Page 40 of Butterfly
I pull on a pair of jeans with a few strategic rips in the legs and loop a belt through it, and then slip on Donovan’s hoodie over a tight black tank top.
I’m not sure why I bother debating my clothes to begin with—I know at the end of the day if I have the chance, I’m going to be wearing something that belonged to him anyway.
My eyes flick to my phone… I have half an hour before I’m supposed to meet Donovan at his place, and I’m sure I heard somewhere that showing up early makes you seem too eager…
Then again, I dropped to my knees in his kitchen for him and gagged on his dick until I was soaked in drool, so I don’t know if looking too eager is something I really need to worry about.
I head to his apartment, and maybe I’m not the only eager one. Donovan yanks the door open before I can knock.
His hands are moving before I have a chance to say hello, fingers fisting in the front of his hoodie and yanking me forward.
“You should have let me pick you up.” Donovan sounds sweetly irritated with me. I’m ready to tell him I’m perfectly capable of walking, even if the weather here is fucking miserable. Instead, the heat of his lips steals my words away, his tongue licking logic from my mouth faster than I can draw a breath. When he finally pulls back, I feel a little dazed.
“Uh-huh, right.”
What did I just agree to again? Kissing is… dangerous. It makes the usually cool logic that I surround myself with dissolve into little fluffs of cotton spun from sugar. I can’t stop myself when I lean up on tiptoe and meet him this time when he dips his head for another taste of saccharine danger.
“Come on.” Donovan tugs on my arm, pulling me inside.
“Aren’t we supposed to be leaving?”
He shakes his head. “As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, I bought you a jacket?—”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“You need something warm, Shiloh.” He shakes his head and sneaks his fingers beneath the hem of his hoodie to trace a gentle track up my spine. “And I can’t always be there to help.”
“I mean… I could just tie you to my bed so you couldn’t leave,” I say, then thank the fucking stars that he laughs like it was a joke. I force a laugh too, ducking my head so he doesn’t see the relief in my gaze.
I probably need to be a little more careful.
“Here.” Donovan grabs a bag off the back of his couch and hands it to me. It’s heavy… and when I pull it open, my eyes widen. It’s a leather jacket—from the smell of it, actual leather—with one of those linings that zips in to keep it extra warm in the winter.
“Donovan,” I say, my fingers careful when I run them over the material. It’s soft. Definitely real. “This is… really expensive.”
He shrugs, pulling the jacket from my hands. I’m about to tell him that just because it’s expensive doesn’t mean I don’t want it, but he’s grabbing the hem of the hoodie before I can start and pulling it over my head.
I stand there shivering in my tank top at the sudden cool bite of air, and I notice his eyes bouncing across my arms, my shoulders, like he’s trying to drink in the sight of my bare skin for a brief moment before he pulls the jacket up and holds it out for me.
I bite my lip, but nod and slip my arms into it. It’s warm, heavy…
“Your hoodie smells better,” I finally say, but step in so I can wrap my arms around him. When I lift my gaze, I can see it in his eyes. He’s waiting, hoping he did the right thing… and all I can do is tilt my head and press a kiss to his collarbone where I left my bite mark. “You’ll have to help me make this smell like you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And then, because I can’t help myself, I lean over and snatch his hoodie off the couch. “I’m still keeping this, though.”
The arena is huge and teeming with people. I’m lucky that Donovan seems to know where we’re supposed to go, because I’d be lost on my own. He skirts past the crowd and leads me in a direction away from the crowd. As we push through a door, I catch a glimpse of the logo for the Boston Copperheads painted on one of the walls.
This is where he wants to play someday.
Donovan takes my hand and guides me to a kiosk without a line. When he hands me a laminated pass on a cord, I sling it around my neck. A big burly security guard examines our passes as we move to enter the arena, gesturing down a long, darkened corridor behind him. Is this what it’s like to feel famous? Getting special passes and cutting lines? In certain circles, I guess my art is known… but no one really cares about the person behind it. Donovan is apparently important enough that he gets backstage access to keep him hidden away.
Having a famous boyfriend is not the best way to stay anonymous so I can get away with murder… but I’m already in too deep now.
Donovan is quick to lead us around the bowl of the arena until we end up backstage, and I’m caught up in the knowledge that if I’d killed him that first night, I probably would have seen his pretty face all over the news… and then a guy steps out and wraps his arms aroundmyboyfriend.
He’s pretty—all lean muscles visible through a mesh shirt. A nipple ring glints even in the low lighting. His dark hair is styled up in a mohawk, and his eyes are lined in black liner that makes the chocolate color seem brighter than it is. He’s coveredin tattoos from head to toe, and I’m just starting to wonder if I could peel them off him one design at a time and paste them onto a canvas for touching Donovan when he steps back and offers me a sweet smile.
