Page 77 of Z For Butterfly Man
“Look at me, Reagan.” I need her to see me.
She doesn’t fight. She gazes at me.
“I love you,” I confess, not expecting anything in return. I just need to say it, to let her hear it.
She bites her lip on a gasp in response. My queen needs her pleasure.
I fuck her harder and press my blood-stained mouth against her moans, marking her, sucking them as her pussy sucks my cock. “Will you be my good little butterfly and come for me one more time?”
She nods with a cry muffled by my lips, and her hips meet my deep thrusts.
“That’s it, darling. Use me. Take what’s yours.”
She crashes and clenches vigorously, violently. I follow her over the edge, spilling every drop inside her.
I stay inside her and lose track of time, both of us breathing hard. Then I pull out carefully.
I clean us both, for her sake only; I want to be covered in her blood and cum forever. I restore the heating pad, even though she might not need it anymore, give her water and more ice cream.
“What about underwear and maybe real food?” she asks.
“Food I can do. Anything you want, I’ll make. I’m an excellent cook. But underwear? I can’t, darling. Please understand. This beauty is too precious to hide. You don’t know how—”
“What if I tell you more about Mason and who Shane really was?”
She’s opening up, and I can’t turn her down. It’s finally happening. My butterfly has learned to surrender to the hands of her protector. She’s just given me her body, and now, she’s giving me her truth. “You got it, darling. Anything for my queen. Tell me. Who Shane really was?”
“You firmly believe that Shane wasn’t my husband. If that’s true, if we never got married, then there’s only one way to explain how we both have the same last name, genius.”
CHAPTER 35
Reagan
The courtroom is smaller than I expected. Quieter. Due to the nature of the case, the judge ordered the trial closed. No reporters. No spectators. Just the essential parties: the judge, the jury, the lawyers, a court stenographer, and the handful of people directly involved.
At the defense table is Shane.
He sits in a suit that doesn’t fit him right. His lawyer whispers something in his ear, but Shane isn’t listening. He’s staring at me. Those blue eyes that have done nothing but lie now burn with something that looks a lot like betrayal.
I look away.
Mason takes the stand first. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and khakis. Slicked-back hair. He looks uncomfortable as the prosecutor, a sharp-faced woman named Margaret Floyd, stands before him.
“Mr. Bloom, how do you know the defendant?”
“Blue, I mean, Shane, is my neighbor. We grew up together. Joined the same MC.”
“And you were expelled from that MC about eighteen months ago, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can you tell the court why?”
“Objection,” Shane’s lawyer, Gonzales, says. “Relevance.”
“Overruled,” the judge says. “You may answer the question, Mr. Bloom.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “Shane accused me of having sex with Reagan. He planted photos on my phone to make it look real. Reagan tried to tell the truth, that nothing ever happened between us, but Shane convinced the club she was just scared of me, that I’d threatened her. The club believed him and kicked me out.”
