Page 3 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Butterfly Man

Touching her is the most beautiful and most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.

I marvel at her softness, the warmth that spreads from her flesh through my body, igniting something primal and desperate.

I’ve lived so long in the cold, convincing myself I was beyond warmth.

Only she sets my soul ablaze. A lifetime of longing, doubt and carefully constructed walls melts away as my fingers trail along her skin, slow, tentative, as if I might shatter her with the slightest pressure.

But it’s me coming apart, unraveling at the seams.

Fingers trembling, I reach out to the forbidden, hovering just above.

I’ve wanted this—fuck, I’ve needed this—yet now that she’s within reach, her pussy glistening in the dark, spilling secrets on the delicate skin of her inner thighs, the fear gnaws at me, a beast with no compassion tearing at the edges of my resolve.

Reagan consumes me, a gravity that pulls at the darkest parts of my soul. I can’t stop the thoughts, the images that attack me without warning—what I could do to her, to her body, if I let go.

My heartbeat, a wild thing hammering against my ribs, threatens to burst through and lay every fucked-up fantasy and urge she ignites bare.

They writhe, whispering that I’ll only corrupt her, taint her light with my shadows until there’s nothing left but the dark.

I don’t want her to see them, to see me like this, fractured and jagged.

It makes me sick, makes me want to pull away, but I can’t.

I don’t deserve her, but I just can’t stop.

I’m poison, and she’s the antidote. Still, I’m tethered to her, caught in the web we’ve spun with no escape.

The distance between us is agony, like the last breath before the plunge. My hand moves before I can think. I part her lips and trail my middle finger along her slit.

She’s so wet. God, she’s so fucking wet, and it’s from fantasizing about me. MY REAGAN IS WET FOR ME.

The world crumbles around me. There’s nothing but her heat seeping through to my fingertip.

I should say something, anything, but the words choke in my throat.

My breath comes in ragged gasps. The only thing I see and hear and smell and feel is Reagan.

I want to immerse myself in her, drown in her, and forget everything else.

Do I dare hope it’s possible? Do I dare believe it’s real?

No, it must be one of my fantasies. In reality, she wouldn’t accept me, let alone need me.

I pull back, withdrawing my hand, and inhale her scent off my finger.

My eyes roll behind my mask in bliss. It’s not a fantasy.

I am here with her, the sweet familiar scent of her arousal I know by heart filling my nostrils.

It’s real. As real as the living, breathing monster in me, hungry and relentless, that will destroy us both if I let it.

But how? If this were only my imagination, she wouldn’t be opening herself to me.

She wouldn’t be dripping wet under my touch.

So I look into her eyes, searching for revulsion, waiting for her to recoil, for the moment she realizes her mistake.

Instead, I find a reflection of my own longing, my own fear.

“Why did you stop?” she whispers.

Making sure you’re not a dream. But it’s too cheesy to say. “Sorry, my queen.” I spread her lips open again and dip one finger inside her.

With a hiss, she leans into my touch, just slightly, but it’s enough to undo me. Something inside me snaps, a thread wound too tight for too long.

In one brief, vivid flash in my head, I pull her closer, until she can’t breathe, until her soft hiss is smothered against my chest. Then I tighten my hand around her wrists, the playful touch morphing into dark possession.

My fingers, once trembling with restraint, now dig into her skin, a need to leave red, angry, unforgettable marks on her flesh that scream, MINE.

The panic in her gaze as she begs me to stop, as I don’t let go, the moment when her trust I’ve barely gained shatters into a thousand pieces tears at me and excites me at the same time.

My breath, hot against her neck, my lips biting her ear, I whisper things that should never be spoken.

Cruel words meant to wound, to break her spirit, and she flinches, tears welling up in those eyes that once looked at me with something like love.

The sound of her tears springs my cock to life as she struggles, her fear palpable, trying to get away, and I don’t let her. I watch her flutter her wings, a little butterfly caged in a jar, trapped beneath me, powerless, just like I’ve always felt.

Her face contorts in pain as my grip moves from her wrists to her throat. Her sexy rasps in that voice that brings me to my knees plead. I still don’t stop. I can’t. I’ve been drowning alone for so long. Time to pull her with me, let her drown, too.

The bruises bloom on her skin, a grotesque testament to the monster I can’t contain. Her mouth is wide open, desperate for breath, but what I do is fill it with my cock. I only pull it out to spill my cum and watch it drip on her lips.

And then, the final image attacks, sudden and visceral—Reagan lying still, silent, eyes empty, because I’ve gone too far.

Life drains from her, a cold, broken thing left in my wake.

Horror twists my stomach, but the vision doesn’t fade.

It lingers, taunting me, showing me exactly what I could do if I ever gave in to these urges.

These thoughts, these fantasies—they’re not real. But they could be. When she hisses and writhes and bucks, needing more of my touch, it’s so easy to just let go, to surrender to the violence that simmers just beneath the surface, clawing at the edges of my sanity, begging to be unleashed.

My mind screams at me to pull back, to save us both from what comes next. But my need for her sweeps away any semblance of control. Instead of dragging myself out of here before it’s too late, I slide another finger inside her.

She moans and lifts her hips. I curse at God and her. “I hate you.”

“You hate me?” she rasps.

“Yes,” I slide my fingers out to the tips and then slide them back in, “for making me feel this way.” For making me believe in heaven again when I’ve long accepted my place in hell.

“What way?”

Weak. Desperate. Obsessed. In pieces. Tormented because I don’t want to hurt you. I mean, I do, but… I won’t let myself hurt you.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Touching me like that, does it make you feel powerful?”

“Powerful?” I press the gun between her breasts, and a gasp stutters on her lips.

“I’m holding the gun, you’re spread wide, and yet all I’m doing is getting you to orgasm.

” Can’t she see who has all the power here?

“I came here to punish you for what you did, and look at me… My life would have been a lot easier if I’d just killed you years ago and ended all of this pain. ”

Her eyes sink toward the gun. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Then please don’t twist our first date into something we both know it’s not.

I didn’t force you to take my touch. You want me as much as I want you, Reagan.

If you still don’t believe it, here.” I rub her wetness over her mouth.

“Lick the mess you’re making all over my hand then tell me it isn’t yours. ”

Her breasts rise and fall rapidly. “I don’t want to.”

I trail the gun down to her pussy and enjoy the way she shivers. I lay it flat on her mound before I slap her pussy with it. She gasps wildly, and I slide the muzzle against her clit. “You were saying?”

Terror washes over her face, but her eyes twinkle before they give me that look I know by heart. That roll and flutter that signal she’s in her horny-little-bitch mode.

“Do as I say, Reagan.”

Twitching, she opens her mouth and lets my fingers in. Her tongue twirls around her taste and licks it off me. I swallow my groans, drinking in the view. One day, it’ll be my cock she wraps her lips around to taste herself.

“You’re such a good girl when you do as you’re told.” I drag my fingers back to her pussy when she’s done and remove the gun. “Did you have enough proof or do I have to make you lick the gun, too? Spoiler alert, it’s even slicker than my fingers.”

“Fine. I won’t deny it. I won’t lie and say my body has betrayed me because it’s bullshit.

I’ve fantasized about you, and the fear that comes with you.

I crave your touch. It feels intoxicating, exciting, even familiar, as if it makes sense, as if you’ve touched me a hundred times before.

Now, it’s your turn. Tell me how you feel. ”

Her gaze searches my face for something—maybe reassurance, maybe the truth. I don’t know how to give my truth to her without drawing blood. What I feel isn’t simple. It’s everything at once, a torrent of emotions and twisted desires crashing together in chaos.

Touching her is like holding fire in my hands. It burns and yet illuminates what will be her worst nightmare. There are parts of me that want to possess her completely, to claim her in ways that terrify me. Parts that no longer know where the line is—if it even exists.

“Now you don’t speak.” Disappointment laces her whisper.

She doesn’t understand. How could she? I’ve spent years keeping the monster hidden, locked away where it can’t touch her.

But now, standing here, so close to her, I realize it’s always known I can’t hold it forever, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment I’d finally crack.

I can’t stay away. No matter how hard I try, I keep coming back to her, like a moth circling the flame.

I want to lose myself in her until there’s nothing left but the two of us, intertwined in a way that could either save me or destroy us both.