"Louder." My hips rock harder in his lap, the rough denim ripping at my panties with each thrust, scratching my pussy lips with delicious friction. I try to obey his growled command, but it's difficult, my airway already narrowed under his palm. I try to force the sounds past my lips, my gut warming, spine-tingling with my impending orgasm.
"I said louder, Hadley." His voice is dark and gravely, his swiveling hips meeting my own desperate ones thrust for thrust as we dry hump on the couch. The grip on my throat tightens painfully, almost stopping the scream I manage to work out. It's raspy and deep, my throat burning from the pressure it's under. The slick between my legs is speaking for me, slapping wet and dripping to cover the entire front of his jeans. My vision starts to dot with black, my lungs stinging painfully in my chest as I buck in pleasure on Rhys's lap.
I orgasm with his tongue on my neck, lapping at a bite as I struggle to stay conscious. His hand drops from my throat just before I think it's too much, and I gasp in air as he takes my hips in his hands, sliding me along his lap to finish dry fucking me. He grinds me down, thrusting so hard the end of his erection juts inside of my pussy lips, denim and all, groaning against my back with his release. It sprays the inside of his jeans, creating another dark wet spot through the fabric. I bring my hand down between my legs, grind my palm against the spot in a way that has his hips shuddering with too much pleasure below me.
"That's enough." He shoves me off, my face landing in the cushions as he stands. He looks down at his pants, reaching in to adjust his dick. His eyes find mine as I sit up.
"What're you going to do about your pants?" My voice is hoarse, and my throat burns, my chest still heaving to catch my breath.
He shrugs, picking up his shirt up off the ground and sliding it over his head. I stare at every beautiful inch of his skin until it disappears below the fabric. "Nothing."
"You're just going to walk around like that?" I gesture toward his pants, and he runs his hands through his hair, pushing the strands, damp with sweat, away from his eyes.
"Yes. I hope they stare too." He walks toward the door, bending to slip into his sneakers. His are just as worn as mine are. "So, I can tell them I just got done fucking their mom." I suck my lips between my teeth to hide my smile. He grabs his jacket, throwing it on before opening the door. His eyes meet mine as he steps outside. "Later, weirdo."
My Pyronia tithonus is striking tonight. Truly stunning with her cream scarf wrapped around her slender neck, the orange copper length of her hair tucked into her coat as the pearlescent grey of her eyes reflects the city line. We're on the top of her building, utilizing the rooftop sitting area for our date tonight. Everything so far has gone smoothly with my butterfly, easy even. Maybe even a little.. bland? Possibly boring? I'm not sure if that has to do with my butterfly herself or if it's me.
I'm a collector by nature. There's an unspoken rule that as a collector, you never stop trying to find the newest and best to add to your existing pretties, and you most certainly don't stop collecting. I have no plans to stop; I think I just need some kind of excitement. Extra spice, maybe? My eyes find the copper glow of my butterfly's hair. I feel bad for my Pyronia tithonus. She's going to think she's the problem here when really, I've just found myself in quite the funk.
She's currently playing her guitar, quietly humming along with it as she shows me her newest song. She doesn't actually sing, all of her work is instrumental, and I have to say, she's very talented. She wouldn't be mine if she wasn't, though, would she? She's a far cry from my latest addition, who had the brains of a walnut. Although her show was spectacular, hands down my favorite, I knew I needed a real A+, top of the class kind of butterfly to brighten the box a bit after that one. And that's exactly what I found too.
As I sit here, listening to her play, I realize my hands are cold despite the fairly thick leather gloves I'm wearing. My butterfly isn't even wearing any, her fingers plucking away at the strings of her guitar like she doesn't feel the cold. But I know she must because her cheeks are flushed a pretty shade of baby pink that makes the few freckles on her nose stand out. I truly hate cold weather. Even more so when it's windy. And here we are, on the top of this building where it is both cold and windy. I really didn't think this date through.
"How'd you like it?"
I almost jump at her voice, blinking to clear my head. I truly am bored if I'm getting lost inside my head like that. "I loved it." I smile at the pleased expression on her face, watching as she sets the guitar off to the side. "You're very talented, Butterfly."
She shrugs, sticking her hands between her thighs. So her fingers were cold then. "I'm okay. I need to practice some more to be where I'd like to be."
She's either extremely driven, or her parent's pushed their own issues onto her to make her think she could always be better. Do better. Some people really shouldn't have kids. What's wrong with not being the best all the time? Literally nothing. In fact, I'd like to think that all of us losers down here are the backbone of the talented. Without us, you'd never know what the true scale of talent was; we're here to be grand examples of what the bottom tier looks like to compare.
"...Professor Angus said that he might be able to get me a spot in his upper musical arts class next semester."
Scrubbing my hand over my brow, I nod at her. I'm not sure how long she's been talking because I got lost in my thoughts once again. What was she talking about? Next semester? Maybe I should tell her she doesn't have to worry about next semester because I plan to rip her wings off. That'd definitely make things more interesting, or least for me. "That would be great."
On a whim, I stand and stretch my hand out toward her. "Have you seen the giant turkey they've set up in the park? I think you can see it from here."
She shakes her head, some of her hair pulling from where it's stuffed in her scarf. "No! I didn't know there was one up."
She takes my hand, and I link our fingers, walking with her toward the iron guard railing. Pointing one gloved finger toward the park, I gesture toward the brightly lit up turkey in the distance. Unclasping our hands, I pat my back pocket, intent to pull out a cigarette before I remember I didn't bring them. Well fuck. My butterfly is talking again, but I'm not listening. What's that show with the trombone sound when all the adults talk? Charlie Brown? That's all I hear coming from her mouth. Wah Wah Wah.
I'm nodding one moment and then grabbing her arm and pushing her between her shoulder blades the next. It takes me a second to realize I just shoved her over the railing, looking over the edge at her head, spattered over the sidewalk. Well, fuck again. I hadn't planned that. I actually hadn't planned on adding her to my collection for a few weeks yet. I move my face back as a few people run up to her, a woman already screaming something I can barely hear from the eight-story building. Well, butterfly, you may have bored me to death, or yourself to death, but I have to say you're fucking exquisite.
And she is, with her arms bent and broken in V's shaped like wings, the copper of her hair haloed by a spray of dark red. She's prettier than I could have imagined.
She also doesn't have a butterfly.
Fuck.
Looking around the rooftop, I don't see anything I can even attempt to make one with either. Scrubbing my head with annoyance, I ponder my options. I could leave her without a butterfly, but then no one would know she was mine. Or I could go back down to her apartment and get some paper, hope the cops don't show up before I'm done, and drop it on her. That could work. Mind made, my feet are already moving toward the rooftop staircase. If I'm quick, I can be in and out of her place within three minutes. Sh
e only lives a few floors down, and I already know she left her door unlocked for us to get in later, so it shouldn't be difficult.
Opening the doorway to her landing, I accidentally run straight into an older woman carrying what looks like groceries. Grabbing her arms to steady her, I politely shift her out of my way. "I'm sorry I didn't see you there."
Her freckled hand waves at me, the blue knitted ball on the top of her hat swaying with her shaking head. "Oh, you're fine, honey. Did you just come from the rooftop? It's far too cold to be spending too much time out there."
I nod at her, shifting around her toward my butterfly's door a few doors down on the left. "I think I'll be fine. Thanks for the concern."