Moana Maui Tattoos Romane & Geschichten

“He never gave me a name. But the Moon Goddess… she gave me the perfect gift. He ruined me, Maia. Ruined me so good I couldn’t walk straight. I begged. I cried. I came so hard I blacked out.” Maia groaned and covered her ears. “Goddess save us… Well, hide the mark. Bathe. Your scent is thick, and your aura’s glowing like you’re in heat.” “Maybe I am,” Lunae whispered. “Maybe I still want more.” Her thighs clenched again. She could still feel his hand around her throat, the way he growled mine while he came deep inside her. Her breasts were sore from his mouth, her cunt still wet and open from the size of him.

" I will ask. Sergeant Sales' finger stopped swiping. Both of us frowned at the same time. "Wait, a tattoo. It's like a snake tattoo. Wrapped around his neck," Sergeant Sales replied. Tattoos? Snake tattoo? Wrapped around the neck? Suddenly my mind flew to The Club. I saw Maia there. Next to a customer with a snake tattoo on his neck. Is this Maia's customer? This is it! I can't be wrong.

He’s jittery. He tries to reach out for his cup of coffee, but then his big sleeve gets in the way and makes it spill all over the table. However, that’s not the worst thing that happened. His sleeve rolls back, revealing a very vivid tattoo—a tattoo that I have too. The phases of the moon. The insignia of Sangria Amori, the mark of Royals, known by everyone. Morgan glares at the tattoo. Then he slowly looks up at us. At me.

He looked at me briefly then back at my hand that was holding onto his. The biggest and clearer of the tattoos was on the back of his palm. It was drawn with dark ink that stood out on his well tanned dark hands. At first it looked like a sun rising in the horizon and glazing over a field with details of how it shines around it in tiny well drawn marks, I soon realized it was the sea the sun was rising on and not heaps in a field. "Solem Orientem Ghe Mari" I called out the foreign words written right under the tattoo of the sun and the sea. It sounded Latin or was it Italian?

They certainly deserved it after the nightmares they had been through. Macario and I stood up and started from Jackson down the line. I asked them where they wanted it because it would essentially become a tattoo. They needed to be sure they were okay with the placement. Jackson and Lilli wanted it over their hearts. Dent and Pati wanted it on their inner wrists. The girls both wanted it on the left shoulder blades. Macario grabbed my hand and had me focus on the power that I could feel coming from him. I gathered it up and pushed it out towards them. Each of their sigils glowed with a brilliant white light before turning into black tattoos. It worked. It fucking worked.

traditional Māori greeting). Gael responds in kind to her and she turns to me. I get my first good look at our beta, Karamea. She is short for a werewolf, standing at about 5’7”. She has beautiful bronze-colored skin and caramel, almond shaped eyes. Her strong jaw adds a ferocity to her high cheekbones and beautiful features. Karamea’s hair is pulled into a low ponytail, but it’s easy to see that when unbound, it would hang below her waist, waves adding dimension and body to it’s shiny blackness. She smiles at me as she walks over, her Māori facial tattoo stretching on her lips. The fish hooks on her chin pointing up towards her lips and down towards her neck, her lips black with a sma

I needed to feel him fill me. I looked down at his V-line. The old tattoo was still there. My name. Moana. In italics, just like the little flower. He had gotten it years ago, before everything fell apart, when we were young and stupid and burning. He had marked himself with my name and he had never removed it. It was still there, still dark, still permanent. "You still have it," I said.

I said, and he looked at me like he could see the stitches under my shirt. “Loud is okay,” he said. “Loud isn’t dying.” Every eighth night I went back to the storage unit. Maeve checked the sites with the tenderness of a mechanic who loves the sound an engine makes when it finally admits what’s wrong. She added new points—along the spine, the wrists, the Achilles. She tattooed small, precise sigils around each site with a needle that sang. The ink wasn’t black. It was the color of a bruise at the end of its story.