He chuckles. “Damn, mariposa. And here I thought I was the player.”
If he only knew just how inexperienced I was. Stepping into the role I’ve set out for myself, I rock my hips against him and he hisses, his eyes glazing over with lust. “You’re playing a dangerous game, mariposa.”
“Why do you keep calling me a moth?” I ask, a breathy quality to my voice.
He leans forward, nipping at the column of my throat. “Not a moth. A butterfly,” he murmurs. His hands find my hips and he presses me down against him, his hips thrusting upward to grind against my center. Electricity crackles between us. He tilts my chin, drawing my lips to his and fusing them together. Stars explode behind my closed lids and every rational thought in my mind floats away.
The more he kisses me, the drunker I am on his taste, and the more I want to throw caution to the wind. This feels good. Right. I don’t even know him, but somehow, my body does. It craves him, silently begging for me.
His fingers dig into me, his erection hot between my legs. I weave my fingers through the short strands of his hair, pressing my chest against his, but it isn’t enough. His kiss is drugging, pulling me deep into an abyss I have zero desire to escape. When his hands slip beneath the hem of my dress, tugging it over my ass and then my head, bearing me to his dark and hungry gaze, I offer no resistance.
His eyes grow hooded as he lasers in on my chest, a hand coming up to thumb over one taught nipple. I shiver and he grins. The satisfied smile of a boy who knows the effect he has on a girl. He leans forward, capturing my breast in his hot mouth, his teeth grazing my nipple as I rock against him. My body aching and desperate for more friction.
Between kisses, I tug off his shirt. Unbutton his jeans. It takes next to no time for the two of us to find ourselves naked, clawing at one another’s skin and he wastes zero time in retrieving a condom from his discarded jeans pocket and rolling it on before pulling me down on top of him and lining himself up with my core.
A part of me wonders if I should say something. Let him know I’m a virgin. I’ve heard the stories. I know there is usually pain the first time. But I can’t convince myself to ruin this moment. I want this. Unequivocally and desperately. I want this.
His cock nudges my entrance and I stiffen, bracing myself for what’s to come. His hard, thick length pushes inside of me with slow and measured thrusts. I gasp at the sensations as he stretches me to my limits, to the point where pleasure merges with the sharp bite of pain.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses between clenched teeth.
My fingers dig into his shoulders as I seat myself on him. And when I feel that edge of resistance, that last layer of innocence I’m determined to stamp out, I don’t let myself think about it. I suck in a breath, steel myself, and press my hips down until he’s fully inside of me, pushing past the pain and focusing only on the pleasure.
He groans and slams his mouth against my own, consuming my cries and filling me up until I don’t know where I end and where he begins. “Your name, mi pequeña mariposa?” he prompts when I pull back to catch my breath. My little butterfly.
I ignore the question, chasing his mouth instead and shifting my weight on his shaft. A breath hisses between his teeth, but he holds me steady. “You’re a virgin.”
It isn’t a question, so I don’t bother responding. Instead, I do the only thing I can—no, the only thing I need—and move.
I rise above him until only the tip of his shaft remains inside me before sinking back down with deliberate slowness.
He drops his head back on the sofa, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Fuck, what are you doing to me?” His voice is guttural, coated in desire and laced with hunger.
I repeat the movement twice more before he lifts me in his arms, standing to his full height, my legs wrapping around his waist. He walks us to a table, laying me back, our bodies never losing their connection.
“You’re playing with fire,” he cautions as he pulls out of me before flexing his hips and driving himself back in. Harder. Deeper. I writhe beneath him, uncertain if I’m desperate to get closer or trying to pull away.
My body is burning, my center slick with need as he thrusts into me again and again. Pressure builds inside of me making me needy and desperate for more. For all that he’ll give. “Maybe I want to get burned.”
He lifts one of my legs, drawing it up and over his shoulder as I hold the other tight, curled over his hip. His cock sinks deeper inside of me as he leans down, his mouth trailing wet kisses across my breasts, up my throat, and to my lips. He hits a deeper angle in this position. Every thrust and every pivot of his hips elicits new sensations.
The pressure inside of me continues to build until I’m spinning, unable to tell up from down. My visions blurs, stars explode behind my eyelids and my body jerks, jolts of pleasure spear through me without warning. He swallows down my cries until they become little more than whimpers and mewls, leaving me breathless and my body boneless.
My chest heaves. My body is slick with sweat and he’s still rock-hard inside of me. There’s something primal in the way he’s looking at me right now. His hungry stare drinking in my sweat-slicked skin and thoroughly fucked gaze.
“You shouldn’t have given me your innocence,” he says, a fierce glint in his eyes. “I’m going to ruin you for any man who comes after me.”
I bite my lower lip. Thank God I’m leaving tomorrow. This boy could easily become an addiction. This moment, these feelings, it’s more than I imagined. More than I ever anticipated. And a hell of a lot more than I’m ready for. But to hell with it.
“Do you worst.” I tell him.
His eyes flash. “Burn for me, mariposa. Burn.”
One - 18 months later…
I’m anxious. More anxious than I should be. I try on half a dozen shirts, hating all of them before I settle on a basic, long-sleeved, black t-shirt and an oversized hoodie, resigned to the fact that today just isn’t my day. None of my clothes look right on a body that doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore. It’s been nine months. And while I’ve managed to drop most of the weight, I’m still…different.
My breasts are larger. My hips wider. I’m soft in places that were once firm and I just…I exhale a loud breath. I’ve changed. And not just on the outside. Clothes can only hide so much. There are times like now when I feel like an imposter trapped inside my own body.
