“When I was a kid,” he says, “My dad gave me this net he’d found at a garage sale. I took it to the park one day and caught the most beautiful butterfly. It was one of those exotic ones, iridescent indigo outlined in the blackest black. Bright orange belly. Stunning. Took her home and happened to have this bug book, and there was a section on butterflies. This one was some rare kind mostly found in South Florida. She was a long way from home and she sure as hell didn’t belong in the Midwest, but I put her in a container so I could look at her a little longer, spend one night with her, then I was going to set her free the next day.” He stops for a second. “Next morning, she wasn’t moving much. She was still alive but a bit lethargic. I took her back to the park to set her free, watched her stretch her wings. She lingered for a little while before fluttering away, but it wasn’t a normal kind of flutter. It was almost like she was broken.” He pauses again. “I walked back after that, accepting the fact that she might not have made it home. And if she did, she might not have been the same after spending the night with me.”
Is this the meaning of my tattoo? Is this why he chose the black and blue butterfly for me? “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Because, Brighton,” he says. “You’re the beautiful butterfly. I caught you in my net. I’ve taken you home. And I can’t promise you’re going to be the same if you spend the night with me.”
“That's where you’re wrong," I say. “I’m not fragile. I’m not going to break if you handle me too much.”
“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You say that now ...”
“You’re giving yourself too much credit. You can’t hurt me. You might be able to bruise my ego, but that’s as much damage as you’ll ever do, I can promise you that.”
Madden swallows, his expression blanketed in seriousness. “I’m only going to tell you this once, and then whatever you decide is on you.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t want this,” he says.
“Now you’re just flattering yourself.”
“I’m being serious.”
“You act like you’re some kind of monster,” I say. “But you’re just a man who happens to be a little more complicated than everyone else.”
I visually trace the parts of his body left uncovered by his white tank top, his flawless, naturally sun-kissed skin. Not a speck of ink in sight.
“Let me ask you this,” I say, reaching out to trace the veins of his left arm. “What if the butterfly flew north on purpose? What if she wanted to see what it was like because maybe South Florida didn’t appeal to her the way it should have? Maybe she was different from all the other butterflies that looked like her?”
“All right. Fine. Justify this any way you want,” he says, his lips closing in on mine. “But don't say I didn’t warn you.”
My stomach caves when his mouth crushes mine, and I lift my arms to his broad shoulders as his fingers trace the skin beneath the hem of my shirt. Everything he touches turns electric, makes me hotter, incites a frenzy at atom level.
This is nothing like kissing Eric. Kissing Eric was mechanical, awkward at times. He was overzealous, too eager. Impatient. There was no technique to it. He just went for it, like a dog burying its face in a bowl of kibble.
But Madden … Madden takes his time. Slow, methodical, intentional.
His mouth is angled ever so slightly, his tongue soft and velvet as it slips between my lips. He places a hand along my jaw, his thumb resting at the corner of my mouth while his fingertips lace through the hair at the nape of my neck.
He tastes of beer and cinnamon, an unexpected if not exotic combination in its own right and one I’ll forever associate with this moment.
Madden’s attention finds my neck, and the sharp graze of his teeth along my collarbone comes next. I draw in a cool breath before tugging his fitted tank top over his shoulders and tossing it aside.
His chiseled torso is just as flawless as the rest of him, unmarred by drawings, bronze and tight against his muscles.
His fingers work the button of my shorts before sliding them down my thighs. A second later, his hands cup my ass before he lifts me into his arms.
I bury my face against his shoulder, breathing in his intoxicating masculinity as he carries me to his messy bed and deposits me in the center of it. Crawling over top of me, he kisses me once more, harder but still slow, still taking his time like he wants to enjoy this, like his concern is the process and not the end result.
Sitting up, his hands glide up my outer thighs, stopping when he reaches my panties. With a smirk, he rubs his thumb along the gusset with just enough pressure to tease my clit. And then he slips a finger beneath the waistband, pulling them down and throwing them over his shoulder, into the abyss of his messy living area.
My stomach caves, quivers as he lowers himself between my spread thighs, his hands hooking at my hips and his breath warm against my sex.
Eric was never into oral. He only ever wanted sex. He went down on me all of three times during our tenure together and never for more than a few minutes—hardly enough time for me to enjoy it.
The wet slip of his tongue along my slit causes me to gasp, reaching for the pillow behind my head and grabbing a fistful of the soft fabric.
Madden’s hands steady my bucking hips as his tongue traces and tastes the most sensitive parts of me.
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he says. “I could spend all night down here.”
I blush, though he can’t see it in the dark, and my heart settles, but only a little.
Eyes closed, I bite my lip and let my body relax knowing it’s in skilled hands. Literally. Madden devours me, taking his time and varying pressure and motions, always keeping it interesting, always switching things up just when I think I’m getting close.
The pressure builds several minutes later, the intensity between my legs reaching a fever pitch. I can’t lie still any longer, my hips rolling beneath his hands and the smallest sighs escaping my mouth.
It’s then that Madden stops.
Just like that.
The ache below is almost unbearable—he brought me to the edge and then dropped me.
“I was so close,” I tell him, sitting up on my elbows.
“Yeah,” he says, climbing over me and reaching into the top drawer of his nightstand. When he returns, I spot a gold foil packet between his fingers. “I know.”
Madden slides out of his jeans before lying beside me and propping himself up on pillows. With his cock in one hand, he rips the packet with his teeth before sheathing his generous hardness.
“You on the pill?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
My heart flutters, my nipples harden as he pulls me into his lap. I straddle him, though he isn’t inside me yet. Madden tugs my blouse over my head before sliding the straps of my bra down each shoulder and unfastening it.
With his hands wrapped around the small of my back, he buries his face in my chest, all of him pressed against all of me.
His lips pepper kisses into my prickled flesh and the pulse of his cock between my thighs incites a burst of heat below.
I want him inside me so bad it hurts. Literally.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers before his tongue circles a pink budded nipple.
With his hands cupping my ass, he guides me to my knees before I lower myself onto him inch by tantalizing inch. From beneath me, he thrusts himself the rest of the way in, stretching everything I have with everything he has.
Exhaling, I rock back and forth, responding to his rhythm with my own. I’ve never had sex in this position before—with Eric it was only ever missionary, half the time we were mostly clothed in case one of our roommates were to come home unexpectedly.
But there’s something freeing about this—being naked and exposed, mutually and willingly using one another, all in the name of unadulterated pleasure.
Madden's hands cup my bac
k as he pistons into me while I ride him. With each passing minute, I find myself approaching that edge, and it takes everything I have to temper that, to keep myself from climaxing too soon.
I want to enjoy this.
I want to go all night with him.
Our eyes catch in the dark, his coffee-colored irises glinting, reflecting off the dim light from the kitchen. I expect him to look away. At least that’s what Eric always did. But he holds my gaze like he owns it.
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.
20
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.
21
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.
He told me I wasn’t a mother and I wouldn’t understand. He tells me that the night of my grandparents’ murder was a turning point for her, and clinging to me is the only way she’s been able to cope.
To this day, I’ll occasionally hear my mother wailing in the middle of the night, followed by my father’s hushed voice as he attempts to calm her down. It’s been over ten years and she still has nightmares about The Incident.
“Well.” She taps a house-slippered toe. �
�Explain yourself. I didn’t raise you to be a liar. And you will not sully the Karrington name all because you want to run around like a street child.”
My legs ache, the muscles trembling and threatening to give out. And my lips are swollen from hours of kissing Madden. I need a shower. A long nap. And time to come up with an explanation that won’t send her to the emergency room with palpitations like that one time she went to pick me up from school and went to the south door instead of the west and was convinced I’d been kidnapped because I wasn’t there.
I tug at my damp, sweaty clothes. “Can I take a shower first? Before we talk?”
Her eyes widen, as if she’s appalled at my nerve to make such a request.
“No,” she says. “I’ve waited all morning to have this discussion with you, and we will have it now. So tell me. Tell me what’s going on, Brighton. And don’t you dare lie or there will be consequences.”
I begin to say something and then I stop. While I hate to lie, I can’t tell her the truth. She won’t be able to handle it. It’ll traumatize her.
“Are you … are you seeing someone?” she asks. “A boy?”
I suck in a breath, quashing the urge to correct her usage of the word “boy.”
I’m a woman. I don’t talk to “boys.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not seeing someone. But would it be so bad if I were?”
She's quiet, which probably isn’t a good thing.
“I’m twenty-two,” I remind her. “A college graduate.”
Her eyes narrow, like she doesn’t understand my point.
“You realize how ridiculous it is that you monitor my every coming and going at all times, right?” I ask. “I don’t know any other person my age who has to get permission from their mother to go somewhere, who has to check in or adhere to curfews, whose mother controls the vast majority of their wardrobe.”
“You’re embellishing, Brighton.” She rolls her eyes, scoffing. “It isn’t that bad. You’re making it seem way worse than it is.”
“Am I?” I cross my arms. “Because if you want to go there, I’d be more than happy to run you through an extensive list of examples.”
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