Page 39 of Z For Butterfly Man
She tilts her head back. Her expression is everything I’ve hoped for and more. The widening of her gaze when she sees the mirror I installed while she slept. The horror that crosses her features, the shame, the anger. They’re nothing but a camouflage that hides what she really feels.
The thrill of excitement.
The ceiling-mounted mirror is angled perfectly so she can see herself. Naked. Strapped. Pinned. Spread open and completely helpless under my mercy.
I don’t need to dip a finger in her pussy to feel how wet she’s become. Her secret is already spilling down her inner thigh. My horny little slut.
“I want you to watch.” I place the rose against her clit. The pulsing jerks her whole body. “I want you to see how beautiful you are when you’re honest.”
“No—please—”
“Who is Mason?” I keep the pressure steady. Her hips try to twist away, but there’s nowhere to go.
Nothing comes out of her pretty mouth but gasps and moans.
I increase the intensity. “Let’s try an easier question. Who gave you your first kiss, Reagan?”
She writhes. Her back arches off the table. The pins stab deeper in her flesh, and she screams again. “I—I can’t—”
“Who gave you your first orgasm? Was it Shane? Was it Mason? Some other man you’re protecting in that beautiful, twisted head of yours?”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Look at yourself, Reagan. Watch what I do to you. Watch how your body responds to me even when you wish it wouldn’t.”
“Stop.”
“Is that what you really want?”
Her panting catches. Flush spreads down her chest. Her toes curl. A tremor builds in her thighs.
I remove the rose.
“Jesus fuck,” she breathes shakily.
“First kiss. First orgasm. Tell me.”
“I don’t understand. You already know. Why are you asking these things? Why are you digging up the past I want nothing but to forget?”
“What do I know, Reagan? That you’ve only been with two men, two husbands, Shane Fletcher and Blake Abel?”
“Yes.”
The answer is too fast. No thought or effort put behind it. Like the truth. I circle her in slow steps, once, twice, three times, studying her body language, her expression, learning her tells.Then I stand behind her, gazing into her unwavering blues, and realize the truth.
I switch off the heater.
Her teeth clench. “No, no. Why did you do that? I answered your question.”
“You don’t have a tell.”
“What?”
“You have a tell when you’re angry, when you’re horny, when you try to hide your tears, but you don’t have one when you lie, darling.”
“I’m not lying. Why can you not believe me?”
I stand at her feet and use the toy on her pussy again until she’s on the edge. “Who gave you your first kiss, Reagan?”
