Butterfly (12 page)

Phillip felt Seneca go pliant in his arms. She was his, his for the taking. At that point he knew he could do anything to her that he wanted to do. But he didn’t, only because of her sexual inexperience. Although she’d admitted to sleeping with one man, he still thought of her as a virgin. What, he mused, could she have learned from an insensitive and no doubt bumbling adolescent boy?

His first sexual encounter was at sixteen, when an older and very experienced woman offered to “make him feel good.” She did, and then the tables were turned when he was the one who’d made her feel good. She was an incredible teacher and he a willing and apt student. Phillip continued to sleep with her until he left for college, and whenever he returned for school breaks he sought her out. It ended when she left L.A. to marry a man who lived in Florida. Her send-off gift was to keep him in bed for three days. When he was finally able to escape, his penis, despite his wearing a condom, felt as if it had been put through a meat grinder.

The one thing his sexual mentor had taught him, and he never forgot, was to make certain a woman was satisfied before he was. Phillip found meditating helped him to focus—spiritually and physically. However, upon awakening to discover that he’d had a wet dream had left him baffled
and
uneasy, because he feared losing control with Seneca.

“Come on, baby, let’s sit down,” he urged, as much for his benefit as hers.

Seneca held on to Phillip as if he were her lifeline when he eased her into the warm, swirling water to sit between his legs. “Aaagh! That feels wonderful.”

Phillip emitted a low moan. The water felt good, his hands splayed over Seneca’s flat belly felt good, and his semierect penis bobbing up and down against her hips felt very, very good.

“Are you okay?” Seneca asked.

He moaned again. “I’ve never been better.”

Turning her head, she stared out the window above the marble ledge with a vase of fresh flowers and candles in varying heights and shapes. Phillip had slid back the privacy screen. The sky was awash with streaks of blue and orange as the sun sunk lower in the horizon.

“If I lived here I’d turn off the light, light candles and sit in the tub to watch the sun set.” Her voice was pregnant with longing.

Phillip traced the outline of her ear with his tongue. “That can be arranged.”

She closed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Move in with me.”

Seneca’s eyes opened, shifting slightly to stare over her shoulder at Phillip. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

His expression was unreadable. “No, I’m not. You can have your own suite.”

“What about your parents?” she asked.

“I’ll put them up in another suite. Besides, they don’t come to New York that often.”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m comfortable living where I am.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent.”

Shifting until she was facing Phillip, Seneca straddled him, her arms going around his neck. “Do you invite every woman you sleep with to live with you?”

Staring at her under lowered lids, Phillip smiled at the woman who’d become in his estimation the epitome of perfection. “No.”

“Then why me, Phillip?”

He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “I haven’t slept with you. Sharing a bed doesn’t count,” he said when she opened her mouth to refute him.

“All right,” Seneca conceded, “let me rephrase my question. You’ve just met me, in fact know nothing more about me than what I’ve told you, yet you want me to live with you.”

Phillip mentally shifted gears. He
had
to hook up with Seneca Houston before she became the supermodel Booth had promised to make her into. And knowing Booth Gordon as
well as he did, there was little doubt the reincarnated Svengali/Rasputin clone would make Butterfly one of the most sought-out high-fashion models in the world.

“It would work well if we’re going to be a couple.”

“What about Electra?”

“What about her, Seneca?” he asked, answering her question with another one.

“I’m committed to half the rent.”

“I’ll pay her for you.”

Again, Seneca felt a flicker of apprehension course through her. She couldn’t wrap her head around someone like Phillip Kingston pursuing her like a large cat stalking prey. She had barely walked into Booth’s condo when he’d approached her. Men who looked like Phillip and earned millions a year usually didn’t do the chasing but were chased by women plotting and scheming to get them into bed with them, regardless whether their ulterior motive was sex, marriage or a baby—of which she wanted none. No, she corrected—she didn’t want sex as much as she needed it. “Can you slow it down a little, Phillip?” she asked. “Let’s give ourselves the summer to see if we’re able to get along with each other. It’s one thing to play to the camera and another once we go home and close the door.”

The tense lines in Phillip’s face relaxed. He knew he was coming on strong, but he’d hoped Seneca would jump at his offer. She would have her own suite, and he would leave it to her discretion whether she wanted to sleep with him. What he’d wanted to do was to make her unavailable for other men.

“Do you want to set a date?”

“How about Labor Day?”

He smiled. “That sounds reasonable. By that time I’ll have to report for preseason practice.”

Seneca pressed her breasts to his muscled chest. “I think we’ll get along well if you don’t put too much pressure on me.”

Phillip’s smile grew wider. He splayed his hands over her back, pulling her closer. “I know you’ll stop me if I do.”

Burying her face between his neck and shoulder, Seneca closed her eyes. “You can count on that.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?”

“No. What is it?”

“How did you get that Charlie Chaplin mustache on your beaver patch?”

She eased back, her gaze meeting and fusing with an amused one that sent a rush of heat across her face. Her mouth opened and closed several times. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that!”

His eyebrows lifted. “I did ask your permission.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

Seneca swallowed back her embarrassment. “I had it threaded.”

Lines deepened around Phillip’s eyes when he laughed. “You have your pussy threaded?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I have my pubic area threaded. Whenever I model lingerie or swimwear I can’t have any superfluous body hair. The first time I tried waxing I ended up with a reaction. And shaving leaves little bumps, so I went the threading route.”

Phillip’s fingers grazed her mound. “I think it’s cute. Scoot down so I can massage your legs.”

He’d told her he wanted to massage her legs when it was another part of her body he wanted to touch. Seneca had asked that he slow down his pursuit of her, and he would. She wasn’t going anywhere and neither was he. His one consolation was her revelation that her sexual urges were strong enough for her to resort to masturbating.

Now all he had to do was wait, wait for her to come to him to take care of her sexual needs. One of his favorite Seal songs was “Waiting for You.” He hadn’t realized the significance of the lyrics until he met Seneca Houston.

S
eneca woke Saturday morning disoriented. She wasn’t in her bed, she wore a T-shirt instead of pajamas or a nightgown, and it wasn’t until she sat up to see the drawn drapes that was she aware of her surroundings. She wasn’t in her own bedroom in the Upper West Side brownstone but in Phillip’s hotel suite. Closing her eyes, she remembered drinking the second glass of wine but didn’t remember going to bed.

Dinner the night before had been nothing short of perfection. Phillip had ordered room service, and the chef had prepared the dishes while they’d looked on; a waiter stood at the ready to take care of all their dining needs. He had refilled their water goblets and wineglasses and picked up and set down each course with expert precision. Once the chef and waiter left, she and Phillip lay on the chaise, staring out the window talking and listening to music. After a while, the effects of the wine won out and she fell asleep.

Throwing off the sheet, she walked on unsteady legs to the
bathroom. Despite spending time in the Jacuzzi and Phillip’s massage, the muscles in her calves were still somewhat tight.

Seneca brushed her teeth, followed by rinsing her mouth with a peppermint mouthwash, then stepped into the shower stall. The shower had become the magic cure. She felt almost normal. Damp curls hung around her face as she pulled on a set of underwear and a pair of lounging pants with an oversize T-shirt.

Opening the drapes, she discovered she couldn’t see through the thick fog obscuring the harbor. It was one of those days she always referred to as “pea soup weather.” The time on her cell phone read 8:17 a.m. She checked her home phone for messages. Stefani still hadn’t called her. It had become apparent that her cousin had changed her mind about leaving the salon.

“I need water,” she murmured under her breath. Not only did she need water but lots of it to offset the effects of the wine she’d drunk and also the slight puffiness under her eyes. If she was going to be photographed the following day, she didn’t want the makeup artist to apply layers of foundation and concealer to correct the imperfections. Adequate sleep and remaining hydrated were the cure to a model’s overall physical well-being. Opening the mini bar, she took out a bottle of water. She finished the bottle, temporarily assuaging her thirst. Not bothering to put on shoes, Seneca went in search of Phillip.

She found him in the living room, lounging on a chaise in a T-shirt and shorts, bare feet crossed at the ankles, reading the newspaper. “Good morning.”

Phillip’s head popped up when he heard the dulcet voice. Sitting up straight, he swung his legs over the chaise with Seneca’s approach, coming to his feet. “Good morning, beautiful. How do you feel?” He extended his arms, and he wasn’t
disappointed when Seneca came into his embrace. He sat down again, bringing her down with him.

“Okay.”

“Why just okay? Didn’t you sleep well? Talk to me, baby.”

Straddling his lap, Seneca pressed her cheek to the column of his thick neck. He smelled of soap and clean laundry as she melted into his protective strength. “I have no tolerance for alcohol.”

“Do you have a hangover?”

“No.”

Phillip buried his face in her damp hair. “Perhaps you should limit yourself to one glass.”

Easing back, she stared up at him through her lashes. “Perhaps I should swear off wine completely.”

He smiled. “You’ll be all right as long as you hang out with me. I’ll always be the designated driver, and if or when you fall asleep on me, I’ll put you to bed.”

She returned his smile. “I’m surprised I didn’t wake up in your bed.”

“You sleeping in my bed would’ve really been too much of a temptation, and I probably would’ve broken my promise not to make love to you until you say yes. After all, you did say you wanted me to date you. But now that I think about it, having dinner here was a date,” he said, as if it were an afterthought.

Seneca smiled. Their walking from Battery Park to Herald Square while stopping en route to have lunch was a date. Sharing dinner in his suite last night was again a date. “Is that what you’re waiting for?” Her voice had lowered seductively. “Are you waiting for me to say yes?”

Phillip slid his hands under her shirt and covered her breasts, discovering that Seneca’s slimness was deceiving. She had
curves where a real woman should have curves. “The answer to both questions is a resounding yes.”

Seneca inhaled sharply, then bit down on her lip when she felt the growing hardness under her hips. The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. She wanted him to make love to her.

“What do you want?” he asked, reading her mind.

“I want you to make love to me.”

The instant the revelation rolled off her tongue Seneca felt as a weight had been lifted. She’d spent two years denying her femininity, but a single glance from Phillip Kingston had left her breathless and the area between her legs moist and pulsing.

“Are you certain that’s what you want, Seneca?” Phillip chided himself when he’d asked the question. He’d spent a week fantasizing about making love to her. She nodded. “You know what this means?”

Her mouth formed a sexy moue. “What
does
it mean?”

Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her soft mouth. “This is about us, not a publicity stunt. It doesn’t matter why you want me to make love to you, but let me warn you that I’m not into playing head games.”

Seneca felt the strong, steady beating of his heart against her breasts and she wondered if he could feel the runaway rhythm of hers. “Why do
you
want to make love to me?”

“Isn’t it obvious, baby? I like you.”

What he didn’t say was that Seneca Houston fit perfectly into his future plans. She was attractive, intelligent, articulate and, more important, she wasn’t needy. He’d found her to be as self-centered as he was. Their careers were first and a relationship secondary.

The truth was, long before he’d met Seneca he’d tired of dating different women, whether it was by mutual consent
or if it was a prearranged publicity stunt. Some of them he’d slept with and some he hadn’t.

He was only twenty-six yet felt years older. Playing professional ball was physical enough, but Booth Gordon’s carefully orchestrated plan to turn him into a sex symbol had become emotionally challenging. Each and every time he slept with a woman he’d run the risk of scandal, which could jeopardize his lucrative contracts—on and off the court. It was a risk he wanted to do away with. His having a relationship with Seneca “Butterfly” Houston would serve as a feeding frenzy for the paparazzi and fodder for the tabloids while turning them into international celebrities.

Seneca’s smile was as tender as a kiss. “I like you, too,” she whispered, curving her arms under his shoulders.

She liked him because she knew she could trust him. He’d admitted he wasn’t one to kiss and tell, and that he couldn’t afford to do anything that would put his basketball career, his endorsements and his future plans to become a physician at risk. Whether Phillip realized it or not,
she
was the one who could make him sorry he’d ever come on to her if he ever did or said anything to jeopardize
her
career.

“I’m not using protection,” she said when he swung her up in his arms and headed in the direction of his bedroom. Seneca couldn’t afford an unplanned pregnancy, and being faced with the decision of terminating a pregnancy was not an option. Her rationale was if she was woman enough to lie with a man, then she was woman enough to deal with the consequences.

“Don’t worry about it, baby. I have condoms.” She didn’t want a baby
and
he couldn’t afford to father a child—not at this time in his life.

Phillip placed her on his unmade bed; she closed her eyes for several seconds, but when she’d opened them she saw that
he’d drawn the drapes. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He sat down on the side of the bed, opening the drawer in the bedside table. With wide eyes, Seneca stared at the small square packet on the pillow next to her head. Her gaze shifted to the muscles rippling in Phillip’s back as he leaned over to remove his shirt and shorts. He turned and loomed over her. A small gasp escaped her when his penis, swaying heavily between his legs, brushed across her belly.

Phillip followed the direction of her gaze. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll try not to hurt you.” He knew he had to make certain Seneca was fully aroused before he penetrated her. “If I do something you don’t like, please let me know.”

Seneca nodded. If she hadn’t been attracted to Phillip, or sexually deprived, she never would’ve asked him to make love to her. Masturbating while viewing a porn flick had become her guilty pleasure. Heat, then chills, swept over her body, bringing with them a rush of wetness in her vagina as she struggled not to move her hips. She was literally gawking at Phillip’s dick as he opened the packet and rolled the latex down his erection.

Inhaling through her nose and breathing out through her mouth, she slowed her breathing until she was back in control. His fingers grazed the hem of her shirt, and he eased it up and over her chest. Her lounging pants and panties quickly followed, as if he’d performed the task countless times.

Supporting his weight on his elbows, Phillip rained feathery kisses down the column of Seneca’s neck, lingering at the rapidly beating pulse in her throat. He caught her hands, threading their fingers together when she reached out to touch him. Her touch was like pouring gasoline on a fire. It would excite him to the point where he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and he would take her without a pretense of foreplay.

His mouth covered her breasts, tongue and teeth, making
the nipples hard as tiny pebbles. Sliding down the length of her smooth, silken body, Phillip inhaled the musky scent wafting from the apex of her thighs. Tentatively, he flicked his tongue over her mound, the tip tracing the small patch of soft hair, ignoring the gasp from Seneca. He didn’t know whether a man had gone down on her; if not, then he wanted to be her first.

“Are you okay with this?” Phillip asked.

His query penetrated the sensual fog pulling Seneca into an abyss she hadn’t known existed. Phillip’s lovemaking was so different from what she’d had with her first lover. Vincent had always kissed her hard, then squeezed her breasts a few times before pushing inside like a battering ram. He pumped like a jackrabbit, came and then collapsed on her, all the while whispering how good she was. It took a while, but she finally told him that he had to slow down so she, too, could climax. He’d stomped off angry, telling her no girl had ever complained about his “fuckin’,” to which she replied that he should go back to those girls.

He’d returned a few days later, apologizing profusely and asking Seneca to give him another chance. She did give him another chance, and Vincent must have heeded her advice, because she’d had her first orgasm. It had also been the last time they’d slept together. The next day Vincent spread the rumor that her best friend gave him better oral sex than she did, and that she’d gone down on a group of guys.

“Yes-s-s,” she stuttered.

It was the last intelligible word she’d uttered when moist heat seared the area between her legs and turned her into a trembling mass of helplessness. The tip of Phillip’s tongue swept over her clitoris in a slow back-and-forth motion, causing her hips to rise off the mattress. The tiny flutters increased in intensity as moisture bathed her labia. Then it
happened—the first orgasm seized Seneca, holding her captive as she arched her back, gasping.

Holding his penis while moving up Seneca’s bucking body, Phillip eased his erection into her vagina at the same time as another orgasm gripped her. She was tight, but because she was so wet it aided his attempt to push inside her.

Fastening his mouth to the side of her neck, he opened his mouth to brand her, then remembered she had a photo shoot the next day. It wouldn’t do for her to show up with love bites on her body. He nuzzled her instead as he counted the number of seconds to penetrate her—inch by each deliciously slow inch. It took nine seconds, and when he was fully sheathed inside her hot, wet body, it was his turn to moan. They were a perfect fit.

Damn, she felt good, better than he’d fantasized. She’d breathed out the last of her climax when he began moving. Her eyes opened, and she smiled the smile of a completely satiated woman.

Bracing himself on his hands as if he were doing push-ups, Phillip stared at his dick moving in and out of her pussy, the sight making him harder, longer. He leaned forward, the motion causing friction against her swollen clit. His head came up, his gaze meeting the stunned stare of the woman beneath him. Her hips had begun to move again, rising to meet his strong thrusts. A knowing smile softened his mouth. He was going to make her come again. And she did. This time the contractions were stronger, Seneca bucking like a wild mare, the walls of her vagina squeezing him like a too-tight rubber band.

Phillip saw her eyes glaze over. He lowered his arms, supporting his greater weight on his elbows as he ejaculated into the condom. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” he chanted like a litany.
“Oh shit!” he finally groaned out, then collapsed heavily on her slight body.

They lay motionless, only the sound of heavy breathing indicating they were still alive.

Seneca recovered first. Phillip was crushing her. “Baby, please get up.”

It took Herculean strength for him to roll off her body. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for his respiration to return to normal. Reaching for her hand, he laced their fingers together. When he’d asked his father why he’d married his mother and not some other woman, Richard Kingston’s response had been, “When you meet the right woman something deep inside of you will let you know she’s the one.”

Phillip let out an audible sigh. His father was right. He’d met the right woman—the one lying beside him. He felt the blood pooling in his groin again, but instead of discarding the condom and putting on a new one, he left the bed to wash off the semen.

When he returned to the bed, he found Seneca lying on her side, asleep. Smiling, he got into bed. It took a while before he was able to relax enough to sleep, but when he did his mind was filled with images of Seneca as his wife and the mother of their children.