Dazed, I made my way back up to the ground floor. My stride quickened with every step. I stumbled outside and started to run. But even as my sneakers smacked against the concrete, I knew I couldn’t outrun Frost or my own inevitable, chilly fate.
* * *
My days fell into a pattern. I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon doing research, searching for the slightest clue that would tell me who Striker and Malefica really were. I went to the latest society bash at night, wrote my story, and left. More often than not, Striker popped up outside The Exposé and walked me home. He never said much, but he was always there, watching me.
I didn’t know whether to be frightened or flattered. I strained to hear his silent footsteps, peered into the shadows hoping to get the smallest glimpse of him, breathed in the night air in hopes of catching a trace of his musky scent. It was pathetic, but I could no more stop myself from searching for Striker than I could quit breathing.
And I always knew when he was around. My inner voice slyly whispered his presence to me. An electric current surged through my body, and I felt all warm and tingly inside. When I’d finally spot him, well, my hormones kicked into overdrive. It was all I could do to suppress the urge to drag him into the shadows and kiss him senseless.
But I could never, ever do that. I could never have Striker. I could never even do anything as simple as be his friend.
Every time I looked at Striker, I could see the pain of Tornado’s loss in his silvery eyes. Striker’s grief, his sorrow, radiated off him. It intensified my own guilt and shame.
Every day, I told myself there could never be anything between Striker and me.
Never.
But oh, how I wanted there to be.
* * *
One night about two weeks after our initial meeting, a cool breeze kissed my back while I worked in the kitchen. Electricity charged the air, and my stomach tightened.
“Hello, Striker.”
I stirred the pasta salad I was whipping up for dinner. I’d left work early for a change and hadn’t seen Striker on my way home. I’d been planning to drown my disappointment in a bowlful of carbs. A poor substitute, I know.
“How do you always know it’s me? I could be a burglar.”
I stared at the superhero, who leaned against the refrigerator. “Well, I don’t have any other superheroes stalking me. At least, not yet. Besides, a burglar could never be as quiet as you are.”
“And yet you always know when I’m here.”
I wasn’t about to tell Striker about my inner voice, my gut instincts. He’d just laugh. He had real superpowers, not strange, imaginary twinges like mine. As I stirred the pasta salad, Striker’s gray eyes traced my body. I gripped the spoon tighter to keep from shivering.
More than once, I’d wondered what Striker thought about me. Why he kept coming back to see me. Whether he felt anything at all toward me. Sometimes, I almost thought I saw a shimmer, a faint spark of desire in his eyes when I neared him. But that was just my wishful, sex-starved imagination.
It had to be. Striker could never want somebody like me. Somebody so out of his league. Somebody so unworthy.
I dumped the pasta in a bowl and turned around. Striker stood between me and the kitchen table. I hesitated. I didn’t want to get within arm’s reach of him. Didn’t want to get close enough to see the blue flecks in his silvery eyes. Didn’t want to smell him. Didn’t want to feel his hot breath on my cheek. I would only be tormented that much more by my attraction to him—and the complete hopelessness of it.
But this was my apartment, not his. It was bad enough Striker waltzed in whenever he wanted, and I did nothing to discourage him. I wouldn’t let him dictate where I walked too. I squared my shoulders and stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” I said.
Striker moved back a fraction of an inch. I squeezed by, so close that I brushed up against his tall form. The brief contact made me hum and spark deep down inside, like a live wire ripped free from its power source. All my previous intentions to keep my distance burned away. I longed to reach out and touch Striker, to see if his chest was as hard and muscled as it looked, to see if he was really here, and not some figment of my feverish, overactive imagination.
I dropped the bowl onto the table and sank into my chair. I grabbed my glass of water and downed half of it in one gulp. My hand shook.
It took me a moment, but I composed myself. I pointed to the chair across from me. “Sit down. Have some food. I made plenty. Too much just for me.”
Striker eyed the pasta with suspicion.
“Oh, it’s not drugged or poisoned or whatever you think.” I stabbed a bite of the creamy salad with my fork, chewed, and swallowed. “See? I haven’t keeled over yet.”
Striker hesitated, then dropped into the other chair. I dished us up some pasta. A roll of crusty French bread and sharp cheddar cheese completed the meal. We ate in silence. I kept my eyes fixed on my food so I wouldn’t stare at Striker like a schoolgirl with a movie star crush.
“This is really good.” Striker helped himself to some more food.
“You sound surprised.”
Striker shrugged. “It’s a nice surprise. You don’t strike me as a woman who likes to cook.”
I smiled. The backhanded compliment pleased me. But then, I scowled. Why did I care what Striker thought of me? Why did I listen for his footsteps? Why did his mere presence affect me so? It had to be the costume. I’d always been a sucker for guys in black leather jackets. A superhero suit wasn’t much different. It was just bigger. And tighter. And filled out a lot better—
I chugged down the rest of my water. We finished our meal. I gathered up the dishes and dumped them in the sink. Striker leaned against the refrigerator as usual. I turned to face him.
“So, now that I’ve fed you, want to take off your mask for me?” I asked the question every time I saw him.
“No.”
Unfortunately, the answer was always the same.
“I’m going to find out who you are eventually. You could save me a lot of trouble. Not to mention all the money I’ve been spending on highlighters and photocopies and sticky pads.”
Striker stared at me, his gray eyes dark and hooded.
“Why do you do it, anyway?” I blurted out. It was the one question I’d never been able to puzzle out the answer to, despite all my superhero and ubervillain exposés.
“Do what?”
I gestured at him. “The whole superhero thing. Fighting evil, battling ubervillains, the whole shebang. It’s not like you get paid to put yourself in danger.”
Striker looked at me as though the answer was self-explanatory. “I have a gift, powers I can use to help others, powers I can use for good. It’s a calling for me. It’s something I have to do.”
“But why hide your true identity if what you do is so noble? Why wear the mask and the costume?”
“A secret identity is the only way superheroes can exist, the only way we can lead any semblance of a normal life. I don’t fight evil all the time, you know. I have other interests and hobbies and responsibilities. If we didn’t wear masks and costumes, people would never leave us alone. They’d want us to help them with everything. We’d never get any work done. Not to mention the fact that ubervillains could pick us off one by one.” Striker’s voice was cold and hard.
“But what about your friends and family? Why hide what you do from them?”
His lips tightened. “Because if they were ever captured by an enemy, they could be forced to reveal my true identity.”
“But don’t they have a right to know? You put them in danger just by doing what you do. Maybe if they knew, they could take better care of themselves and you.” I persisted with my questions, even though I was antagonizing the superhero. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted answers. Wanted satisfaction. That, and I wanted him.
Striker crossed his arms over his lean chest. “Really? Like the way you took care of the Machinator?”
I froze.
“Oh yes. I read your story about your would-be wedding. How you caught your fiancé cheating with your best friend, how you discovered their alter egos, how you exposed them. Tell me, Carmen. Why do you do what you do? Are you trying to punish every superhero for your fiancé’s infidelity? Does his betrayal still hurt that much?”
My mouth dropped open. How dare he! How dare Striker question my motives. I wasn’t the one who crept around in the shadows. I wasn’t the one parading around in skintight black leather. I wasn’t the one hiding myself from the world.
Rage and hurt bubbled up inside me. Needles pricked the pieces of my broken heart. My arm jerked forward, and I slapped Striker. The crack roared like thunder in the small kitchen. My hand left a red welt on his exposed cheek. In seconds, it faded away, as though I had never even hit him. The sight only fueled my anger.
“I forgot. You regenerate. Neat trick. I guess I’ll just have to hit you harder.”
I raised my hand to hit him again. Striker grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. His breath brushed my flushed face. My breasts flattened against his supple leather suit, and my body hummed at the touch. I stared up into his masked face. Striker’s silver eyes glowed in the faint light. Hot, blue sparks glittered in the depths of his hypnotic eyes.
My inner voice shouted a warning. For once in my life, I ignored it.
I pressed my lips to his.
Striker stilled, as shocked by my action as I was. He started to pull back. I wrapped my arms around his neck and drew him closer. He wasn’t walking away from me. Striker wasn’t disappearing into the shadows. I wasn’t letting the superhero slip through my fingers.
Not tonight.
His lips opened as if to say something. My tongue plunged inside his hot, moist mouth. Teasing. Testing. Tempting.
Striker’s hands wavered in the air like a drowning man debating on whether to reach for a life preserver. The sane thing, the safe thing, would have been to stop. To end the kiss. To step back. But I didn’t want to be sane tonight. I wanted Striker to drown. In me. With me.
I continued my exploration of his mouth. My tongue slid across his teeth. I nibbled the corner of his lips and trailed soft kisses down his neck. Striker’s hands settled on my back. He growled and yanked me to him.
Our lips melded together. Our tongues dipped and darted and dodged, finding each other time and time again. Striker’s hands settled on my waist, pulling my hips toward his. Mine roamed over his slick leather suit. The material felt as smooth as silk under my frantic fingers. Striker’s erection burned against my thigh. He wanted me just as much as I wanted him. Good.
My anger and frustration and confusion melted into a tidal wave of hot, liquid desire. We spun around and around in the kitchen. Tasting, caressing, driving each other mad. Dishes shattered on the floor. Chairs flipped over. Food spilled everywhere.
The air sparked and snapped between us. Electricity hummed through my body, burning me from the inside out. I’d been jolted out of the half-alive state I’d been trapped in for so long. Everything felt more vivid, more intense, and far more pleasurable.
We stumbled into the living room and fell onto the sofa. Striker’s gloved hands roamed over my body.
“Not enough,” he muttered. “Not nearly enough.”
He ripped off one glove with his teeth. The other followed. Striker lifted my T-shirt over my head. My bra unsnapped with a whisper. The shock of his bare hands on my body heightened my desire. I ached for him. Striker’s warm, sure hands stroked my taut breasts, cupping them, circling my stiff nipples. I arched my back in pleasure. He dipped his head. Striker’s wet tongue trailed down my breastbone, and he closed his mouth over my nipple. I gasped.
He ran his tongue round and round my nipple while his hands moved down my body. My jeans popped open. With sure, hot strokes, Striker trailed his hand into my underwear. I opened my legs, and he dipped his finger inside me. Wave after wave of pleasure cascaded through me. I was drowning in a waterfall of sensations. I shuddered and cried out.
“Better,” Striker murmured in a hoarse, husky voice. “Much, much better.”
I thrashed on the sofa. A whimper escaped my throat. I wanted to touch him like he was touching me. Pleasure him as he was pleasuring me. My fingers clawed at the slick leather, seeking some sort of entry. Somehow, I found a zipper, yanked it open, and shoved my hand inside. Striker’s flesh was as warm and solid as I’d dreamed. More so. My fingers trailed down his sculpted abdomen, past his navel. I took him in my hand, stroking him. That, too, was just as hard and solid as I’d thought it would be. Striker’s breath quickened.
“Carmen,” he murmured in my ear. Raw need filled his rich, deep voice. “Carmen.”
The pressure inside me reached a fevered peak. It needed to be released. Now. I lifted my hips off the sofa. Striker slid my jeans down. My panties followed. I yanked on the bottom half of his suit, exposing his erection.
I crossed my legs around his waist. He slid inside me, filling me.
Our eyes locked.
“Striker,” I whispered. “Striker.”
Slowly, we moved together. We rocked back and forth. Every thrust went deeper. Every thrust pulled me under even more. I was caught in an undertow I couldn’t escape. One I didn’t want to escape.
Striker kissed my neck. I ran my hands up and down his back. Our strokes grew quicker, faster, surer. Desire had swallowed us both whole.
* * *
Oh. My. God.
That single thought kept running through my head the next morning. Somehow, after making frenzied love to Striker, I’d drifted off to sleep. In the middle of the night, I’d woken up on the sofa, with a blanket covering my naked body. The only thing I’d still had on were my socks. Striker, of course, was long gone. He’d even shut the window on his way out. How considerate of him. I wondered if he treated all of his late-night conquests with such respect.
Now, I sat on the sofa, the blanket still wrapped around me. Early morning sunlight peeked in through the windows, illuminating my apartment and the colossal mess I’d made of my life.
What had I done? What the hell had I been thinking?
I hadn’t been thinking. I’d ignored my inner voice, and to my utter shame and mortification, I’d had sex with a superhero. And not just any superhero. Striker. The superhero whose identity I was trying to uncover. The superhero who had every reason to hate me.
I groaned.
I wasn’t the sort of woman who slept around. I’d had only a few lovers—my college boyfriends, Matt, and Striker. I’d dated Matt for almost a year before we’d had sex. Yet somehow, I’d slept with Striker after knowing him only a few weeks. And I didn’t even know the real him. He was just a guy in a leather costume and a mask who followed me around and broke into my apartment on a regular basis. How kinky was that? I had no idea who he was. He could be married for all I knew. I smacked my hand against my forehead. Adultery. I didn’t need to add that to my list of sins. My karma was already black enough.
But the worst part was I couldn’t get Striker out of my mind. I could still feel his lips on mine. Still feel his hands caressing my body. Still feel him moving deep inside me. It made me want him all over again. I felt warm and squishy inside just thinking about him. If Striker were to slide through my window right now, I’d welcome him with open arms. Hell, I’d probably pounce on the poor man and demand he pleasure me again and again and again. I buried my nose in the blanket. It smelled like him. Musky, manly, sexy. I sighed.
Sex with Matt had been good. Sex with Striker the superhero had been, well, super. All right. Better than super. Fantastic. Amazing. Earth-shattering. Everything I’d ever dreamed of and more.
But there was more to it than sex. I’d felt safe in Striker’s arms. Completely safe. And even cared for. That thought, the need for it to be true, rattled me. Striker had stirred up emotions I thought I’d buried for good after the brutal breakup with Matt.
Snap out of it, Carmen! So what if I had sex with Striker? It
didn’t mean anything. According to all the articles I’d read, superheroes sleeping with people they’d saved wasn’t uncommon. Some of them even got off on having anonymous sex with strangers. On the flip side, there was a whole cult of people called Slaves for Superhero Sex who put themselves in danger just so they could get rescued and make time with a superhero.
At least I wasn’t that far gone.
Yet.
Besides, it wasn’t like Striker and I could ever have a real relationship. There was too much bad karma between us. He was a superhero, and I was a nosy reporter. The two just didn’t mix, no matter how much chemistry we might have.
And did we have chemistry. I’d been so hot for Striker I thought I might spontaneously combust. Judging by the way he’d called out my name, Striker had had just as good a time as me. At least, I hoped so.
I shook my head to clear away my charged thoughts. I’d chalk up last night to a temporary bout of insanity and the fact that I hadn’t had sex in more than three years. Maybe the drug Frost had knocked me out with had some sort of weird pheromones in it. Maybe that’s why I was so attracted to Striker. Or maybe the superhero sprayed his costume with some woman-attracting musk that made him irresistible to the opposite sex. My weak excuses did little to comfort me, but they were all that I had.
At least I was on the pill, so I didn’t have to worry about getting knocked up by the superhero. How embarrassing would that be? Unless, of course, Striker had some sort of weird, superstrong sperm that could thwart any attempts to counteract it. Were supercharged sex organs part of being a superhero? I’d seen some sort of journal article on superhero-and-ubervillain reproduction during my research, but I couldn’t remember the details.
My inner voice chattered, and another alarming thought popped into my mind.
What if Striker had been wearing an earpiece, as he did so many nights when he dropped in? The other members of the Fearless Five could have heard every word, every sound, every moan and cry of pleasure. They could even be dissecting our night of passion at this very moment.
My cheeks flamed. I buried my face in my hands.
The Bigtime Series (Bigtime superhero series, e-bundle) Page 10
