Page 46 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Birdie

The alarm snaps my eyes open. I turn it off with a wince. Morning is here. In a couple of hours, I meet Blake.

I should shower, but there’s something cathartic about meeting my cheating husband reeking of another man’s scent and having his cum in my pussy.

A smile creeps on my lips as I roll and stretch my ar— “Jesus Christ!” I pull the sheets over my—very much still naked—body. “Tristan, you scared me.”

He, too, is missing his shirt, sheets pulled up to his hips, hair ruffled, his head propped on his hand, wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on him. “Good morning.”

The sun spills into his eyes, turning them golden. The rays glisten on his toned skin, his muscles gorgeous and equally his inked scars. Tristan Morra is a beautiful man and even more exquisite up close. “Morning to you. Have you slept here all night?”

He nods, unable to wipe that grin off his face.

I notice the dark circles forming under his eyes. “Tristan, did you get any sleep last night?”

His head shakes with a no.

“What were you doing then? Have you been watching me sleep?”

“I’m always watching you. It’s my job.”

It could have been worse. I’d rather have that pretty face watching me in my sleep than the one hiding behind a creepy mask.

“I can’t stop looking at you. You’re so beautiful.” He cups my cheeks and crushes his mouth against mine. His tongue parts my lips and swirls with mine, the taste of his toothpaste filling my mouth.

“Not fair. You’ve already brushed your teeth and I haven’t.”

“I don’t care.” His fingers dig into my hair as he nibbles on my bottom lip. “You’re gorgeous in every state, and I can’t get enough.”

“Tristan,” I pull away, “Tristan, let’s just slow down a bit. Last night was…”

His face darkens in a heartbeat. “Don’t you dare.”

I blink hard. “What?”

“Don’t you dare say it’s a mistake.” His voice takes a harsh turn, bordering on panic. “Everything else in the world is a mistake, but not last night, not this, not us.”

“I was going to say last night was,” I reach a hand for his face and caress his cheek with my thumb, “unforgettable.”

Hope springs back to his expression. “Yeah?”

I shrug, hiding the delectable chill tantalizing my body at the memory. “It was for me.”

“Me too. God, you have no idea.”

“You’ve proven to be a remarkable student. A+ performance.”

“You really thought it was good?”

“Do you have a praise kink or something? Yes, you’re such a good boy and know exactly what to do with that pierced anaconda of yours...over and over and over.” He’s made me come four times, but who’s counting? “You must have had a lot of practice .”

“I wasn’t lying when I said everything I knew, I learned from your books.”

“Still, in a way, I envy the other girls who got to have you before me.”

“You shouldn’t be. No one, and I mean no one, will ever compare to you.”

He doesn’t just know how to give a woman butterflies. He unleashes a whole swarm.

“She thought it was good,” he murmurs to himself, too happy.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one who told you that.”

“I… It hits different hearing it from the woman you…” He chops off his words with a sigh. “From you.”

He leaves the bedroom before I can say anything. Before I can tell him I see him, and I understand. He’s intense and dark and has his own demons to battle. But who can look demons in the eye and hold their ground better than me?

I go to the bathroom to freshen up. Then I put on a bathrobe and go to find some clothes. When he returns, he’s wearing pants and carrying a tray, his grin back on. He leans by my side, kisses me again, makes me sit on the bed and places the tray in my lap.

I uncover the plates. “Oh breakfast in bed.”

“Hope you like it. I made it all for you.”

“How thoughtful.” A kitchenette comes to mind in passing. I didn’t get a chance to fully explore the suite. “Sure you made it, though? The eggs aren’t burned.”

He chuckles. “Positive. I wasn’t being distracted by the many ways I could take you on that counter.”

“Mr. Morra,” I feign shock. “You admit to having fantasies of fucking your client on her own kitchen counter?”

“Guilty.”

I bite on toast. “I wonder how many other clients you’ve fantasized about.”

“None,” he says firmly.

“None? Okay, how about this? How many girls have had the pleasure of tasting your cooking the morning after?”

“None, Birdie,” he answers with the same assertiveness.

“So what, you tied them to your bed, made them take your cock all night and then kicked them out before breakfast? You’re cruel.”

Red bursts in his cheeks. He runs a hand through his hair and swallows.

“He blushes again. What, early-morning dirty words are too much? I haven’t called you daddy or asked if you had your way with me in my sleep.

” I laugh. I love to tease him. Taking a mouthful of eggs, the rest of that conversation flashes in my head, the recollection of my inappropriate verbal vomit.

Nothing beats a virgin man trope who has been saving himself for the woman he can’t have.

Also, I remember the look he’s given me after. It’s pretty much like the one he’s giving my plate now, like the yolk bleeding across porcelain is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

I freeze mid-chew. “I mean, there have been others…right?”

He swallows again. “What others?”

My fork drops with a loud clink on the tray.

“Are you telling me that all this,” I drag my gaze deliberately over him, every broad line of his chest, the delectable abs, the tattoos, the mouth that ruined me against the hotel door last night, the cock that had me screaming like a slut all night, “has never been… ?”

His jaw flexes. Once. Twice. He doesn’t deny it.

I jolt forward, part shock, part thrill, pushing the tray aside. “Tristan Morra,” I purr, “yesterday, was I your first?”

Finally, his eyes snap to mine. Hard. Unflinching. “Yes.”

My tongue darts over my lip like I’ve just discovered a diamond mine, and my pussy… Holy shit. I’m practically creaming. “Oh my God, why haven’t you told me?”

“Because of how you’re acting right now.”

“How am I acting, Tristan?” I slide out of my robe and throw myself in his lap. “Like a dirty whore who can’t wait to jump your bones?” My fingers get him out his pants rapidly. “You don’t want that?”

“Of course I do. I want nothing more.”

I hold his cock—God, he’s heavy and hard as fuck and mine, all mine—and adjust myself to let him in. “Good.”

He plunges inside of me, not gentle but raw and savage. His head tips back, a guttural sound ripping out of him. My cry strangles in my throat—it’s stretch and fire and home all at once. I push lower, slick and aching, and sink down on him as deep as I can take. “Tell me.” I pant between thrusts.

He holds me down on him, hand fisting my hair and the other marking around my hip and ass, and pushes into me hard and fast. He’s so strong, doing all the work, bouncing me like I weigh nothing. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me how you did it.” I scream into his shoulder, those rings he has hitting all the right spots. “Girls drool over uniforms.”

“I couldn’t. Believe me I tried, but they were…

” He stops for a second. I open my mouth to protest, to beg, but his hand in my hair slides to the back of my neck and pulls me toward him until our sweaty foreheads touch.

His eyes bore into mine. “They were not you. They were never gonna be you, Reagan.”

Something in me splits wide open. It’s not the words alone, it’s the way he says them, like it’s been engraved into his bones for years.

And when he moves again, I feel them everywhere, in my chest, in the tremor of my thighs, in the ache of my pussy clenching around him. God, he’s not just inside me. He’s inside every locked place I’ve spent my whole life barricading.

It terrifies me, not because there’s pure darkness oozing out of every confession he makes, not because it crosses every boundary and blurs the lines of taboo and impropriety, but because I like it.

I like the weight of him, the possession, the brutal honesty of his body taking mine like it’s always meant to.

My nails dig into his shoulders, probably drawing blood.

He must feel it, the sweet pressure building inside me, because he snarls and slams up into me like a rabid beast. My body ricochets with each thrust, pain and pleasure blurring until I can’t breathe.

His hand wraps around my throat and tightens, holding me there, keeping me with him.

“Tristan,” I gasp, “don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

Possessed, he drives into me. Nothing matters beyond this moment, this joining, this claiming. The sound of his breath, the sweat dripping down his temple, the sheer force of him.

My orgasm claws up and rips through me so hard I sob. I clutch him tighter, nails raking his back as I convulse around him, screaming his name—

The door crashes open.

“Ma’am, are you o—” Brandon’s voice freezes mid-syllable, horror-struck.

“FUCK!” I bury my face, as much of me as I could, into Tristan’s chest, but orgasms don’t care. I’m still clenching around Tristan’s cock, my cum dripping, while Brandon stands there.

Unstopping, Tristan roars, “Get the fuck out!”

“Jesus.” The boy rushes away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! ”

My jaw hangs low. I don’t know if I should cry or laugh.

Tristan, on the other hand, somehow has gotten angrier. He carries me without pulling out of me, lays me on my back and finishes what he’s started. “Mine,” he groans, his seed spurting inside me, “only mine.”

Then, when he finally pulls out of me, he takes some of his spilling cum with two fingers and draws a line from my throat to my pussy, and another across my breasts, staining me, marking me, baptizing me in the name of the Unholy Spirit.

The ride to the lighthouse is silent. Even though the three of us hide our gazes behind sunglasses, we barely look at each other. I hate that Brandon saw me with Tristan. It was supposed to be our little secret, but now we have a witness.

However, I trust Brandon. I’ve always had. If I’m being honest, I’m more perturbed that I’ve exposed him to such indecency. He might be an adult, a soldier, but for me, he’s a kid who brings out my protective maternal instincts.

At the parking lot, Brandon goes to secure the perimeter. Tristan moves from the backseat next to me to the driver’s seat. The second we’re alone, I ask, “Did you talk to him?”

“Yes. He was coming to tell us it was almost time to leave, but then he didn’t find me and then heard you…”

“How is he?”

“He’s never going to talk, Birdie. It’s not worth losing his job.”

“I mean, how is he ? It must have been really awkward…for both of you. You’re his boss. He pretty much idolizes you. To see you…compromised…”

“Compromised?”

“You’re fucking your principal. Is that not against all rules?”

Tristan snorts. “You’ll be surprised how many times it happens, though.” His jaw clenches. “I’m sure he’s laughing about it in his head.”

“Okay, what about you? How do you feel about it?”

“I feel like shit!” He slams his hands against the steering wheel. “Another man saw you naked, saw you being fucked. How the fuck do you think I feel about that?”

I flinch at the abrupt fury, at the reminder of Tristan’s unpredictable temper.

“I’m sorry.” He twists and holds my hand. “I’m so sorry. I get jealous. I can’t help it. I’m the walking talking definition of an OTT JP man.”

Over the top jealous possessive characters are my favorites. Perhaps because they’re so hot in the way they would burn the world down for their girls. Perhaps because they’re the kind I’ve never had.

He squeezes my hand gently. “Please don’t be scared of me. I’d die before I’d ever hurt you.”

I nod and pat his hand. “We should go. Blake would be here any minute.”

“By the way, Shane used the tab to send a message this morning. I intercepted it.”

Blood thumps in my temples. “To whom? To Blake?”

“Yes.”

“What was the message?”

“ I’ll talk .”