Page 29 of Butterfly

I blinked.

Had Mason Calloway just apologized? A second time?

“It depends. What are your intentions?”

“I think this is a show, not tell,” he said. As he spoke, he placed his big hand on my thigh below my denim skirt. I gulped, suddenly feeling hot all over. He played with the hem, and then his fingers wandered underneath the skirt and…up.

“Mason!” I tried to push his hand away with mine, but he grabbed my wrist with his other hand to stop me.

“Such a bad girl,” he tsked. “I can’t decide if I should punish you for showing so much skin to so many people, or reward you for making it so easy for me to touch you.” He stroked his hand up my thighs, until they rested directly on my underwear, which had grown embarrassingly wet.

“Or are you a good girl? Look how turned on you are by my touch,” he crooned, as he started drawing light, teasing circles, around and around.

“Mason. No.”

“Leslie. Yes.” He traced a smaller, tighter, more forceful circle around my clit. I gasped and fell back against the chair, the pleasure sucking all the fight out of me.

“Maybe you’re both. A bad girl who wore this skirt for my attention, for letting your stepbrother touch you this way. And a good girl for doing what I tell you to do. For spreading your legs and letting me play with what’s mine.”

Mine. The word sang through me, making those butterflies in my stomach riot.

But I couldn’t accept his claim, especially when I couldn’t trust him. Besides, I belonged to no one but me.

“I’m not yours.”

He pinched my clit in reprimand, and I cried out.

“Shhh, you don’t want to get caught, do you, butterfly? Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s exactly what you want—for someone to see exactly who you belong to.” Before I could protest, he slipped his fingers under my panties and thrust one, then two, inside me.

Something no one had ever done before—not even me.

“Fuck, you’re tight. No one’s touched this virgin pussy before but me. That’s what makes you a good girl—my good girl. You waited for me,” he growled.

As I tried to pull away, to stop him, he pulled me closer, turning his chair and trapping me between his thighs and the table. I had no escape, nowhere to go.

Completely trapped.

And, good fucking god, the realization made me even wetter.

“This cunt is dripping for me,” he said, growling again.

He teased my walls with his fingers, stroking in an upward, curved motion that sent pleasure pinging through me like a pin ball machine, lighting up my whole body along the way. He began circling my clit with his thumb at the same time, making my thighs stiffen and my pussy clench around his fingers.

“Ah, fuck yes,” he said. “Good girl, do that again.”

“Mason,” I moaned, despite myself.

“I know, baby, I know. It feels too good doesn’t it? Scary good? I can tell because of how tight your pussy is getting around my fingers, and how sloppy wet you are.” He hummed as he continued thrusting and circling, thrusting and circling.

Somewhere behind us, I heard the elevator door ding, then footsteps.

I froze, reality intruding. What the hell was I doing?

“We need to stop.”

He tsked. “I’m not stopping until you come on my fingers, butterfly. So you better come, if you don’t want anyone to see me fingering your filthy, sloppy pussy.”

He picked up the pace with his fingers and thumb. Between his touch and the awareness that we could get caught, I was almost a goner. So much pleasure filled me, overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t stop it from happening, even if I wanted to. The edge was approaching.

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