ll never give him up. If a woman so much as smiles in his general direction from this point forward, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.
“Fuck me,” I whisper.
“Say it again,” he commands.
“Fuck me.”
His fingers are in my mouth, and I can taste myself all over him. His voice is ragged and broken as he repeats his words. “Say it again, Firefly. I want to hear you say it.”
“Fuck me, Pasha. God, please, fuck me. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Don’t worry, beautiful. I’m going to give you what you need. Feel free to fucking scream.” He’s a man possessed as he begins to thrust himself inside me. Over and over again, he slams himself deeper, harder, faster…
His skin is feverishly hot beneath my hands as I cling to him. I have to get closer. I need more of him, I need all of him, and I’m determined to fucking have him. He nuzzles into the hollow of my neck and clamps his teeth down on my collar bone, and pain flares like a bright beacon in my head, narrowing my focus and shattering it at the same time, so that I’m no longer myself. I’m no longer anything. I’m a complication of emotions and sensations, and all I can do is feel.
I’ve been numb ev
er since I arrived here in Spokane, and I haven’t even noticed until now. Pasha has woken me up. I’m wide awake, as he rocks his hips against me, pushing waves of pleasure through me with each thrust, and I feel like I’m finally breathing for the first time in years. Each raw, clawing breath I draw down into my burning lungs fills me with more and more of him, until my apartment melts away, the sofa beneath us melts away, and he is the only real thing in my entire world.
He is all that will ever be real for me again.
Pasha burns me up with a kiss, his teeth grazing my lips, and then he places his mouth to my ear. “What do you want, Firefly?”
“You. I want you.”
“Do you like the way my dick feels inside you?”
“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. “Do you…belong to me?” 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 I want to give him. “Yes. Come inside me. I want it. I want to feel you…”
