So the next day, I called Butcher and told him I’d made up my mind.
“I’ve thought it through,” I said. “And I’ve come up with dozens of reasons why I shouldn’t date you… But for the time being, I’m going to ignore them all. I want to give us a shot. I’d like to get to know you better and see if we can overcome the odds.”
Butcher was pleased with my decision, though he didn’t act too surprised. It was as if he expected me to respond the way I did, which, I guess, was proof positive of the arrogance I’d listed on the “cons” side.
In any event, we talked things out for a bit and decided to date on a trial basis. We’d take things slow, test the waters, and see if we had what it took to make it work. It was the first time I’d ever dated anyone in such an expressly wishy-washy way, but it made sense for Butcher and me, and we both were on-board.
Our next official date happened later that week. We went to dinner, then caught a comedy act at a bar on the same strip. That weekend, we went out again, during the day. We rode out to the beach with the intention of kicking back and catching some rays, maybe playing some volleyball or taking a swim—but we ended up spending the entire afternoon at a pop-up roadside carnival we saw along the way.
After that, we went on five more dates over the next two weeks. We mostly went out for dinner and sometimes went out for drinks, and there was usually something interesting, fun, or different that happened when we were out.
One night we ended up in an epic dart battle with another couple. Another night, Butcher ran into one of his fans, and we ended up joining him at a Black Sabbath tribute show. And once, we accidentally stumbled into a gay bar, where we ended up meeting good people, having a good time, and spending a lot on drinks.
Indeed, I had a great time on each and every one of my dates with Butcher, and naturally, the more I got to know him, the more I found things that I could’ve put on my “pros” list. I learned about his interests, passions, and fears. He told me stories about silly things he’d done, crazy coincidences, and sad experiences he’d been through. He shared a lot. And I shared a lot, too.
But one thing we didn’t share was a romantic encounter. Butcher drove me home from all of our dates—and drove me to most of them as well—but our dates always started and stopped at my front door and never went any further than a few stolen kisses here and there. We were definitely taking things slow… and we both were getting pretty tired of it. The sexual tension was mounting.
And it just so happened that as the sexual tension was mounting, so, too, was tension of another kind. For the most part, Butcher’s gang affiliation didn’t interfere with our dates or relationship in any significant way. He didn’t conduct business in front me, didn’t take me along to any of gang-related meetings, and didn’t share top-secret information with me, or try to drag me into the Wolves’ games. He didn’t give me any reason to fear for his or my life, and he never asked me to do anything that made me feel uncomfortable or unsafe.
But as I said, Butcher’s gang affiliation didn’t interfere with our dates or relationship in any significant way…for the most part. And that phrase—“for the most part”—is key.
Truth be told, Butcher’s gang affiliation did interfere with our dates and relationship, and on occasion, it interfered in pretty significant ways. But given the particular circumstances, I was willing to mostly overlook it and give Butcher some leeway.
Namely, Butcher frequently got business calls while we were out on our dates. He always took them—whether they lasted a minute or an hour—and sometimes, he took off after them.
For example, when we went to the carnival, he stepped off to take a call while I waited in line to play a shooting game. He was only gone about three minutes, but nonetheless, he missed me kicking two teenagers’ butts on the fake range.
The time we went to the Sabbath tribute show with his fan, we had to leave early when Butcher got a call. I heard the band playing one of my favorite tunes as we made our way out of the place, and I resented the fact that we couldn’t stick around and hear it. Duty called!
And duty called that night we mistakenly wound up in the gay bar. Butcher left me at our table with our new friends for nearly an hour while he went outside and took a call. A very lovely gal hit on me that evening, and Butcher made it back just in time, right before she brought me over to the other team.
I could go on and on, but I’ve already illustrated my point. Butcher frequently got business calls on our dates. He always took them. And they always interfered with our dates and relationship.
But I was willing to overlook this stuff and give Butcher some leeway because these phone calls related to business. Even though he worked by day as a butcher, Butcher’s true calling was as a Wolf. So when he got these calls, he was getting calls about his business, his work—and even though I didn’t like his work, I could understand and relate to its demands.
Remember that time I was supposed to meet Butcher at Olive, when I showed up an hour late because of a last-minute assignment? A similar thing happened about a week-and-a-half later, and I didn’t make it to the designated pub until forty-five minutes after the end of happy hour.
I, too, got a phone call during a date once. My editor called to clarify something he considered ambiguous in my writing. I took about fifteen minutes out of my date with Butcher to talk to him and email him a revised sentence.
I couldn’t hold it against Butcher for doing something that I did as well, even though he did it far more often and to greater extremes. But nonetheless, I still found it pretty annoying. And considering the sexual tension also mounting between us, I was starting to get a little frustrated.
I relegated to the fact that there was very little I could do about Butcher’s business-related phone habits. I could either accept them and move on, or try to do something about it. I took the easier route, of course, and opted for the former. But when it came to addressing my sexual concerns, rest assured, I chose the latter.
When Butcher called me a few days ago to discuss our dinner plans for that evening, I suggested that, instead of going out, we stay in and have something delivered.
“We can hang out, have some pizza and beers, maybe watch a movie,” I said. “And if it gets too late, you can just spend the night.”
I hadn’t come right out and said it, but Butcher knew what I was getting at, and he eagerly agreed to the change in plans.
Butcher showed up at my apartment that night with a twelve-pack of Miller Lite bottles and what appeared to be a semi-hard-on. We sat down on my couch and examined a few different take-out menus I had on hand and eventually decided to order a large New-York-style pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni. We also added on a dozen hot wings, an order of curly fries, and another twelve-pack of Miller Lite. (We’d each downed two as we perused the menus, and the night had only just begun.)
I’d barely finished placing our order and just hung up the phone, when Butcher put his arm around me. With that move, a dance of sorts was set into motion, and before I knew it, Butcher and I were pressed up against each other, kissing, purring, and pawing away at each other like animals.
It was the first time we’d been alone since the last time we’d been together, some three weeks ago, and we were definitely making up for lost time. We couldn’t keep our hands, mouths, or other body parts off of each other, and we both acted with a relentless passion that, although hurried, was not rushed. We just couldn’t wait to have each other and—for lack of a better word—had a “quickie” right there on the couch as we waited for the food to arrive.
I came. Butcher came. Then the food came. And a short while later, Butcher and I made our way back to my bedroom to repeat the more intimate parts of the process. This time, however, we took our time and were more attentive and considerate to each other.
After we were done with Round Two, Butcher and I cuddled for a bit and made a few jokes about how “good things come to those who wait.” Our pillow talk tapered off, and I was
just about to drift off to sleep, when I felt Butcher move and pull away from me a little.
“Everything okay?” I mumbled, as I rubbed my fingers against my tired eyes.
Butcher was sitting up on the edge of the bed now, fumbling with the pile of clothes near his feet.
“I have to get going,” he said.
“What?” I asked, caught off guard.
“I have to leave now,” he replied, providing no new information.
I sat up in bed and watched as he got dressed.
“There’s something I have to take care of tonight,” he explained. “I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t want to spoil the mood.”
I felt a coldness creep over my body, and I tugged at my blanket.
“So, it’s wham, bam, thank you ma’am?” I asked, trying to fight back tears.
“Lexi,” Butcher said, staring down at me. “It’s not like that. I just have to take care of some business.”
I turned my face away from Butcher’s. I didn’t want him to see my eyes, in case I did start crying.
“Fine,” I replied.
Butcher could tell that I was upset. He sat down on the bed again, reached out, and put his hand on the back of my neck.
“As far as I knew,” he said in a soft voice, “we were still taking things slow. When you changed our plans earlier today, I was all for it, but I’d already committed to something else in the meantime, and I couldn’t get out of it on such short notice.”
I turned and looked at Butcher again. He had a point. He was right. I had changed our plans rather abruptly, and I didn’t even think about how that might affect his. It was completely understandable that he’d make business plans if he still thought we were taking things slow; it made sense that, had he made such plans, he might not be able to change them as easily as I changed ours.
Butcher reached his other hand to my face and wiped away a stray tear. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said sweetly. “Next time we go out, I’m all yours. I’ll spend the night here with you, and we’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms… I promise.”
“Okay,” I said, placing my hand on top of Butcher’s. He leaned in and kissed me gently.
“Until then,” he said as he pulled back and rose to his feet again. He shoved one foot into a boot, then the other.
“Until then,” I repeated, bowing my head as he walked out of my room.
Chapter 21
~ Lexi ~
Butcher had promised me that the next time we went out, he’d spend the night. He’d be all mine, he told me. “We’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms,” he’d said.
Promises made are promises broken. The next time we went out, some of those things happened, some of them did not, and we ended up having that big fight, where I kicked him out of my apartment and we broke up.
The night started out fine by all accounts and measures. It was a Friday night, and Butcher and I had agreed to meet at Tellie’s around six thirty after I was done with work. We both arrived there promptly, without any unnecessary delay or distraction, and in no time, we were enjoying our Miller Lite bottles and burgers with ketchup, pickles, and onions.
At the end of our meal, Carrie was able to convince us to order dessert, and in hindsight, I can say that was probably the high point of our evening. Butcher and I decided to split a piece of peach pie á la mode, which was topped with the fresh, locally hand-churned ice cream she’d told me about on my first visit.
The peach pie á la mode was… the bomb! There’s no other way to describe it.
Once we were done with dessert, Butcher and I chatted with Carrie for a few minutes, then left. The ride from Tellie’s to my place was just as invigorating as my other rides with Butcher had been, and just as uneventful.
We arrived at my apartment around nine. There were still plenty of beers left over from our at-home date the other night, so I offered Butcher one, and of course, he accepted. I told him to make himself comfortable and went to the kitchen to grab two beers. I cracked them open, took them into the living room, and set them down on the coffee table.
Butcher grabbed one and took a chug, then patted the spot next to him on the sofa.
“Give me a minute,” I said, shaking my head playfully. “I had a long day at work and wanna change out of these clothes, maybe freshen up a little.”
Butcher smirked and gave me a look that suggested he found my choices moot, if not futile.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “Be right back,” I told him.
I went off to my room, got a change of clothes, and headed to the bathroom to “freshen up.” I only spent a few minutes in there—maybe ten minutes max—and emerged a rejuvenated woman, ready for action.
But when I walked into the living room, Butcher wasn’t there.
I went to the kitchen.
He wasn’t there either.
What the fuck? I thought to myself.
I went back to the living room to better inspect the scene. Butcher’s jacket was still on the couch, and his beer was still on the coffee table—and still about fifty percent full.
“Butcher?” I called out, eyeing every visible corner of my apartment. I didn’t know if I should be terrified or wait for the punchline. I felt like I was either in a horror movie or on Candid Camera.
No sooner than I spoke, I noticed that my apartment door was cracked open, just a smidge, and I slowly, cautiously walked towards it.
Just as I got within an arm’s reach, the door swung open and almost hit me. I jumped back, gasped, jolted, and threw my hand on my chest above my heart.
“Hey,” Butcher said, walking into my apartment ever-so nonchalantly. When he saw my reaction, his expression changed to one of concern flecked with amusement. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out his arm to steady me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He moved closer to me and embraced me, and as I buried my face in his neck, I swear, I heard muted laughter, which made me sigh and giggle. I admit it: I must’ve looked pretty funny, reacting the way that I did.
I pulled back from Butcher and shook my head at him, and we both turned and walked back to the sofa.
“What was that all about anyway?” I asked, picking up my beer.
“I got a call,” Butcher answered, picking up his as well. “Business.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically after taking a sip. “Let me guess… You have to leave now?”
“No, no,” Butcher said in a cajoling tone. “I told you; I’m all yours tonight. I’m not going anywhere. I just had to take that call. Business is business, ya know… Sorry.”
Butcher took a long drag of beer, then another. And I, as usual, overlooked his social transgression and went about the rest of our night as if the disruptive phone call never happened.
Butcher and I sat and talked for a while and each drained a few more bottles. I was feeling a little tipsy, though not quite drunk yet, and the alcohol had started to lower my inhibitions a bit.
When we each finished our bottles, I went to the kitchen to get us each another. But when I saw what was in my fridge, I came up with a better idea.
I shut the refrigerator door and returned to the living room emptyhanded. “There’re only two beers left,” I said with a frown.
Butcher looked at me expectantly.
“I figured we might wanna save them for after,” I added, turning my frown upside down.
“After?” Butcher asked, raising his eyebrow. “After what?”
“After we’re done back here,” I said, as I turned and walked toward my bedroom. “I’m guessing we’re both gonna break a sweat and get a little thirsty.”
I heard Butcher grunt a laugh, then heard the sound of him following me down the short hallway. I kept my sights focused on the door ahead of me and didn’t turn back to look at him. But soon enough, I felt him.
Butcher came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my body just as I walked into my room. We hadn’t even made it past the doorframe, when he leaned down and start
ed kissing my neck. I felt his hands move up to cup my breasts, and I instinctively arched my back, pressing my ass firmly against his swollen member.
Still embracing each other, Butcher and I meandered forward a bit, until, at some point, he spun me around, took hold of me, and pulled me closer to him. We were face-to-face, and mouth-to-mouth, holding each other, touching each other, and stumbling ever closer to the bed.
I fell on the bed in a thump and slid up the bed, into a more accommodating positon. A moment later, Butcher was on top of me, and his hands were exploring my body.
Butcher leaned back to remove his shirt, and I followed suit and removed mine.
“Mmm,” Butcher moaned, as he eyed my chest wantonly. “Keep this on. I like it.”
He was referring to the new bra I’d purchased the other day. It wasn’t necessarily my regular style, and I got it specifically to entice him, which, obviously, it did. It was beige satin balconette with an intricate black lace overlay, and it had a very burlesque look and feel to it.
Butcher buried his face between my satin and lace and kissed, sucked, and licked at my breasts. I writhed beneath him, throbbing from his touch.
“Do the panties match?” he asked, raising his head from my chest and looking longingly down my body.
I laughed and ran my hands down Butcher’s chest, then slid them to my own waist.
“Who said I was wearing panties?” I asked impishly, as I started to pull down my pants.
Butcher groaned and swiftly lowered his body, so that his face was between my legs. He grabbed hold of my pants and finished removing them for me—and as he was still pulling them off, he dove right in and started going to town on my pussy.
He didn’t take the time to tease, taunt, or tempt me. He went straight for my most sensitive spots and started working on them with fervor; and, in no time, I felt myself on the brink of a blissful explosion.
Before I could explode, however, Butcher stopped licking. He stopped sucking. He stropped flicking, twirling, and rubbing. He pulled his face away from me and repositioned his body, effortlessly taking off his pants as he did.
BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) Page 10
