Page 5 of Butterfly

So then why did it feel like someone had punched me in the chest?

As if he could feel my eyes on him, Mason opened his eyes, staring straight at me as Tiffanie continued to play tonsil tennis with him. His eyes were the cold blue of the Artic Ocean, and just as hard. They didn’t move off mine as he lifted his hips and thrust into the other girl’s mouth.

My face burned. Scratch that, everything burned. It was like my whole body had been doused in gasoline and lit on fire.

Behind me, Emory choked on a laugh. “Like I said, he’s busy.”

At that moment, I had two options. I could run out of there like a bat out of a hell, and avoid the fuck out of Mason and his friends until our parents got back in a few days. Part of me wanted to do that. I was embarrassed, and I wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Exactly. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Which brought me to my second option: Stay. Stay, and prove that I was unphased, to Mason…and to myself. Stay, and show mydarling, dearest stepbrother Macethat I wasn’t the delicate flower he thought I was. I wasn’t a coward, and he couldn’t scare me.

You want to make him jealous,a voice in my head pointed out.

I ignored it. Why the hell would I want to make my stepbrother jealous?

And yet my actions mimicked a jealous woman’s. I reached for Emory’s hand and tugged him behind me as I made my way to the makeshift dance floor, intent on remaining directly in Mason’s line of sight. With a surprised grunt, Emory followed me, staring at me in alarm when I turned and faced him and began moving my hips to the music. I was careful not to look at Mason, but I didn’t need to—I could feel his dark eyes burning into me, further fanning the flames.

It was like I was two people. One was watching in shock, aware of my stepbrother’s—what? Disapproval?—and confused by and worried about my choices and what they might mean. The other part of me got lost in the music and the heat of my stepbrother’s gaze, letting my body take over as I took Emory’s hands in mine and lowered them to my hips.

“I don’t think—” he began.

“So don’t think,” I retorted, moving against him.

I’d been dancing since I could walk, and even though ballet was my style of choice, I knew how to twist and roll and pop my body in ways that caught men’s attention. I wasn’t much to look at, the very definition of a plain Jane. But I could dance.

“Fuck, I’m so screwed,” Emory muttered, proving me right. He gave in and began to dance with me, tugging me closer so I could feel his hardening dick against my stomach. Usually this was something that would make me recoil—I had Spencer, after all, my on-and-off-again boyfriend, even if we were more off than on these days—but I forced myself to relax, wrapping my arms around Emory’s neck and focusing on his chest in front of me.

I felt nothing, of course, except for satisfaction.

As the song slowed to something sexy and sultry, I whipped around and bumped my ass against Emory’s dick, then dropped low and rolled back up, grinding against him.

There was a loud growl, a feminine, high-pitched, “What the hell?!” and then Mason was in front of me, zipping up his pants. I glanced down; he was still hard. He also was breathing like he was a bull and Emory’s and my writhing bodies were red flags.

Emory must have sensed it too, because he stepped away from me.

“Look, man…” he began.

Mason interrupted him. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“Problem, stepbrother dearest?” I trilled.

“You know there is. You aren’t welcome here.” His eyes were no longer that icy blue. Instead, they were dark and heated, lit by the same flames that lit me. My pulse raced. I was both triumphant—and terrified. I’d won something, some game between us, but I didn’t know what that game was, and I was one hundred percent positive I didn’t want to find out.

“It’s my home, too. No one told me the pool house is off limits. Besides, it’s a party, isn’t it? I just want to dance,” I said.

“You weren’t invited. So get out.”

Ouch, that fucking stung.

“Hey man, she’s just dancing. Maybe let’s call a truce,” Emory interjected, trying to bring peace to the war that was clearly coming.

“Yeah? I’m sure Paul and my mom wouldloveto hear about your exclusive parties in their home. And how receptive and welcoming you’ve been,” I said.

“Leslie, you donotwant to fuck with me,” Mason warned.

The thing was, Idid.This wasn’t like me—I was too smart to go up against an opponent who was, by all evidence, likely to destroy me. Hell, I’d neverhadan opponent before Mason. Not even in ballet, which was known for being cutthroat andcompetitive. My teachers used to joke that, in addition to having excellent feet, I had major peacekeeping abilities that made even the meanest of the other ballerinas in our youth company want to be my friends. It wasn’t that there wasn’t drama at my ballet school, but it never involved me, and I was never the mean girls’ target.

So then what the hell was going on now? How had I ended up in this situation?

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