The Butterfly Formatted

by Vale, Victoria

  “You willnae. Ye’re far smarter than this Elizabeth chit. Ye’ll know the right man when ye meet him.”

  “Will I?” she argued. “How can that be when I’ve only ever lived at Dunvar and a school filled with other girls? How am I to know what sort of man to choose, or which ones to shun? And with how heavily chaperoned I shall be, how is there any hope for me to find someone who makes me feel …”

  Niall’s nostrils flared, jaw tightening when she trailed off. Their gazes met and held, the silence stretching between them growing heavier by the second.

  “Makes ye feel what, Livvie?”

  The words she knew not to say sat poised on the edge of her tongue. They burned as if she held a hot coal in her mouth. She could not have stopped herself from uttering them if she’d tried.

  “The way you make me feel,” she whispered.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, he shot to his feet, pacing away from her and bracing one hand against the rough, wooden wall. “Livvie … dinnae do this.”

  Brow furrowed, she slowly stood, hands clasped before her. “Do what, Niall? Speak truthfully?”

  “Hurt me this way,” he rasped, his voice low and heavy. “I cannae do it any longer.”

  “Hurt you? What on Earth makes you think I’d ever want to hurt you?”

  He glared at her over his shoulder, a muscle in his cheek working as if he ground his teeth, fighting against whatever he wanted to say. It seemed he lost the battle, because he was on her in an instant, hands tight on her shoulders.

  “How do ye think it feels, listenin’ to ye go on and on about leavin’ me to go off and get yerself hitched?” he snapped. “Do ye think I like seein’ how bonny ye look, knowin’ ye’ve done it so those blue-blooded lairds’ll want to dance with ye, kiss ye, touch ye?”

  She could only stand there, mute, her heart leaping up into her throat when he drew her even closer, his grip on her arms growing downright painful. She wouldn’t have wanted him to let go for anything—not with the hard ridges of his body pressed against her soft curves and his breath tickling her cheek as if he might kiss her.

  “I always knew it had to happen,” he went on. “But that doesnae make it any easier, knowin’ ye want somethin’ I can give ye, but ye dinnae want it with me.”

  She flinched as if he had struck her, hurt lodging itself deep within her, throbbing from within the vicinity of her heart.

  “Is that what you think of me? That I see you as some sort of lark to indulge in until I find something better?”

  This close, and with the moonlight shining on them, she could see the way his face flushed.

  “Don’t ye? We both ken that’s the way things are … the way things have t’ be. There’s no need pretendin’ otherwise.”

  “Do you think I like that things have to be this way?” she spat, shrugging out of his hold. “You think I like the idea of being married off to a stranger without having ever traveled, or lived any sort of life, or experiencing passion? You think I want to give myself to a stranger … that I wouldn’t much rather give myself to you?”

  His eyes widened, the cords of muscle in his neck straining as his shoulders went taut. “Stop sayin’ things like that.”

  Raising her chin, she clenched her hands into fists, determined to hold her ground. “Why? It is the truth.”

  He took a step toward her, then another, the moon casting shadows over his face and causing the scarred half of it to stand out in stark relief. “Because if ye keep sayin’ things like that, I’ll forget that I cannae have ye … I’ll forget and do somethin’ reckless.”

  A shiver wracked her, and heat blossomed in her belly at his threat. It made the surface of her skin tingle and her palms grow damp inside her gloves.

  “What if that’s exactly what I want you to do?”

  He made a rough sound in the back of his throat, sending an answering pang of fear and longing through her in response. “Ye dinnae know what yer sayin’.”

  “Yes, I do! I’m no longer a child and have had quite a bit of time to think about what I want and how I feel. I am not fourteen any longer, Niall. I am not that little girl who begged to be kissed. I have been kissed, and not just by you. I have had opportunities to discover if I might experience with any other man the sort of … rapture I have felt with you.”

  He looked fit to kill as he loomed over her, his dark eyes simmering like hot coals, his mouth pulling into a sneer as if it enraged him to hear that she’d been kissed by someone else. There had only been two others—a footman, and the brother of a friend she had gone home with one holiday. Neither time had compared to what she’d felt when Niall put his lips on her.

  “I always thought it was dreadfully unfair that Adam is allowed to go about tupping every whore in Edinburgh,” she continued. “Meanwhile, I am expected to keep my skirts down and ignore the urging of my body until the day I wed. But, why must I do that, Niall? Why must I go find a husband without ever having known what desire leads to, what we could have had if we hadn’t been so bloody afraid?”

  “This isnae about fear,” Niall offered in feeble protest. “Didn’t ye hear what I said? I cannae have ye, Livvie.”

  “Not forever,” she agreed. “Not for long. But … but, what if you could for a little while? Even just once?”

  He shook his head, though she could see he was losing hold of his will, the stalwart honor he’d clung to for years.

  “Ye’d regret it, Livvie … and if ye regretted it, I’d never forgive myself.”

  Resolute, she snatched off her gloves, tossing them aside before she began working to open the back of her gown. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to work through the trembling, to keep going lest she lose her nerve. She’d never been so bold—always allowing Niall to set their pace, to stop kissing her when he thought it was enough, letting him touch her on top of her clothes but never urging him to take things further. She had come to realize that if she were ever to experience more, she must be the one to take the lead, to make him understand that it was all right for them to do this … just until it came time for her to leave and potentially never see him again.

  “I could never regret anything with you,” she whispered, her voice strangled by anxiety, her stomach churning as her gown began to loosen.

  “Livvie, stop that,” he admonished half-heartedly, his chest heaving with labored breath.

  “I want you, Niall.”

  The glimmer in his dark eyes as her gown fell to her feet spoke in a way words could not. Olivia had never felt as powerful as she did now, with Niall’s rapt stare settled upon her hands as she worked at her stays. She felt more beautiful than she ever had, with the moonlight bathing her from head to toe, the layers of her clothes falling away with soft, silken whispers.

  “And I know you want me, too,” she added, pausing when she stood before him wearing only her chemise, stockings, and slippers. “Don’t you?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as if pained, his clenched hands shaking at his sides. “Ye know I do. I always have.”

  Taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead without giving herself a chance to back down. Pulling her chemise off one shoulder, then the other, she allowed it to fall over her body to the ground, then kicked off her slippers and stepped out of the pile of clothing. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and willed him to look at her, to see what she was offering.

  Olivia remained aware that she was still young, that he’d probably been with women whose breasts were larger, or who had longer legs, or who knew how to do things she was still ignorant of. Yet, when he finally opened his eyes and looked at her, she understood that none of it mattered. He looked at her the way she’d always dreamed he would, his eyes all dark fire and heat, his lips parting as if in anticipation of tasting her. She had felt the hard ridge of his cock pressed against her many times—when he held her and touched her, when they kissed. She wondered if such a state had overtaken him now, if looking upon her naked body produced the same effect.

 
Realizing that he was not inclined to turn away, or force her to dress again, she reached down toward one of the garters holding up her stockings. He took a swift step in her direction, and she went still, her entire body tensing in anticipation of what he might do.

  “Stop,” he whispered, his voice nearly imperceptible as he reached out toward her. “Keep the stockings on.”

  She nodded, forcing a swallow past the lump that had risen up in her throat, hard and fast. He took another step, closing the short distance between them, his knuckles lightly skimming the soft plane of her belly. His touch tickled, but she dared not move, unable to do anything but stand there as he went on stroking her skin. He stared into her eyes and gave a slow, purposeful nod, as if coming to a decision.

  “We do this my way.”

  She furrowed her brow, opening her mouth to protest. One of his thick, heavy fingers came over her lips, silencing her.

  “I willnae ruin ye,” he stated.

  “But …”

  He pressed his finger more firmly against her mouth and shook his head. “I’ll give ye pleasure, and teach ye how to pleasure me without me havin’ to be inside ye. That’s the only way I’ll agree to this. Ye ken?”

  What else could she do but agree? This would be better than nothing, and she adored him for caring enough to prevent ruining her for whomever she might marry. Though, with the way he looked at her just now, touching her as if she were the most priceless thing in the world, she hardy cared if he did.

  He swept her off her feet so swiftly, her head spun, his arms a strong cradle, his hands tight and possessive. She clung to his neck while he carried her to his makeshift bed, kept a tight hold on him even after he had lain her down.

  With her hands laced through his hair, she urged him to kiss her, opening her mouth to him the way he had taught her. Truly, he had taught her everything she now knew about pleasure—how it felt to kiss and be kissed, the feel of a tongue against hers, the weight of a hand palming her breast, the sensation of lips nibbling at her ear and the side of her neck. That he would be the one to show her the rest—everything she could experience without the final act—felt right to her. It felt like destiny. It felt like the best thing they could ever have.

  He climbed onto the pallet over her, never disengaging his mouth from hers. His tongue probed deep, his mouth sucking and pulling at hers as if he meant to swallow her whole, consume her completely. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, reveling in the sensations he created with the simple act of laying his body atop hers.

  Most of his weight was supported by his arms, but he was still solid, warm and heavy against her. His long legs fell on either side of hers, the bulges of his taut thighs in sharp juxtaposition to her soft ones. The pressure of his chest teased her aching breasts, the flat planes compressing her soft mounds. Even his belly was firm, etched in muscle she could feel through the thin linen of his shirt.

  The most masculine part of him rested against her thigh, engorged and heavy. That he was still fully clothed while she lay nude beneath him only heightened the experience, her mouth watering at the prospect of finally being allowed to see what he looked like under his clothes. It had been different when they were children and he’d swum in only his trousers. Years had passed since she’d even seen him without a shirt, and this powerful body hovering over her was so different from the one she had once known. Different, mysterious, and for the nonce, entirely hers.

  Her hands left his hair and skimmed over the back of his neck, past the collar of his shirt, down to where his braces crossed his shoulders. She pulled them off, then began yanking at the tails of his shirt, desperate to have him as naked as she was, his skin hot and bare against hers.

  He tore his mouth away from hers, suddenly coming onto his knees so that he straddled her. Gathering both her hands in one of his, he pinned them over her head, his iron grip rendering her motionless. He gazed down at her for a moment, the stern expression he wore speaking volumes. He’d always teased her for being impetuous, so it seemed that just now, he wanted her to tame her impulses. He wanted her to let him lead … as he should, being the one who actually knew what to do.

  Still holding her wrists with one hand, he used the other to stroke her cheek, his fingers tracing a slow path over her jaw, then her neck, collarbone, and chest. Every place he touched, goose bumps rippled over her skin in his wake, tingles of awareness dancing over her skin.

  “I’ve always liked porcelain,” he murmured, his fingers lingering on one breast, slowly tracing a circle around the nipple without actually touching it. “Do ye know why?”

  She could hardly breathe, let alone speak, her breath burning in her lungs as she shook her head. He smiled, bypassing her nipple to skim his way across her chest and to her other breast, causing her to exhale with a huff of frustration.

  “Because it always reminded me of yer skin,” he told her while giving her breast a little squeeze, his rapt attention focused on the way it caused her nipple to respond. “I used to touch this bit of porcelain I hid in my room and think ‘this must be what her skin feels like’. But, I was wrong, ye know. Yer far softer and warmer than any bit o’ porcelain could ever be.”

  She gasped when he dipped his head to kiss her throat, lifting her chin to offer more of herself to him. His lips traveled with aching slowness down toward the center of her chest, the rough stubble along his jaw abrading her skin in contrast to his soft mouth. Her back lifted into an arch, creating an almost painful tension in her shoulders from the way he held her wrists.

  But, she did not resist, the sensation making her feel as alive as Niall’s lips on her skin exploring places previously untouched by anyone but herself. Curiosity had often prompted her to stroke the sensitive areas of her body, testing them, discovering what stimulating them might do. However, nothing had ever felt as heavenly as Niall’s tongue stroking between her breasts, down her belly, dipping into her navel. The valley between her thighs did not throb and pulsate this way when she touched her own breasts, but just the gentle cupping of Niall’s hand on one of the mounds made her yearn in ways she never had.

  He flicked his thumb over her nipple, producing a startled gasp from her. Gazing up at her face with hungry anticipation in his eyes, he gave the same nipple a pinch, the corner of his mouth lifting into a little smile when she whimpered.

  “D’ye like that, Livvie?”

  “Y-yes!”

  He did it again, harder this time, making her thighs clench and an aching spasm grip her core. Releasing her wrists, he palmed her other breast and began plying her nipples in tandem, tugging and gently twisting until they grew so hard, it was agonizing. She’d never want him to stop, the pleasure of it far outweighing the slight discomfort. She shuddered beneath him, unable to lie still while he continued in his pleasurable torture.

  “I should’ve known ye’d be like this,” he murmured. “Ye might look like a perfect little doll, but yer all fire inside, Livvie … all passion and life, and I’ve barely even touched ye yet.”

  She could only moan in response when he murmured those last words against her breast, before parting his lips to take her into his warm, wet mouth. She hadn’t thought it possible for her nipple to harden any more, but it responded to his tongue in a way it had not to his fingers, tightening and tingling until she’d nearly gone mad with the pleasure of it.

  Her back arched even more, her hips pressing against his as she mindlessly sought more from him. She did not even know what ‘more’ entailed, only that she must have it, and at his hand.

  He took his time, his mouth moving from one breast to the other and back again, his tongue laving slowly, then flicking with swift lashes, his teeth nipping, lips tugging. She clutched his head, her fingers tangling in his hair as she held him against her, writhing and twisting as much as his legs on either side of hers would allow. All the while, his erection lay against her thigh, pulsating with a life all its own, filled with power and promise.

  Niall’s hands left her br
easts, then, he was working his way down her body, his fingers skimming over her stomach, followed by his mouth, his breath tickling the patches of skin left damp by his wandering tongue.

  Her face flamed hot when he paused just over the patch of hair at her groin, nuzzling the dark curls, inhaling and sighing as if her scent pleased him. Olivia could only lie there and wait, despite being shocked beyond belief. She had known that he might touch her there, but could never have imagined he might do something like this.

  “Open, Livvie,” he urged, pressing light kisses against her mons. “Spread those pretty legs for me.”

  If her cheeks grew any hotter, she might go up in flames. She would not deny him—not after she had coerced him into this, stripping naked and offering herself to him. Besides, she had gone too far to turn back now, could not leave this hayloft without experiencing whatever it was he wanted to do to her.

  She bent one knee, then the other, squeezing her eyes shut so she did not have to suffer the embarrassment of watching his face while opening up her most secret of places so brazenly.

  But then, his rough intake of breath had her opening them again, staring down at him with wide eyes.

  “What?” Oh, God. There was something wrong with her. There had to be. “Niall, what’s wrong?”

  Resting his cheek against the inside of one thigh, he released a long, controlled breath. “Nothing … everything. I know I shouldnae look at ye this way, but … bloody hell, Livvie ... ”

  Her anxiety eased a bit as he went on inspecting her as if she fascinated him to no end, as if he’d never seen anything more enthralling than the slick revelation of pink flesh on display between her parted legs.

  “Do ye ever touch yerself here?” he asked, his first finger lightly brushing against her delicate inner flesh.

  She shuddered, closing her eyes and shaking her head. He pressed down on the little bud at her center, just hard enough to make her hips buck, eliciting a shocked cry from her.

  “Ye should,” he said, going back to feather-light touches, now avoiding the little nub he had just teased to throbbing wakefulness. “How will ye ever know what ye like, what feels good, if ye never learn for yerself?”