Silent Flutter (The Butterfly Series)

by Lacey Ellmoore

  He rocked gently against me while leading a path of kisses from my lips down to the most sensitive area of my collar bone. I lifted my lower body up to meet His and His strong hands gripped at my waist to hold me in place above the mattress. I wrapped my arms around Him and pressed my fingers deep into the hot skin of His back. He dipped his head to mine and whispered breathily in my ear, “You are so sexy, Quinn. I know I said that I’d be respectful, but you are making that really hard right now,” and after a moment, He added, “pun intended,” with a wicked grin lifting on His face.

  Just watching His sexy mouth call me sexymade my body crave Him even more. “I think you’ve been respectable enough,” I moaned, as I lowered my hips back down to the mattress so that I could stable myself while I lifted my loose tank top above my head. His hands were instantly on the straps of my bra, sliding them down my arms one by one. His lips went straight to the bare skin on my shoulder where the skinny straps of fabric were seconds ago. Inner-me was shouting at me to end it here.What happened to taking things slow this time? Inner-me was in my head though, and at that moment my head was no longer in control.

  He slid His hand underneath my back that was pressed hard against the sheets to the clasp of my bra, and just before He unhooked it He looked back up from my anxious, heaving chest and directly into my eyes. “I can stop. We can wait.” His voice was smooth and serious. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  I thought about it for a moment: what this was going to mean and how our friendship would never be the same after this. I let his question seep into my head and then down into my heart,” I want you.”

  He smiled and dipped His head to kiss me with the same intense passion as our First Kiss at The Pasture on New Year’s. Our bodies molded into one and every move we made leading up to our simultaneous release of desire urged the transformation from best friends to so much more.

  He left the next day after lunch to get back to His apartment near His campus and get ready for the new spring semester. I hugged Him tightly and kissed Him feverishly like I was committing His touch to memory. Tears permeated my eyes when He finally pulled out of the parking lot of my crappy apartment to head back to His own life, an hour away from mine. I was sad that He had to leave, but even more so than that, I was happy. Truly happy.

  January 17 2011

  Sooo I was wondering, should we have “the talk?” I laughed a little when I read His text before replying.

  I think we are a little past that. Besides, my mom took care of “the talk” when I was like 13 :)I replied jokingly.

  Ha.ha. Aren’t you hilarious? :) No, not THAT talk. The talk about us.

  It had been almost two weeks since I last saw Him and since our amazing week together before school started. We talked every single night for hours at a time and texted all-throughout the day, despite the glaring looks of disapproval from some of my less technologically-approving professors. I knew what “talk” He wanted to have and I was more than ready to have it.

  I knew what you meant :) and yes, I think that’s a good idea. But can we actually talk? I’d rather not have “the talk” over text if that’s ok with you.

  My phone rang less than thirty seconds later and my heart rate automatically sped. “Hey, Sweetheart!” He greeted when I said hello. “I’m glad you wanted to talk talk. I love texting with you during the day when we are both in class but it’s just not the same as getting to hear your voice.”

  “I know what you mean,” I replied, after having just thought the exact same thing about Him.

  “So you wanted to talk about us. What were you thinking? Let’s talk.” I don’t know why, but I was nervous all of sudden. I felt like a freshman about to be asked to the prom by a senior.

  “Well,” He began. “I don’t know exactly where your head is at, but I think I do. And you know how I feel about you, have always felt about you.” He was rambling.

  “Yes,” I urged, and then paused so that He could continue.

  “I know it may seem like I don’t really know what I’m talking about because I haven’t dated much, but I think that the reason I haven’t been serious with anyone is that I have never found anyone worth it.” He emphasized my words and then hesitated for a moment to let it all soak in.

  “Until you, Quinn. I want to be with you and only you and I hope you feel the same.” The pace of His words quickened. “I know this sounds corny, but I have dreamt about the fortunate day that I could call you my girlfriend and, well…” He trailed off for a moment and then returned with, “damn, I feel like a total dork!”

  I giggled at His sudden self-consciousness. He was far from a “dork”, but at that moment He seemed like a nervous schoolboy and I wanted so badly to interrupt Him and give Him my answer, but another part of me, maybe the schoolgirl in me, wanted to hear Him ask.

  “So what I guess I’m trying to say is, will you be my girlfriend?”

  Those were the most delightful words I had ever heard, and the contrast of the gentle question with His strong voice was actually quite sexy. When The Bastard and I “became official” it was just sort of understood. It just happened. He didn’t ask me to be his girlfriend and there was no “talk about us.” This was so much better. For once, Inner-me and my heart were in agreement.

  “Yes!”

  February 14, 2011

  “In honor of Valentine’s Day,” Dr. Lasser began class, “we are going to discuss, what else? Love!” She slammed her open palm against her chest above her heart for theatrics. Dr. Lasser was one of my favorite professors; I had taken almost every one of her Literature courses that applied to my English major, and even a couple that hadn’t. I hated that this class was only offered in the evenings, and that I didn’t get out until almost nine PM every Thursday, but she was always so animated, dramatic, and most importantly, passionate about her career and what she was teaching that I just couldn’t pass up her American Poets of the 19h Century course. I always left her class feeling like I was more culturally aware or a better-rounded member of society than I was the hour before. I admired her and hoped to be even half the teacher that she was one day, and yearned for future students that would leave my classroom in love with writing and literature and poetry the way that I left hers.

  “Open your textbooks to page three o’six,” Dr. Lasser instructed. I flipped through the pages until I found the right one and then looked down at the glossy page and the old picture of Emily Dickinson. There was a brief bio about her life, death and career as a poet beneath the faded black and white portrait. I thought she said we were talking about love today?

  “Doesn’t this chick always write about death and stuff,” one of the less tactful guys in the back of the room blurted as soon as he saw Dickinson’s face. “That’s not very Valentinesy,” he added. I was thinking the same thing, but I certainly would not have expressed it like that.

  “Well,” Dr. Lasser began to explain, “while you are correct, Mr. Abrahams, Emily Dickinson’s dark and tortuous works were laced with love and the nuance of romance. You just have to dig deep, beyond the gruesome and morose surface, to shed some light on her darkness. And that’s exactly what we are going to do. Now, turn to three o’ nine please,” she directed. The sound of wafting pages and anticipation filled the small auditorium-like classroom.

  “A wounded deer leaps highest,” Dr. Lasser’s voice boomed through the microphone attached to the collar of her silk blouse. She had our attention and continued reciting the poem as we read along from our books.

  “A Wounded Deer -- leaps highest --

  I've heard the Hunter tell --

  'Tis but the Ecstasy of death --

  And then the Brake is still!

  The Smitten Rock that gushes!

  The trampled Steel that springs!

  A Cheek is always redder

  Just where the Hectic stings!

  Mirth is the Mail of Anguish

  In which its Cautious Arm,

  Lest anybody spy the blood

/>   And "you're hurt" exclaim! “

  She finished the last line with a pound of her fist on the podium in front of her, and again belted the first line of the poem, “A wounded deer leaps highest!”

  “Let that sink in for a moment, class. Really think about what Emily is saying in this magnificent limerick. I want you to dig deep, apply her words to your own life, and try to analyze it from a different perspective. Beyond the expected.”

  Most students looked around the room, hoping the answer was written on the ceiling or on the stained cinderblock walls. Others began frantically scanning the page and the lines of the poem again; searching for the hidden meaning behind Dickinson’s words.

  I knew exactly what the poet meant…to me anyways. Images of The Bastard, The countless Conquests and lastly, Judd, floated in the dark clouds of my reverie. It was easy for me to apply this analogy to my life. I thought about all of the times that I was “wounded” (or heartbroken) in the past and I put on a brave face and went on smiling and pretending to be fine. I was too vain and too vulnerable to let others “spy the blood” or see that I was “hurt.”

  I am the “wounded deer” and I will “leap higher” because of the damages, I acknowledged. Unlike, the “wounded deer;” however, I will not find “ecstasy [in] death.” I will not give it one fleeing effort only to find relief in giving up. I will find a reason to keep going, to “leap highest.”

  He is my reason to leap.

  I was snapped out of my own head by Dr. Lasser’s voice and the sound of my name, “Quinn. Ms. Borders,” she repeated.

  “Oh, um…yes?” I asked, snapping my head up to meet her eyes. The rest of the class was staring at me as well, causing my face to flush a garish shade of red.

  “Care to share what you’ve been writing over there? I always love to hear your thoughts about a piece.”

  Writing? I looked down at my notebook and all of the thoughts from my head were scribbled thoughtlessly on the page.

  “Oh. Well…. I just thought about finding the light in her darkness like you suggested. While most people see the wounded deer as a person close to death, putting in their greatest effort to avoid or escape the impending doom, I saw it with a lot more hopefulness and optimism than that.”

  “Well I’m certainly intrigued. Continue please,” my professor insisted.

  “Well I thought about the term “wounded” in relation to being heartbroken. I think Ms. Dickinson wrote this poem with the assumption that most people who have been hurt in the past by someone they love would at first try to fight their way out of the pain, but then would see the ecstasy of death, meaning, its human nature to give up when things get too hard. With no disrespect to one of America’s greatest poets of all time, but I have disagree with that assumption.”

  I took a deep breath, no longer embarrassed by my classmates’ opinions of me or my analysis. They actually seemed to be interested in what I had to say so I continued. “I guess I sort of saw myself as the wounded deer in that I’ve been heartbroken before, more than once; however, it wasn’t until after the last break that I began to leap higher. Normally I would say that I fit into Dickinson’s assumed portrayal of a human willing and ready to give up or fake my way through recovery. This time; though, I have found someone to leap “the highest” for. To live for,” I concluded.

  “Well done Ms. Borders! And good for you!” Dr. Lasser chimed.

  I spent the rest of the hour basking in the glow of my latest epiphany. I couldn’t wait to see Him for our late night Valentine’s dinner-date.

  By the time I pulled my Malibu into my crappy apartment parking lot it was already 9:05, and I was supposed to meet Him for dinner at 9:30. He was going to meet me at the restaurant and then ditch class the next day to stay with me for the remainder of the weekend. Ok, I’ll just run in, change my clothes and touch up my make-up in the car, I thought as I took the stairs two at a time. My hair was already curled and it was only about a five minute drive from my place to Sushi Bistro, so I was positive that I could make it.

  I pushed my key in the slot and twisted the door knob, while my body shoved at the heavy door to open it. I came barreling in, prepared to kick off my shoes and run down the hall to change, when I suddenly jerked to a stop. It was completely dark except for the faint light of flickering candles lining the hallway in a stream that veered in two different directions: one to my bedroom and the other to my bathroom. I could hear the slightest sound of music drifting from somewhere in the dark and I could smell the floral scent of the lavender candles and the rose petals that accompanied them.

  My eyes eagerly searched for any sight of Him in the dark. But there was none. Finally, I forced myself to move forward, to seek Him out. I could have stayed in the foyer forever, just taking in all of the beauty that transformed my crappy apartment into a romantic scene that one could only conjure in a dream. I made my way through the candlelit corridor to a vase of two dozen long-stemmed, pink roses (my favorite) that sat at the fork in the trail. The note fastened to the flowers simply read, “Choose a path.”

  I picked up the vase that held the roses an inhaled their intoxicating scent. My head was dizzy with pure, unalloyed joy. Choose a path? How do I know which one to choose? How do I know which one will lead me to Him? I glanced at the closed door to my left that led to my bedroom and then let my eyes follow the glimmering trail down the hall a bit more to an identical door that led to the bathroom. After considering it for a moment, I let my curiosity get the best of me, and I headed towards the bathroom. I little hesitantly, I pushed open the door only to find even more candles in an otherwise dark room.

  The dancing wicks were casting gorgeous shadows on the walls and on the tub filled with fizzling, bubbly water. Rose petals lined the tub and floated amongst the bubbles in a sea of absolute tranquility. I had also found the source of music. My “In case of Heartache” playlist was playing softly from the iPod deck on the far corner of the counter. Written in the steam on the mirror were the words, “Get in. Relax.” He must have been here only minutes ago for the steam to remain.

  I looked around, half expecting Him to jump out from behind the curtain, but He wasn’t there. Should I go find Him? I wonder where He is. Would I have found Him if I had chosen the path that led to my room? I waited for a few moments before I decided to obey the message on the mirror and strip off my boots, hooded sweatshirt and jeans, then my bra and panties, and ease myself into the tub. The warmth of the water, scent of the candles and the velvety feel of the bubbles immediately erased my wandering questions of where He was and if I should have gone to look for Him. This feels way too amazing to be doing or thinking about anything else right now.

  I twisted my hair up off of my neck and leaned my head back against the cold, white edge, while the rest of my body sank and relaxed into the dark water. The music flooded my mind as it drowned out everything else, and I let my eyelids slowly fall shut.

  I was awoken several songs later by the sound of my front door opening and then closing shut. I sat up quickly and the water splashed about and onto the rug below. I stood at the sound of rustling in the kitchen and tried to wipe the clinging bubbles from my body. I wish I would've brought some lingerie in here with me so I could walk out in something sexy, I thought. I looked around the dark room hoping some would magically appear and that’s when I noticed the robe hanging from the hook on the back of the door. Where did that come from?

  I dripped across the floor, ignoring the perfectly folded towel He had left out on the counter for me and over to the flowing fabric. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like it was a deep shade of pink, matching the loose petals and the roses in the bouquet that I had carried in from the hall. I could turn the light on, but the artificial light will ruin this perfect setting.

  My hands instinctively reached out to caress the fabric and the cashmere melted between my fingers. There was another note pinned to the tag so I pulled it off and held it over the closest flame in order to read it.
"I hope you got the chance to relax. Whenever you're ready, meet me in the living room. I can't wait to see you."

  I pulled the robe from its hook and slid the luxurious material around me and tied it closed. The fabric clung to my damp body and the short hem rested on the highest point of my thighs. I looked in the mirror and noticed my naked, glistening breasts peering out from the deep V. This may be better than lingerie.

  I fluffed up my curls with my fingers and removed any residual eyeliner from beneath my bottom lashes. Once I was satisfied with my appearance I turned the knob and headed down the glowing hallway. My breath caught in my chest when I reached the living room. There were more candles and more petals: hundreds of them.

  There's was a dark, navy blanket splayed out on the old wooden floor, lit up by the tiny flames surrounding it. Small pillows were sporadically placed about on the blanket along with a bottle of wine, two glasses and sushi displayed professionally on two platters. There was also a plate of fresh strawberries and a bowl of melted Godiva chocolate. Just as tears welled in my eyes, He stepped out from behind the wall of my kitchen and towards the picnic. When He took a seat on one of the small pillows He reached His hand out towards me, beckoning me to join Him. "Are you hungry?" He asked with a gentle smile.

  I walked over to Him, speechless, and knelt beside Him on another pillow. "How did you... When?" My breath was coming out in gasps and my dizzy mind could not form a full thought.