His left hand grips my hip and the right hooks at the bend between my neck and shoulder, his thumb pressing into the indentation beneath my jaw as he brings my mouth to his.
I taste myself on him, sweet and natural, and with the softest moan, I ride the wave that comes in pulses and undulations, each one more intense than the one before it. His thrusts turn harder, deeper, faster as he groans against my lips and empties himself into me.
When we’re done, I collapse onto him, our bodies sticky and breathless. Rolling to the other side of the bed, I brush my hair from my face and relish in the delicious soreness between my thighs.
Madden climbs off the bed, retreating into the bathroom and leaving the door slightly ajar. When he returns, he lies beside me, like he isn't in a rush for me to leave.
“You want another beer?” he asks, hands slipping behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think this is his way of asking me to stay the night.
“Sure,” I say.
And just like that, the butterfly stayed.
Twenty
Madden
* * *
She looks so peaceful when she sleeps, like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I suppose it’s fitting.
Regardless, I can’t remember the last time I woke up next to a woman this gorgeous and this naked sleeping next to me in my bed. Crumpled sheets cover her middle, leaving the sides of her breasts and her creamy thighs exposed.
I could taste her all over again, but she looks so sweet like this. And let’s be frank, I wore the hell out of her last night. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard in my life or so able to bounce back for a second round in record time.
Three times we fucked last night.
Pretty sure the sun was beginning to come up by the time we crashed.
Who knew spoiled princesses from Park Terrace were my thing? Learn something new every day. It probably helped that she was practically offering herself to me on a silver platter, and by silver platter, I mean my cheap, low thread count sheets.
Something buzzes on the other side of the apartment, and it takes me a second to realize it’s coming from her purse. Giving her a nudge, I lean over and whisper in her ear, “Your phone’s ringing.”
Springing up, she damn near knocks me in the nose as she scrambles out of bed, taking the sheets with her. A second later, she grabs her phone from her purse and returns to bed, fixing the covers. Her blonde hair is wild, falling in her face in wavy tendrils, and her eyes are tired but shiny.
Licking her kiss-swelled lips, she says, “Shoot.”
“What?”
“I have seven missed calls from my mother.” She brushes the hair from her face. “I forgot to tell her I wasn’t coming home last night.”
“Aren’t you a little old to have to check in with your parents when you go out?”
“Absolutely,” she says, firing off a text. “But you don’t know my parents or their bizarre obsession with my safety.” She places her phone down and scans the room for her clothes, gathering each item as she finds it.
A minute later she’s dressed, tugging her hair out from under the back of her shirt and finger combing it into place.
“What’d you tell them?” I ask. While I don’t know them, I doubt her parents would be thrilled with the truth—their precious little princess spent the night getting fucked six ways from Sunday by some lowly tattoo artist in Olwine.
“That I stayed with one of my friends,” she says. Brighton slips her hands into the back pockets of her shorts.
I suppose this is goodbye.
And maybe I should walk her to the door. She did blow my fucking mind, body, and soul three times last night. It’s the least I can do.
Climbing out of bed, I slip on a pair of boxers lying on the ground and walk her across the apartment, to the door in the kitchen.
“Thanks,” she says. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”
“Going through a dry spell?”
Her eyes narrow. “No. I didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t just about the sex for me.”
Oh, God.
This is exactly the kind of shit that ruins a good time.
“Look,” I preface what I’m about to say. “I don’t date. I don’t do relationships or any of that bullshit. Please, don’t act like last night meant anything. And please don’t project your boyfriend fantasies on me because I don't care how good the sex is, it’s not going to happen.”
“Wow.” Her jaw hangs and she gives me some sort of death stare.
“Just being honest,” I say. “It’s better that I get that out of the way now before you get hurt.”
“I don’t want to date you either.”
“Good. We’re on the same page.”
“When I said it wasn’t about the sex for me, I didn’t mean it like that … I didn’t mean that it was special or meaningful,” she says. “I meant that I needed that taste of freedom, that feeling of being completely liberated. And I had that. With you. Three times last night. But now you’ve ruined it by being a presumptive asshole, so thank you for that.”
She leaves, slamming the door on her way out.
There’s a small but undeniable chance that I’m wrong about this one. That this butterfly is different from the rest.
I smirk as I strut to the bathroom and start the shower.
She’s hating me now.
But she’ll be back.
Twenty-One
Brighton
* * *
"My God, Brighton, where have you been?” My mother stops pacing the living room when she spots me standing in the doorway.
I pulled the steam room trick again, stopping at the gym on my way home from Olwine, changing into workout clothes, and getting as sweaty as I could before heading home.
“I texted you earlier,” I say. “Remember? Told you I was going to the gym.”
“I know that,” she snips. “I meant last night. I checked the security camera log and you didn’t come home!”
I quell the shock before it registers on my face. My mother is the least techie person I know. The Iron Palace is armed with security cameras, but they’re all managed remotely and we’re only notified when there’s an issue, like a trigger or an alarm or unusual activity.
She must have called the company today and specifically asked them to check and see whether I’d come home last night.
“I ran into Honor this morning,” she says. “At the coffee shop in Brookhill.”
Shit.
“She says she’s been home for weeks and she hasn’t seen you once.” My mother’s lithe arms fold across her chest, her manicured fingers rapping against them. “What is going on with you, Brighton? Why are you sneaking around? What are you not telling me?”
The pitch of her voice gets higher and higher, laced with a frenetic undercurrent of terror. She truly believes something God-awful is going to happen to me if she lets me out of her sight for more than two seconds. I suggested to my father once that we send her to see Dr. Greenberg, but he brushed me off.