Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 40
Sofi
Bypassing the elegant and airy Palm Court where I glimpse the famous portrait of Eloise, the snotty little girl never one of my childhood literary heroes, Roman leads me to the legendary Oak Room and Bar. No longer open to the public because of some legal dispute, we luck out. The dark, richly paneled space has been rented out for some big celebratory event. Judging by the geeky way the revelers are dressed, they’re definitely from out of town or work for some tech company. Still roaring with laughter, Roman insists we crash the party. Plus, he’s thrilled we won’t run into any of his high-falutin haute couture clients, who are more likely to be found having high tea in the Palm Court after a day of shopping at Bergdorf’s.
“Let’s sit at the bar,” he insists, ushering me toward it. Always the gentleman, he pulls out one of the green leather barstools for me and then takes the seat next to mine, our thighs touching. He’s so close to me I can feel his heat roll off his physique.
“What do you want to drink?” he asks.
My eyes take in all the glistening, jewel-like bottles stacked behind the bar. “How about something French? We can toast Bernard.”
“Actually, I’m going to toast you, my brilliant butterfly. Your question was perfect. It’s the only one I would have asked.”
I smile humbly, but mentally give myself a high five. “Thanks.”
Despite how busy the bar is, Roman manages to grab the attention of a bartender.
“Two Kir Royales. And make them with Veuve Clicquot, please.”
I have no idea what any of this is, but light up when the bartender returns with two crystal flutes, filled with bubbling pink-tinted champagne. Roman lifts his glass and I follow his lead.
“Fuck the French turtle,” he says. Then he clinks his glass against mine. “To my beautiful, brilliant butterfly. For always inspiring me and making me see the light.”
I feel myself blushing, turning pink as the champagne, and not just from his compliment. The proximity of this breathtaking sex god is making me prickle all over. I definitely need a drink. Maybe two. Eager to take a sip of the bubbly, I hear Roman’s phone ring.
“Shit.” Setting his flute on the counter, he slides out his cell from his back pocket. He glances at the screen and swipes answer.
“Ciao!What’s going on, my friend?” He listens intently to the voice on the other end, battling the roar of the raucous crowd and loud music. His brows furrow, anger creasing his forehead.
“Cazzo!”I think he’s cursing in Italian.
“Hold on a secondo, Bruno.” His good eye meets mine. “Sofi, I’m sorry. I’ve got to take this outside where it’s quiet. It’s my supplier from Italy. There’s a problem with the run of some silk organza I ordered. I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, enjoy your Kir and feel free to order another one.” To my surprise, he smacks a quick kiss on my lips before he dashes out of the noisy bar. I roll my tongue around my lips, tasting the deliciousness of him, the brief touch of his lips on mine whetting my appetite for this gorgeous, complex man. For more. I take a sip of my champagne cocktail, the sweet effervescence only stirring my arousal. What would it be like to be really kissed by him? To have his lips locked on mine. My face in his hands. Our tongues entwined? At this titillating thought, hot tingles shoot from my head to my toes. Sofi, stop or you’ll burst out of your skin!
To divert myself, I swivel around and watch the partygoers. Most of them about my age, they seem to be having a blast. I drain my cocktail and order another from the bartender despite how lightheaded I feel. And sexed. It comes quickly. Facing the bar again, I put the flute to my lips when a warm breath dusts the back of my neck. Goose bumps pop along my arms like bubbles of champagne, tingling their way down my spine to my inner thighs. It must be Roman! His lips touch down on the nape, but they feel wet and slimy. Alien to me. Nothing like the soft, velvety lips that met mine earlier. The goose bumps morph into a chill at the sound of a familiar nasal voice.
“Mon petit papillon, how lovely for you to join my party.”
I flip around. It’s Bernard. With me seated, we’re face-to-face, eye-to-eye. He’s so close I can smell his hot, fetid breath. A repulsive mixture of tobacco and alcohol. A smarmy smile lifts the corners of his lips while his glazed eyes flicker with lust.
He’s drunk.
“I’ve got to go,” I stammer. I try to stand up, but he shoves me down. For his size, he’s much stronger than I expected. He keeps his stubby hands glued on my shoulders.
“Let go of me,” I plead.
His reptilian eyes bore into me. “But, papillon, the party eez just getting started.”
“This is your party?”
“Oui.It’s a bienvenue—a welcome aboard bash for the marketing start-up group I just acquired. They may all look like a bunch of nerds as you Americans say, but trust me, they are geniuses . . . like you.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter, his lustful gaze not straying from me.
“You should be working for me. Not that arrogant asshole.”
“I like my job.” And I’m falling in love with him. That beautiful, mysterious, complicated asshole.
“And I like you.” His eyes zero in on my chest. “Has anyone ever told you that you have zee most beautiful teets in zee world?
Before I can utter a word, he gropes my breasts so hard I yelp. “Stop it!” I cry out. Then, on my next harsh breath, he crushes my lips with his mouth, trying to force his tongue down my throat. I keep my lips pressed tight, thwarting him off. Writhing, I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him. Nausea is rising in my chest like a high-speed elevator. Bile mixes with my champagne. I’m going to vomit!
Then, suddenly, I’m freed.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” It’s the voice of anger I know so well. Roman! My eyes pop open in time to watch my hero wrench Bernard off me and shove him to the floor. The French turtle cowers with fear as Roman looms above him. And snarls like a rabid dog.
“God help you, if you ever come near anything that’s mine again. I’ll be handing you your balls on a silver platter.”
“Don’t hurt me! Je vous en prie!” begs the shaking Frenchman, raising his hands in defense.
“Je vous en prie.”Roman imitates him with the girliest of high-pitched nasal voices. Then, his voice lowers decibels and his demeanor darkens. His face turns a deep shade of scarlet, blazing with fury.
“Get the fuck out of here, you worthless piece of shit before I do hurt you.”
My eyes stay on Bernard as he crawls away on all fours like a lumbering, frightened turtle. As he disappears, Roman’s attention shifts to me.
“My butterfly, are you okay?” His voice is now soft and full of concern. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay.” But despite the quiet nod, I’m trembling and tears are trickling down my cheeks.
“You’re not. You’re shaking. Come here.”
On my next heartbeat, I’m wrapped in his strong arms. The arms that have rescued me over and over, again and again. The arms that feel so good around me. The arms that make me feel so cherished, protected, and secure. So loved.
He tilts my chin up with his thumb, the other hand reaching for a cocktail napkin on the counter. He dabs at my tears and then, with the tear-soaked napkin, he circles my lips as if he’s cleansing them. Ridding me of any residue left behind by that creep. My lips still parted, I watch him dip the tip of the napkin into his untouched Kir and repeat the action. Tossing the napkin onto the counter, he traces my lips with his forefinger. Slowly. Reverently. Lowering his head so close to my face I can feel his warm breath on my cheeks.
“No one can touch these lips. They belong to only one person. Me.”
His forehead touches mine, his lips so close I can taste them.
My mouth is paralyzed. My throat so tight I can’t speak.
Kiss me, Roman. Please kiss me!
My heart is thudding in my chest so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
My lips stay parted; my eyes don’t blink. On my next heated breath, he cradles my face in his hands, and as if they have ears and have heard my silent plea, his beautiful lips touch down on mine and consume them.
Oh my God! Roman Hurst is kissing me. I’ve wanted this for so long. Fantasized and dreamed about it. But not in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine what it would be like in reality. I’ve never been kissed like this by a man. I never knew kisses like this existed. It’s the kiss of all kisses. If there was such a thing as an haute couture kiss, this would be it. So perfectly crafted. So magnificent. A kiss meant for the world to see. Except I’m oblivious to everyone around us. It’s just him and me.
His warm, velvet lips capture mine, gnawing and sucking, then his tongue enters my mouth and I taste his flavor, succumbing to its minty sweet essence. To his skill. I grow slack as he sweeps his tongue from corner to corner, my knees so weak I grip his shoulders for support. My tongue meets his, and in a few thumps of my heart, they’re perfectly in sync, dancing together like they’ve danced this way forever. Swirling and twirling. Twirling and swirling. Little moans clog my throat as he holds me a willing prisoner. I never want him to let me go. I never want this kiss to end. He’s ruined me for all other men. But I don’t want another man. I only want him. We kiss until we’re both panting, chests heaving with need. Liquid heat pools between my thighs. Finally, he pulls away. Both of us breathing hard. Trying to catch our breaths. Bereft, so wet, all I want is more.
“Jesus, Butterfly,” he pants out, his lips lingering so close I can still taste him and feel the warmth of his words. His hands never leave my face, his heated gaze searching mine. As if in the depths of his good eye, he’s looking for an answer to a question: What’s next?
My hands still on his shoulders yet I swoon, there’s only one thing on my mind. Only one thing I want.
“Roman, please make love to me.”’