Page 38 of Butterfly

“Don’t you have a vase?” Alex asks, leaning against the wall; so carelessly handsome I want to kiss him stupid.

“Told you. First time I’ve got flowers.” I mean to make it sound like a joke, but his lips don’t twitch. I turn towards the flowers and arrange them in the pot, spreading the red roses and daisies. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Yes.” He isn’t joking. “I want us to talk.”

Talk. Again that word. Talking can’t solve anything. Can talking change the fact I killed my foster father, or erase the scars on my back?

“It’s not easy for me,” I mutter, pouring water into the pot.

“I know.” His heat engulfs me as he steps behind me.

His chest brushes my back as he puts his hands on each side of me, trapping me between his strong body and the counter. My breath comes out a little quicker.

“I missed you.” His lips brush the shell of my ear, and instant wetness pools between my legs while a stir of emotion starts in my chest. He takes my hip and kisses my neck, his soft lips finding a sensitive spot.

I recline my head, and he captures my mouth in a slow kiss. The kiss doesn’t stay slow for long though. The sweet rhythm of his lips increases to a punishing one as he moves his mouth over mine with possessiveness, devouring me. His hand moves up until it cups my breast, drawing a shiver from my tense muscles. It takes only a quick brush of his thumb for my nipple to harden painfully and become a taut peak.

He shows no mercy and torments it through the fabric of my blouse and lacy bra while his tongue explores my mouth with deep lashes. I shudder when he lowers the neckline, removing one barrier between his touch and my skin. His thumb caresses me through the lacy bra, making me squeeze my thighs. It feels so good, I can’t talk. My knees weaken. I arch, pushing my breast into his palm, and he fondles me, rubbing the hardened tip.

His other hand slips over the small of my back to sneak underneath my blouse from behind, breaking the spell. The sensation is like a bucket of icy water poured over me. I won’t let him touch my scars. Even if he doesn’t see them, he’ll feel the jarred, uneven skin and understand that my back is ruined. I don’t need to tell him to stop. My sudden stiffness warns him.

He doesn’t step back but stops kissing me and places both hands on my hips. “What did I do wrong this time?”

I have to close my eyes for a moment because that deep voice is igniting my lust in my lower belly and because I hate that he thinks he did something wrong. But the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse will make him furious.

I’m a breath away from throwing myself at him and clawing his clothes off his gorgeous body. But how can I do that when I’m not ready to have sex with him?

He waits for me to talk, one thumb stroking my hip in lazy circles.

I lick my bottom lip so I can taste him again. “I don’t like it when someone touches my back.” True and honest. He wanted me to talk? There we go.

“Why?” He kisses my cheek, still caressing me.

“It’s…unpleasant. It turns me off.” It isn’t a real answer, but he doesn’t press me.

“What about here?” His hand goes up to touch my breast again, tearing a gasp from me.

“There is fine. I like it.” I gasp again when he cups my breasts and tweaks my nipples.

“What about here?” He trails his hand down until he touches me between my legs, right over the aching bundle of nerves.

I grip the counter and release a moan as he strokes me with gentle rubs. “It’s…fine.”

“Fine?” He pauses.

“Very fine.” I roll my hips, searching for that delicious friction.

Another brush of his fingers over my nub tears a breathy moan out of my mouth.

“What do you feel when someone touches your back?” His question dampens my enthusiasm.

“Pain.”

“Why?”

I’m not ready to tell him the truth. He’d run for the hills, screaming bloody murder. “Not now. I can’t.”

He kisses my cheek, his muscles slackening. “I hope one day you’ll tell me why you don’t want me to touch your back.” His hand returns up to my hips, leaving a trail of fire on my skin and devastation inside me.

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