Butterfly

by Jo Brenner

But this little slip of a thing caught my attention and held it like no one ever had. And even though I was only eighteen, I already knew no one would ever captivate me the way she did. I wanted her. I would have her.

Some people pinned butterflies to keep them close. I was going to make this one fly far, far away. After all, she was the most beautiful girl I’d seen in my entire life. I wanted her more than I wanted anything. And I hated her for it.

“Mason, what are you doing?” God, my voice sounded breathy. “I don’t know,” he admitted, finally releasing me. “But I recommend you stay away from me before things get even more out of hand.” I should’ve listened to him.

“You still don’t get it, butterfly. You made my life hell because I couldn’t have you. Not when we were both under our parents’ roof. But I’m done with that. I’m taking what’s mine.”

And she’d given as good as she got,

Come on Jo, this phrase is repetitive

See? Complete sociopath. And yeah, it takes one to know one.

I didn’t think I was at the same sociopathic levels as Jack Feldman, but I also didn’t feel any guilt over what I’d done, and that was more than mildly concerning. Still, I had zero regrets—not after fucking Leslie for hours, and certainly not now, with her safely asleep in my arms.

“That’s not fair,’ she protested. “You like, made me imprint on you, or some shit.” “Huh?” “Never mind, it’s a Twilight thing,” she grumbled. I brushed that shit off. Bella should’ve picked the werewolf kid, anyway.

I ignored the text, focusing on what Professor Evans was saying about The Scarlet Letter—specifically the way female desire was both demonized, and how women were equally infantilized and vilified when it came to sex…at least in the book. I knew something about that, didn’t I? I’d had no agency the other night, and I felt vilified for how much I wanted Mason. Although, who was vilifying me? Mason certainly wasn’t …In fact, he’d done the opposite: taking responsibility for what had happened the night he drugged me, demanding I not shame myself for wanting him or for what was happening between us. I was vilifying myself.

It smelled like Mason: like ocean spray and oranges and danger. The smell instantly calmed me, even as it aroused me.