“Thank you, sir.” Roman laces his hand with mine. “Godspeed.”
“Take good care of our butterfly. Watch over her. And don’t let her fly away.”
CHAPTER 52
Roman
The moment I saw Sofi in those adorable butterfly pajamas, my heart beat into a frenzy and my cock jumped to attention, straining so hard against my fly I thought it would burst out. My riotous organs were testaments to how much I missed her both emotionally and physically. To how much I love her with all I have. And because she was wearing the butterfly-print scarf I bought her around her hair like a headband, I knew her connection to me wasn’t lost. As I held her lifted in my arms and kissed her passionately, I had the pulsing urge to carry her up to her bedroom. Deposit her on the bed. Tear off her pajama bottoms and bury myself inside her. Make love to her like there’s no tomorrow.
In the backseat of the stretch limo that’s taking us back to the city, I’m still hard as a rock. My need for Sofi is so great. Overpowering. It’s been too long. But right now, as she huddles next to me, steeped in silence, I have to be strong for her. The shattering news of her father’s cancer has drained her, making her saddened and vulnerable. I made a vow to her father that I would watch over her and that’s what I’m going to do. Be there for her in every way I can and help her get through this difficult time.
About a half hour into the ride as we approach the Holland Tunnel, Sofi, wrapped in my arm, turns to me. “Roman, can anyone hear or see us back here?”
I glance at the opaque divider separating us from the driver and the tinted black windows. “No,” I say, though I’m not sure if the passenger section of the limo is soundproof. Does she want to learn more about Abra? Surprisingly, she hasn’t asked me anything about her. She caresses my cheek.
“Roman, I need to take my mind off my dad.”
Before I can console her, the hiss of a zipper sends an unexpected chill down my spine. Holy shit! She’s pulled down my fly. My fully erect cock springs out like a jack-in-the-box. Casting her eyes down, she curls her fingers around the base. My cock pulses in her palm.
“Oh, my big, beautiful Blue Morpho. I’ve missed you so much.”
Then, she bends over and kisses it. Her lips landing on my shaft like a butterfly on a flower. Sweet Jesus. How fucking good that feels. On my next heated breath, she’s on her knees in front of me, her fingers still curled around the base, her luscious lips wrapped around the crown.
Clenching my teeth, I hiss as her mouth goes down on me. She begins to slide it up and down and pump me with her hand. She hums with each stroke; I curse under my breath. My fingers dig so hard into the leather banquet I’m sure my nails have ripped it. I can’t believe how much of me she can handle. How deep she can take me. Still squeezing the base, she pumps me harder, faster, adding her velvety tongue to her pleasuring and the lightest touch of her teeth. Then, her free hand plays with my balls. I bite down on my lip. My electrically charged body stiffens. She glances up at me, catching the tortured ecstasy etched on my face, before going down on me again. Holy Mother of Christ. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten head. Where the hell did she learn how to do it? Maybe she was born sucking dick. Or she’s just so hungry for me. Throwing my head back, I squeeze both eyes shut—both the good one and bad—as the pressure mounts and my balls contract. Fuck. I’m losing all control. I’m not going to last much longer.
“My butterfly, I’m going to come in your mouth,” I manage.
Her hand tightens around my cock and with one squeeze, I explode, roaring her name as my release coats her throat. Slowly, she drags her magical mouth up my length until she reaches the tip. She sucks it voraciously, her tongue licking my cum like it’s ice cream and she can’t get enough of me.
Opening my good eye, I cradle her head in my hands, tilting it up and forcing her to let go of me. She looks so fucking ravishing, so edible; her eyes glistening like emeralds, her lips shimmering with my cum. I run a fingertip around them before she takes my cum-coated finger and puts it to her mouth, sucking it like a lollipop. I’m so turned on I harden again. On impulse, I kiss her fiercely, tasting myself in her mouth. My cock throbs. My breathing grows shallow. I’ve got to have her. Our discussion about Abra is going to have to wait.
My fly still down, my engorged cock in her face, I lift myself off the seat, and in one single swift move, I lower her to the carpet, steepling her knees. Yanking off her pajama bottoms, I spread her legs, crawl between them, and put my hand to her pussy. Stroking it, caressing it, relishing her wetness. She moans.
“My butterfly, I’ve so fucking missed this.” We enter the tunnel and I bury my head between her thighs, inhaling the sweet scent of her, before kissing her clit and licking it with my tongue. Her legs tremble with need. With want.
“Oh, Roman! I need you inside me! Please!”
Fuck. I love it when she begs.
“Be patient, my love.” Spreading her legs further apart, I anchor my hands beside her and let her guide my cock inside her. Inch by thick inch. God, she feels good. So fucking good. So hot. So tight. Dripping with delight. Her muscles clench around my length, and when I can penetrate her no more, I begin to pummel her to the sound of the limo whooshing through the tunnel. Harder. Faster. My flesh slapping against hers as I pick up my pace. Wrapping her legs around my haunches, she allows me to go deeper. To take her to the hilt. She fists my hair as she bucks against me, her gorgeous ass lifting each time she does. My palms are pressed to the carpet so tightly my wrists hurt. A chorus of gasps and whimpers fills my ears. Our pants collide with each forceful thrust. I feel her muscles quiver, readying for an orgasm. I hear her breathe out, “Yes, yes, YES!”
“Come with me, Butterfly,” I rasp. “And keep your eyes open. I want you to see me.” With a grunt so loud it could shatter the windows, I thrust into her one last time. At once, I combust and she sobs, shuddering all around me. We emerge from the tunnel. The glittering city awaits us.
We’ve fucked each other senseless. Succumbed to something primal. It’s what we both needed. Thoughtless, mindless, numbing pleasure. Drained, I stretch out and collapse upon her, blanketing her with my weight, her trembling legs bracketing me. Her heart beats against mine, our chests rising and falling in perfect harmony. She strokes my head as our breathing calms down.
“I love you so much, Roman.”
“Baby, the same. I couldn’t live without you.”
“Now, tell me . . . who’s Abra?” she whispers.
I lift my head from her chest and meet her just-fucked gaze.
“Madame DuBois.” Her eyes become saucers and I explain the DNA test.
A few minutes later we pull up to my atelier. My butterfly is crying tears of happiness. At long last, she knows who her real biological mother is.
She can’t wait to give her a hug.
CHAPTER 53
Sofi
The next few months are the happiest in all my adult life. My dad’s surgery was a success and he’s doing well with the chemo. Mom tells me that while he’s had some bad days, the good ones far outnumber them. His doctors are optimistic and say his chances for a full recovery are excellent.
Despite how crazy busy Roman and I are readying his collection, we try to see him and my mom every weekend. My dad adores Roman—they share a love for opera and poetry—and he has found his match when it comes to chess. Both fierce, competitive players, they have a tournament going on and so far they’re even. My mom’s rooting for Roman while I’m rooting for my dad. And rooting for him to go into full remission.
On one trip, Madame DuBois—or Abra as I now call her—accompanied us. I learned her name fittingly means “mother of many” in Hebrew. I’m part Jewish! Both my parents finally got to meet my biological mother. It was both a tearful and joyous occasion for everyone. My mother and Abra bonded instantly and by the end of the day, were exchanging soup recipes for French onion and navy bean. And heartfelt hugs. How lucky I am to have two wonderful moms!
&nbs
p; Another time, we took Mariposa with us. She has become such a major part of our lives—Roman’s little muse. She comes to his atelier regularly where I’ve continued to give her painting lessons. She’s become quite the little artist though she still says she wants to be a supermodel when she grows up. My parents adored her—how could they not?—and my dad, who was feeling well, brought her to his charming bookstore, where she picked out a dozen children’s books, including my favorites. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, about a caterpillar who morphs into a breathtaking butterfly, and Hope for the Flowers, a beautifully written allegorical tale about two caterpillars who discover there’s more to life than getting to the top of the social pillar. I had tears in my eyes when she sat on my father’s lap and he read it to her. Every time I’ve read that book it’s meant something different to me, and when I heard my dad read it to Mari, it was a story of hope and change. Roman held my hand, absorbing every word, and I could tell he was affected by it too. Like Stripe, one of the caterpillars, my Roman has changed so much since I met him. He has shed his dark cocoon and morphed into a new and more beautiful being. He has become the butterfly he was always meant to be. My beautiful Blue Morpho. I have never felt more cherished, protected, or loved by a man.
Our days are long, busy, and fulfilling. In so many ways. So inspired and ambitious, Roman has transformed the third level of his residence into a second atelier where his new ready-to-wear line is underway. He’s brought in another team of pattern makers, cutters, and seamstresses. Dubbed the Romanettes, they have all the equipment needed to knock it out, including sewing machines and a 3-D printer. We alternate spending time there and in the ground-floor atelier, where the handmade couture collection is taking shape. Coming to life.
While Roman, Abra, and the Romanoffs finesse the magnificent butterfly-inspired couture gowns, I spend a great deal of my time painting in the corner of the atelier. I’ve completed several canvases, including one of a Blue Morpho, which I plan to frame and give to Roman on his upcoming birthday. When I’m not painting, I love to watch Roman at work. I’m awed. Mesmerized. He’s a true artist and visionary—with such a keen eye for detail and precision. Even the slightest nip or tuck can make a difference in the way a gown falls. Roman frequently needs my help and I have to be his fitting model, which requires stripping down to my lace undergarments and letting him drape and pin one of his works in progress on me. To fine-tune the gowns, he puts me on a pedestal, both literally and figuratively. It’s the most sensual of sensuous experiences. To have the sumptuous fabric breathe against my skin and feel Roman’s discerning eye on me . . . the touch of his fingers on my body . . . and the warmth of his breath on my flesh. It gives me goose bumps and heart flutters. A rush of dizzying tingles between my thighs. Often, my desire for him becomes so great I want to burst out of the seams. The feeling is mutual and we have to break away to fulfill each other’s lust. Each other’s needs. Glorious love in the afternoon has become a daily ritual.
He’s even become more social. Agreeing to go out to an occasional dinner with both Harper and Vincent. My bestie has at last learned of my relationship with Roman, but it’s still all about her. To my sadness, she’s separating from Derek, citing irreconcilable differences. He wants kids; she doesn’t; her career comes first. To my great happiness, Vincent has fallen in love with Kimana, the stunning and lovely Native American waitress from La Brioche, who’s agreed to be a runway model in Roman’s upcoming show. As if it’s all meant to be, her name means butterfly in her ancestral Shoshone tribe.
Making our lives still better, Kendra has been more or less out of the picture. She told Roman she needed to take a trip to Rio, claiming she was meeting with an investor, though Roman’s certain she’s undergoing cosmetic surgery there. In her absence, Roman hired Mariposa’s mother, Consuela, to join the team much to Mari’s delight. A trained accountant, Consuela has been instrumental in helping Roman maintain his books, something he has neither the wherewithal nor interest in doing. She’s noticed several odd transactions—including a deluxe Caribbean cruise for two in the amount of ten thousand dollars and a thirty-thousand-dollar payment to the untraceable Dermalógica Institute. She believes money has been siphoned out of the House of Hurst account for months—make that years—and is doing an investigation. All fingers point to Kendra, but it’s yet to be proven. I’m hoping her suspicions are confirmed and give Roman just cause to dissolve his partnership with that dragon lady.
Close to the completion of both collections, I’m about to take a quick nap before dinner when I get a surprise email from Roman.
Subject: Met Exhibition
Sofi~
Exciting news! The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art wants to feature one of my iconic vintage gowns in their next exhibition. I’d like you to help me pick one out. Meet me in the basement at six p.m.
~Roman
PS. Please take the elevator directly there as I’m planning a surprise for you in my atelier and don’t want you to see it.
My skin prickles with excitement. While I wish it were one of my hand-painted butterfly-inspired gowns from his new collection, what an honor it is to have one of his gowns included in the prestigious annual event. And I’m thrilled that Roman has asked me to help choose one. I’ve never been in the basement nor seen the sample gowns he stores there. The ones Ava inspired. A shiver shimmies down my spine, but dissipates when curiosity takes center stage.
What kind of surprise does my beautiful Blue Morpho have in store for me?
CHAPTER 54
Sofi
The basement is pitch black. I can’t see a thing.
“Roman?” I call out, my voice jittery. “Are you here?”
An eerie silence. My nerves buzz. Maybe I can find the light switch.
Suddenly, the lights flash on, blinding me. I blink several times.
I take in my surroundings. The basement is an old bank vault. Safety-deposit boxes still line the walls. The thermostat is set low, most likely to preserve the exquisite gowns all around me.
Wearing a lightweight top, I hug myself to thwart off the bone-deep chill. My eyes roam the vast space in search of Roman.
Dazzling black gowns are everywhere. Layers and layers of silk and tulle. Some beaded. Others adorned with feathers and sequins. Dangling from the ceiling like chandeliers, draped on mannequins, and hanging on garment racks. An unexpected voice startles me.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I gasp. It’s Kendra. Emerging from behind a mannequin, she saunters toward me. She’s dressed in all white—a cream-colored silk blouse, ecru pencil skirt, and beige stilettos. Kid leather gloves cover her hands, one clutching a monstrous designer bag.
“You’re back,” I stammer.
She shoots me a sickeningly sweet smile. “That’s right.”
On closer inspection, she looks rested, relaxed, and rejuvenated. Her skin is bronzed and tight, and that little tummy she had is gone, her newly flat-as-a-board abs the result of diet, exercise, or liposuction. Or all of the above. There’s no doubt in my mind she went to Brazil for “work.”
“Are you here to meet with Roman too?” I’m surprised Roman didn’t tell me about her return. Maybe he didn’t know. She could not possibly be the surprise Roman mentioned in his email. Or could she?
“No. Roman’s not coming to this rendezvous. It’s just you and me.”
“I don’t understand.”
She flashes a smug smile. “In a few minutes, you will.”
Against my better judgment, I let her continue.
“Let’s backtrack a little, shall we? Twenty years ago, I worked at my uncle’s fertility clinic. It was a summer job I hated, but my parents made me do it. Threatening they would send me to community college and take away my car if I didn’t.
“Having no choice, I was stuck with it. Wishing I was jet-setting in Europe like my rich NYU friends, I despised every minute and was bored out of my mind until one day this jaw-dropping young woman breezed in. A
bout my age, she was accompanied by an older woman who looked a lot like her. Every pathetic husband’s lustful eyes were on her. Even the desperate housewives longing for a baby.
“I’d never seen anyone like her. A goddess. She was tall, elegant, and carefree, with the most amazing green eyes. I learned from the front desk nurse that she wasn’t an egg donor, but her stunning, thirty-something mother was. The two of them came back the next month and the next, and I became totally obsessed with her. When the staff wasn’t looking, I read the mother’s file. Donor 4942. I learned she was once a fashion model in Paris, which wasn’t surprising given her beauty, but now worked for a young up-and-coming fashion designer.
“My obsession with her daughter consumed me and one day, after an egg retrieval session, I followed them to the mother’s place of work. Pretending I had something she left behind at the clinic, I wormed my way into the atelier. And for the first time I set eyes on him.
“Roman Hurst. The man they both worked for, the mother as a couturier and the daughter as a fitting model. He was unlike any man I’d ever met. Tall. Dark. Sexual. With piercing blue eyes and an animal magnetism so strong it could create a tidal wave. Except he only had eyes for her, his ravishing, long-legged fitting model. My obsession with her morphed into an obsession with him. Jealousy gnawed at every cell in my body. Eating me alive. I had to find a way to become part of his life. Eliminate her. Make him mine.
“There was one way. I could become his fitting model too. For the next three months I went on a crash diet, eating nothing but lettuce and raw vegetables. And exercising like a fiend. Anytime I succumbed to a craving that could take me off my path, I relied on my new friend. My hand. And stuck my fingers down my throat. The baby fat melted off. I discovered bones I thought I never had. Including my stunning—thank you very much—cheekbones. My body became svelte like hers. My hair grew longer and I dyed it a shade that was close to hers. I watched hours of Fashion TV, studying every televised runway show. I worked on my posture. Practiced my walk. Held my head high. Sucked in my gut. Even cajoled my parents into letting me have a nose job. Soon, I was model material. I didn’t recognize myself and was confident nor would they.”
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 22
