Page 77 of Butterfly

“Does it bother you?” I ask against her skin.

She shakes her head, but the gesture lacks confidence. I want to show her I don’t care about her ruined back. I care only about how she feels. The scars are rough and uneven under my palm. Each ridge is a testament to the pain she suffered. Fear is etched on every single dent and bump.

A knot ties in my throat as images from the video flash through my mind—her eyes wide in panic, his heavy footsteps, the floor dark with blood.

My brave, beautiful butterfly is a fighter. I stroke her back slowly. She exhales a sharp hiss every time I move my hand but doesn’t ask me to stop.

My erection is about to rip my trousers. I lift her from me only to lower her leggings.

But she stops me. “Not here, Alex. I’ll die of embarrassment if someone sees me. Please.”

“I got you.” I stand up and carry her to the pantry. Exactly three steps. That’s how far I’m willing to go to take her. I close the narrow door, and we are alone among the jars of marmalade my Aunt Jane makes for us every year, the bottles of homemade sherry, and other cans and glass containers with stuff I don’t care about.

“Here?” A corner of her mouth quirks up.

I fake a scowl. “What’s funny? I’m serious. That’s all the privacy I can offer you. I want you so badly, I’m about to explode.”

Dart lets out a muffled whimper from the other side of the door, and I pray he doesn’t start barking.

I lower her leggings, removing her slippers as well. She’s saying something about the pantry being a weird place, but too much testosterone is flooding my brain to reply. My cock is done waiting. I breathe in her scent when she’s standing with only her open hoodie in front of me. Her dampness flavours the air with a spicy, sweet fragrance. Kneeling in front of her, I kiss between her legs, licking her juices and enjoying her moans as she shoves her hips towards me. I slide my tongue deeper, running it over her slickness. I lap and suck at her, going deeper with each lash of my tongue. When she’s quivering again and grabbing my hair, I slip a finger inside, feeling her inner muscles tighten around me.

“Alex.” My name is a whisper heavy with bliss on her lips. The most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. And I know, right at this moment, that my heart belongs to her, that my body is for her pleasure only, and that I’d die protecting her.

Somehow, my confining trousers are open, but my cock doesn’t find any release. Not until it’s buried deep inside her. I scatter kisses over her belly and breasts before taking her mouth. I’m too close to the edge. The strokes of my tongue become savage. I devour her mouth. Rolling my hips, I rub her with the tip of my shaft. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck.

“I’m on the pill,” she says between breaths.

My first reaction is, ‘who cares?’ But then her words sink in. It’s an invitation, and I’m too far gone not to take it.

I close my eyes when I push inside her, inch by inch. Hell, she’s so tight; her muscles squeeze me in a hard, silk fist.

“Sodding hell,” I mutter, remaining still to savour the moment.

She moans loudly in my ears, her legs grabbing me. “Make me feel it. All of it.”

What am I supposed to do? I thrust deeper into her. Her slickness captures me, and my threadbare control snaps. My pace speeds up. The thrusts form a wild, battering rhythm. I’m all instinct and sensation as I pump inside her, feeling like I can conquer the world. The shelves behind her shake, and somewhere in a corner of my mind, I pray that a jar of marmalade doesn’t crash to the floor. Our hips smack against each other. Her breasts bounce with each savage stroke until she’s quivering all around me. Her mouth is on my neck, and her teeth close around my skin in a bite that—bloody hell—triggers my orgasm. It’s so powerful, I can hardly contain the shout that wants to break free. It remains trapped in my throat. My blood rushes to my groin, leaving my head light. The pleasure never ends. It’s an onslaught of energy that causes my pulse to speed up. If a vein in my brain explodes, I won’t be surprised.

I shiver when I come down from the height of the orgasm. Cold grips me. I can barely stand, but I gladly take her weight as she sags against me, her muscles slackening. We breathe together in the quiet pantry, among the spicy scents of cinnamon and the salty one of aged cheese. Her hair falls around us in a golden curtain over our damp skins. We share our heartbeats and our souls as we caress each other with our fingertips. I hold her, pulling her as close as I can without hurting her.

“I love you, Sienna,” I say, kissing the top of her head. The words come out of me as if they were the most natural thing to say.

She gazes up, her eyes glowing from within, her lips swollen from the kiss. “Alex …”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that.” I should be hurt that she didn’t reply with ‘I love you too’ immediately. But I’m not hurting. She needs time to digest what happened between us, and I’m more than happy to give her that time. Maybe she doesn’t love me, and that would be sad, but okay. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy. That’s all I want.

Twenty-six

Sienna

THE PAIN IN my shoulder is throbbing, despite the fact I swallowed a couple of painkiller tablets last night. But the rest of my body is deliciously sore after Alex shagged me in the pantry. He was wild and unrestrained, and I loved it. After I talked to him, I felt reborn. It’s hard to believe that he accepted my past and ugly scars. That he loves me. I keep repeating his words in my head. At that moment, tired from the sex and overwhelmed by the emotions of the day, I wasn’t able to say anything. But if the warm flutter in my chest is any indication, I love him too.

I can’t stop smiling as I sit on the rug in front of the Christmas tree with the others. Dart is sniffing around, his tail a windmill of excitement.

“Now, this is for Fiona, from me.” Bethany hands Fiona a red box. “Charles. Alex. And Sienna.” She beams, handing me a green-golden box.

“Thanks.” I rip the paper in my eagerness, revealing the leather-bound, complete collection of James Herriot’s work. “My gosh.” I run my hand over the supple cover and flip through the pages, inhaling that wonderful, unique scent of a book that only bookworms understand. Pencil sketches of dogs, cats, and horses appear between the chapters.

“Do you like it?” Bethany asks, her brows rising.

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