Heroine's Journey

by Sarah Kuhn

  “That falls into the area of things that are my business,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Sam, look: ninety percent of this superheroing gig is dangerous. And scary. That’s what I signed up for, what I wanted. If you can’t handle that, don’t come with me when I have a mission. Or, you know, stay in the car.”

  “Because somehow I’m still going to be driving you everywhere for the duration of your tenure as a superhero?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. I was relieved to see a little of his usual challenging vibe creeping back in.

  “Well, yeah,” I said, matching his challenging look with one of my own. “Why else would I keep you around?”

  We stared at each other and now we were back to our usual state, the competitive spark flaring between us.

  “You know,” I said, leaning in closer, “if you are going to insist on hanging out for a bit, why don’t we circle back to a conversation we were having earlier today, before all the craziness started.”

  “Which one is that?” he said. I noticed his eyes were lingering on my mouth.

  I leaned closer still and lightly brushed my fingertips against his throat. He took a sharp breath. “You were making some very interesting claims while we were walking to Kathy Kooper’s booth,” I said. I arched an eyebrow. “You know, when I shared the little fantasy I had last night? I’m curious to find out if they’re true.”

  “I thought you said I was being cheesy,” he said, his eyes never leaving my mouth. His voice had taken on that husky quality that thrilled me deep in my bones. “You couldn’t stop laughing.”

  “Do I look like I’m laughing right now?” I slid off the bed, stood, and put my hands on my hips. “I’m going to take a shower before our food gets here. Join me if you feel like proving just how good you are at certain things in real life—it’s gonna be tough, though. ’Cause you were very good in my fantasy.”

  I turned and swept into the bathroom before he could react. I felt giddy as I turned on the shower. Was this really happening? Had I really just dared one of my best friends to come get naked with me? I stripped out of my superhero outfit, wrapped myself in a fluffy bathrobe, and pulled my hair on top of my head. Steam filled the bathroom as the water heated up, and I stared in the mirror, watching a veil of mist descend on my reflection. As the seconds ticked by, a tiny niggle of worry pierced my giddy bubble. What if he didn’t take me up on it? What if he just went home? What if I was standing here trying to be all sexy and psyching myself up for more illicit fun times, but the reality was that I was just wasting water while Sam booked it outta here? What if—

  The door creaked open, interrupting my runaway train of thought, and I couldn’t stop the grin of relief spreading over my face.

  I stayed facing the mirror, watching his reflection approach me. He’d already taken his shirt off. I made a big show of allowing my eyes to roam every sharp ridge of muscle, the hard expanse of abs I’d stared at for longer than I cared to admit in the photo he’d texted me.

  “You are such an ogler,” he said, coming up behind me and putting his hands on my waist. His voice still had that husky tone, and I shivered.

  “You’re giving me a lot to ogle,” I retorted.

  He slid my robe down one of my shoulders and pressed his lips against my neck. His mouth was warm—warmer than the steam clouding the room, even, and he took his time tasting my skin. My head lolled back against him, and tingles danced up my spine as he lazily nibbled at my neck, my earlobe. God, that felt good.

  “Why did you put your hair up?” he murmured against my skin.

  “I—mmm. Oh, god, please keep doing that. I put it up when I’m not showering for, like, purely getting clean purposes,” I said. “The dye comes out and makes a mess all over the tub and then I have to clean it up—it’s a whole thing.”

  “Too bad,” he said, toying with a rebellious strand that had come loose from my topknot.

  “Mmm,” I said again. I was really having trouble forming anything resembling a coherent thought. “So is my hair down in your fantasies? Because I’m assuming that photo I sent you inspired some fantasies about me, too.”

  He turned me around in his arms and pulled me against him, his mouth brushing against mine. “I’m more interested in your fantasies right now, Beatrice.” He kissed me deeply. I sighed against his mouth. I was about to melt into a puddle on the floor. Then he made that little growl in the back of his throat again, and every single one of my nerve endings felt like it was set on fire.

  “Can I take this off?” he whispered, his hands going to the belt of my robe.

  “Yes,” I managed.

  He kissed me again as he undid the belt and slid the robe off. I gasped as his hands brushed against my bare skin. He pulled away from me slightly, his gaze taking me in. He looked so intense, so hungry.

  “Now who’s ogling?” I said, arching my back so he could get a better look.

  He ran his knuckles lightly between my breasts and down my torso, inspiring a wave of goosebumps.

  “God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured.

  I flushed—I’d expected him to respond with a quip, a joke, or something smug about who was the better ogler. You know, something familiar. But the way he breathed out those words, soft and reverent, like maybe he wasn’t even aware he’d said them out loud . . . I didn’t know what to do with that. Except get him in the shower immediately.

  “This is hardly fair,” I said, grabbing his belt and pulling him close. “I’m totally naked, and you’re still wearing pants.” I slid my fingers lower, thrilled at all that delicious hardness covered only by thin layers of fabric, and felt a surge of triumph when he groaned. “Although it kind of seems like you’re in danger of coming out of these pants.”

  “So take them off,” he growled.

  I needed no further invitation. I tried to keep my hands from shaking as I undid his belt buckle and slid off his jeans and boxers all in one go, kneeling in front of him.

  “Oh, my,” I breathed. I couldn’t help but linger on my knees, taking him in. He . . . well. Let’s just say that now I totally understood where some of that smugness was coming from. I skimmed my fingertips over the tip of his cock, and my mouth watered.

  He slid a hand down the back of my neck. “Get up, Beatrice,” he said. “This is about your fantasy, remember? And in your fantasy, I’m pretty sure I was the one on my knees.”

  Holy. Shit.

  “Maybe I’m revising my fantasy,” I said, eyeing him. I should have been embarrassed at how breathy my voice sounded, how I was practically drooling all over him. But I was too wrapped up in how good I felt, the steam misting against my skin. And this fucking beautiful man in front of me, telling me he wanted to make all my dirty thoughts come true.

  “No revisions,” he said firmly. He slid his hand from my neck, held it out in front of me, and helped me to my feet. Then he pulled me close again, his lips brushing against my earlobe. “And I want to make you come first.”

  “I’m not sure who wins that point, then,” I said, trying to keep my tone even, trying not to betray the fact that my knees were practically buckling. “Maybe we both do? Bea . . . uh, Sam . . . oh, fuck, I can’t remember the scores right now.”

  “I am definitely about to win this point,” he said, his lips moving to my neck. “Get in the shower.”

  I should have challenged him on the whole points thing, but I really, really wanted to see what was going to happen once we were in the shower. I actually couldn’t think of one single thing I wanted more right now. I broke away from him and walked to the shower, making a big show of it, throwing him a little smile over my shoulder. I climbed in and sighed as the spray misted my back—every sensation felt heightened, dialed way up. He stepped in after me, and I took the opportunity to ogle him again, because damn. My earlier assertion that us getting naked together in real life would inspire a giggle-fest had been sinc
ere, but now I couldn’t imagine that happening. He was studying me again with that intense hunger, like he wanted to taste me all over, lick me everywhere. That look did things to me. It was like an exciting new version of us constantly challenging each other. And it meant giggling was about the farthest thing from my mind.

  He framed my hips with his hands and pressed me against the steamy tiles, leaning in close and claiming my mouth with his. “Tell me about your fantasy,” he said against my lips.

  “I told you already,” I murmured. His beautiful chest muscles brushed against my breasts, and I gasped as my nipples, already so aching and sensitive, hardened.

  He pulled back and gave me something resembling the typically smug Sam Fujikawa grin. “I want you to tell me again.”

  “Bossy,” I said between kisses, trying—and probably failing miserably—to sound put out. “You were on your knees in front of me. And your hands were on my hips, holding me in place.”

  He moved lower, trailing kisses down my neck, over my collarbone. Every brush of his lips was hot as a brand, so searing it felt like he was leaving marks on my skin. Heat pooled between my legs, and I squirmed, the need almost too much to bear—if he didn’t touch me there soon, I was going to explode.

  He moved lower still, slipping one of my aching nipples into his mouth and sucking slowly, like it was his favorite thing in the world. Like he was really savoring the taste, the sensation. I made a sound I didn’t know a human being could make.

  “That . . . was not in the fantasy,” I managed to gasp out. “I thought you said no revisions.”

  “Are you complaining?” he murmured, his hand drifting up my side to cup my other breast. His thumb brushed over my nipple, and I gasped again, my hands going flat against the tiled wall—like that was going to keep me upright somehow.

  “I-I just think that counts as cheating,” I said, closing my eyes and losing myself in pure feeling, in his mouth and hands teasing indecent sounds from me. “You know, if you’re trying to get that point and all.”

  “I’m trying to get extra points,” he growled. “And this strategy already seems to be pretty fucking successful.” Then he captured my nipple between his teeth, and I nearly blacked out.

  He kissed his way down my belly, finally lowering himself to his knees and grasping my hips with his hands. He gazed up at me as he caressed my thigh, lifting one of my legs to drape over his shoulder. He was looking at me like he had when he’d first seen me naked—like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He looked so earnest, stripped of all his usual smug, his beaucoup fromage. Maybe I could understand, just a little bit, why he’d been worried about me falling in love with him.

  “Beatrice,” he said softly. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Show me,” I whispered. “Show me how good you are with that tongue.”

  He trailed his fingertips over my hipbone. “Can I use fingers, too?”

  “Yes,” I gasped out. I guess he wasn’t that opposed to revisions.

  He dipped his head low and pressed his mouth against me and . . . oh, fuck. My head lolled to the side, and my hand grasped his shoulder to steady myself. Forget those inhuman sounds I’d made before, now I was just outright moaning. He knew how to stroke me with his tongue just right, long sweeps contrasted with smaller, more intricate moves, all designed to bring me right up to the edge without sending me over.

  I dug my nails into his shoulder, holding on for dear life as he licked, sucked, stroked. I was glad he had me pressed so firmly against the wall, that he’d thrown my leg over his shoulder to spread me wider, because otherwise I surely would have collapsed right then and there.

  The water continued to stream down on us, making everything hotter and wetter. He brought me to the edge again and again, overwhelming me with his tongue and the hot slide of his skin against mine. Then, just when I thought I couldn’t take any more pleasure, he slid two fingers inside of me. Shudder after shudder cascaded through my body, and I was practically sobbing with need.

  “Sam,” I cried out. “Please. I need . . . I need to . . .”

  He pressed his tongue firmly against the exact right spot and curved his fingers the exact right way, and I screamed, my orgasm shattering through me as I dug my nails into his shoulder so hard I drew blood.

  He stroked me down from my peak, slowly bringing me back to reality. But even then, I was so blissed out, I could barely stand. Things blurred together as he turned off the water, patted me dry with a towel, and carried me to my bed.

  “Mmm,” I sighed, stretching out on the sheets like a cat. “Forgot about . . . our food . . .”

  I heard him pad over to the bedroom door, open and close it.

  “They left it for us outside,” he said. “I guess they knew you were busy.”

  “I’m not even hungry right now,” I said, burrowing under the covers. I felt all glowy, like I was floating on a fluffy post-coital cloud. “Come get in bed with me.”

  He slid between the sheets, wrapping his body around mine, and undid my topknot, running his fingers through my hair as it cascaded around me.

  “Oh, no,” I said, my fingertips brushing his scratched up shoulder. “I think I did that.”

  “It was worth it,” he said, pressing a kiss against my temple, and I felt the smile in his voice.

  “My fantasy was pretty awesome,” I said, my words slow and lazy as I reached down to stroke him. “But don’t we need to take care of you now?” After all the pleasure he’d given me, it was a thrill to feel him harden against my palm. “There are condoms in my bedside table.”

  “Slow down,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “We’ll get there.” Then he kissed me: long, slow, and deep.

  I don’t know what I’d expected. I guess for things between us to be fast and crazy and passionate, some kind of high-speed Olympics of fucking. But he took everything slow, took so much delicious care with every single kiss and touch. And when he finally slid inside of me, murmuring my name in that sweet, reverent way he had, I couldn’t help but think that this entire night wasn’t anything like my fantasy.

  It was totally, extremely, mind-blowingly better.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I AWOKE TO my phone buzzing on my bedside table and Sam trying to find his pants.

  “Are you attempting to slip out of here unnoticed?” I asked him, letting out a huge yawn and reaching for my phone. “Because Lucy isn’t actually going to break your fingers. I gave the okay for you to be here, remember? And your pants are in the bathroom.”

  “I . . . thanks. I’ll get them in a sec,” he said, giving up the pants hunt and sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked distracted, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

  I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed he was already up and almost outta here. I’d been hoping we could have a repeat session of last night’s fun before being forced to get into our respective daily tasks that didn’t involve mind-blowing sex.

  “And no, I’m not trying to sneak out,” he continued. “I have to go have brunch with my siblings. They’re both in town, and I can’t weasel out of it. And believe me, I tried. That means I have to go home, change, and prepare for them to make me feel worthless about anything I might foolishly consider to be an accomplishment.”

  “Oh, ugh.” I sat up in bed, silencing my phone and pulling the sheet around me. “I’m sorry, dude. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “That’s all right,” he said, scraping a hand over his face. “I can face Ms. Bore and Mr. Brag by myself.” I’d only met Ms. Bore and Mr. Brag a couple times and it had been mercifully brief. Emily and Alex Fujikawa both boasted multiple advanced degrees, impressive careers, and jet-setting lifestyles. Emily, an accomplished lit professor, was engaged to some boring finance guy and lived in a restored Brooklyn brownstone straight out of an interior design Pinterest page. Alex was a plastic surgeon catering
to the Hollywood elite, married to a hot socialite who had more money than she knew what to do with. He owned a full rainbow of thousand dollar polo shirts. They both had eventual plans for two-point-five kids with their respective picture perfect partners. And they both looked down on Sam and his supposed lack of accomplishments with a full-body snootiness that made me want to strangle them.

  “I know you can face them, Samuel,” I said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m saying you don’t have to.”

  “Really, it’s okay,” he said, giving me a slight smile and patting my blanket-covered foot. But his expression was strained around the eyes. He stood and headed for the bathroom.

  I frowned after him and picked up my phone. Okay, so maybe he was preoccupied with the prospect of gritting his teeth through a highly annoying brunch. I couldn’t blame him for that. But I was disappointed that there’d been zero acknowledgment of the incredible time we’d had the night before. I’d expected, I don’t know, a sly grin, maybe a smug comment about how many times he’d made me come. An update to the points total, certainly. I mean, he definitely had a lot to brag about, and Sam Fujikawa wasn’t one to let any bragging opportunity slip by.

  Unless . . . My frown deepened. Maybe it hadn’t been as incredible for him? He’d certainly given me plenty of reactions that indicated otherwise. But wasn’t that what he excelled at—making every woman he slept with feel like she was the momentary queen of his universe? Wasn’t that why he was so popular? Wasn’t that his superpower?

  I chewed on my lower lip, tossing my phone back and forth from hand to hand. I knew there was no way he could have faked certain . . . responses to me. But could he have faked all the stuff that made me so weak in the knees—the growls, the intensity, the way he had looked at me like I was so fucking beautiful . . .

  Ugh, why did that matter? We’d said this whole thing was us doing what we excelled at: having fun. And once it stopped being fun, we’d stop doing it. But . . .