These Boots Were Made For Stomping

by Julie Kenner

  He didn’t answer, but his lopsided grin was enough to tell her she was right on the mark.

  She licked her thumb and smashed it on her hip, then made a sizzling noise. “Am I good, or what?”

  “I have a feeling you’re very, very good.”

  She nodded her head, feeling bold, smug, and a little bit sexy. “Touché.” She moved to the couch and patted the cushion next to her, inviting him to join her. “So riddle me this, Batman. If this mission is so important, how come you’re here with me? My sparkling personality? Sexy legs? Keen fashion sense?” She blinked, a little amazed at her own gumption. Whatever happened to shy Lydia?

  Apparently, she’d been kicked to the curb. And that, frankly, was just fine with the new model.

  “I sent in a report while we were in the air.”

  “Right,” she said, remembering the PDA he’d typed a message on as she’d been gawking at the ground below them. “So, they answered already?”

  “Not yet. I’m waiting for new intelligence. That lead was the best we’d had in months, and with zero hour drawing closer—”

  “In other words, I blew it big-time.”

  “You did,” he said, “but you didn’t know. And if it comes down to a Council investigation, I’ll be sure to let them know that.”

  “Thanks,” she said, but her brow furrowed, wondering how the heck she’d gotten drawn into a whole world of rules and regulations simply by ordering a pair of shoes. Somehow, that didn’t seem fair.

  What did seem fair—or, if not fair, at least fabulously fortuitous—was that for the time being at least, she got the guy. This wonderful guy was spending time with her. Waiting in her apartment until he got his marching orders. And, frankly, he seemed perfectly on-board with that plan.

  She tilted her head, watching him and drinking in the wonderful curve of his jaw, the sculptured lines of his body, and the intensity of his gaze. What was he thinking, she wondered. Because she was thinking that she wanted him. More than that, she was thinking about actually telling him that she wanted him. Which, honestly, wasn’t the kind of thing that Lydia Carmichael did.

  She wasn’t entirely sure who she was turning into, but part of her liked the new Lydia. Liked the confidence and directness. Liked the idea that if Mr. Stout had fired her now, she would have had the cojones to stand up to him. Liked that she seemed to be growing stronger from the inside out.

  That was what part of her thought.

  The other part was scared to death.

  The other part couldn’t quite get the words out.

  Her feet were more than willing to move, however, and before she had the chance to think about it—before she could be scared or shy or anything else that screamed old-school Lydia—she’d moved toward him, pressing her body against his and hooking her arms around his neck. She didn’t speak, because the words wouldn’t come. But the truth was, she didn’t need words to ask for what she wanted. No, because what she wanted was him. His hands. His mouth. Every single, solid, sexy inch of him.

  Boldly she drew him closer, her eyes locked on his. No surprise or shock reflected back at her; instead, she saw only her own need mirrored in those azure depths. A need as deep as an ocean, and a pull as strong as the tide.

  She took his mouth with hers, feeling bold and crazy and more than a little drunk. Only, not from alcohol. No, this inebriation was of a purely sensual variety. She wanted more and, so help her, she told him so.

  “What’s that?” he asked, his whisper warm and sensual and teasing. “I’m not quite sure I heard you.”

  “You,” she said, taking a quick nip of his ear. “I want more. I want you,” she added, more boldly than she’d ever spoken. “I want all of you.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, as his hands slipped under the back of her shirt, “I think that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  Sweet shockwaves rushed through her, tumbling down to her toes and bubbling right back up again, like carbonated electricity. She felt fizzy and floaty and more turned-on than she could ever remember being. She’d dated men before, of course. Even slept with them. But she’d never felt this way. Never had a man’s touch so thoroughly fire her senses. It was as if everything in her life had disappeared except for this man and this moment. Right here, right now, and the warmth of his caresses.

  With a low moan, she again lifted her mouth to his, desperate to taste him. His hands slipped down, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her jeans and edging under her pan ties even as his tongue tempted and teased.

  He tasted salty and male and a bit like dark chocolate. Candy, she thought. De cadent and sinful, but at least this candy wasn’t fattening. She could have as much as she wanted, and then go right back for seconds.

  Boldly she pulled away from his lips, ignoring his soft growl of protest as his lips moved to her hairline, then teased the top of her ear. She tried to concentrate on what she was doing, which was attacking his shirt. A black T-shirt made of some unusual material, she could only assume it was an honest-to-goodness superhero garment. But despite her lifelong fascination with comic books and superheroes, right then, she really didn’t care. All she wanted was to have that thing off him. To touch his chest and feel his skin against hers.

  With fingers trembling from desire rather than fear—was this really her?—she reached down and grabbed the bottom of the shirt, then pulled it over his head and stole a kiss as he smiled at her.

  “I was thinking that very thing,” he said, his hands leaving their soft perch on her backside, riding up and taking her own shirt with them.

  The cool air in her apartment brushed her overheated bare skin, and she shivered, goose bumps rising on her arms and belly. She drew in a breath, her whole body trembling with desire.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and she shivered more, unable to form words; every effort was called on to help her breathe.

  He reached out, his fingers twining in her hair. The soft strokes were long and sensual, but not where she wanted him. She wanted him to feel her heat, to know just how much he was driving her nuts. She wanted it, and she knew that to have it, she was going to have to ask. To tell him. To show him what she wanted and how she wanted it, and so help her, that wasn’t the kind of thing she’d ever—ever—been able to do before.

  With every other man in her life—and now they seemed like a large gray blur behind her—she’d laid back, letting the man take the lead and never once saying what she wanted, what she needed.

  Today, though—

  Today, she took his hands in hers and moved them down, cupping his palms over her breasts, nearly melting when his sensuous moan drifted over her, firing her libido and making her wet and silky and so very ready.

  “Touch me,” she demanded, delighting in both the man and her own unfamiliar boldness. She was like a new woman, herself and yet more, and it felt so good.

  She wanted him to make her feel even better, and even though it wasn’t the kind of thing that the old Lydia did, this Lydia reached for the button on his tight, black jeans. She fumbled a little, but managed to open it, and then reached down to find the prize inside.

  He smiled at her, slow and sultry, and she knew that she was doing the right thing. That anything would be the right thing with this man.

  And as he closed his mouth over hers, real thought escaped her, and she lost herself in a sea of sensuality and heat and sweet sensations.

  His body seemed to dance over hers, until every tiny hair follicle seemed charged with energy, and her body thrummed so tight that any touch would send her over the edge.

  It wasn’t any touch she wanted, though. She wanted him inside her, hard and deep, and then fast and wild. Any way and every way, and, so help her, she wasn’t afraid to ask.

  “Whatever the lady wants,” he said, and for the next few hours, he proved that he was a man of his word. He was a painter, and she was his canvas, and over and over he painted such amazing bursts of light and color that she could hardly breathe
, hardly move, and she certainly couldn’t think.

  “I think I’ll be the first person to die of complete and utter satisfaction,” she said sleepily, her head resting on her pillow.

  Nikko lay beside her, his hand stroking the hair around her ear. “Don’t tell me you’re tired,” he teased.

  “Never,” she said, though her body was limp as a noodle and her eyes drooped. She wanted to stay awake. Wanted to never sleep, if sleep meant missing out on any moment with this man. If by closing her eyes and resting she wouldn’t feel his caresses or know the heat his fingers generated against his skin.

  But it didn’t matter. The sun was coming up and her eyelids were falling down. And as Lydia drifted off, safe and secure in Nikko’s arms, a tiny smile touched her lips.

  Stamina, she realized, was yet another perk of making love with a superhero.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nikko thought that she was even more beautiful asleep, and he would have been content to lie there for hours beside her, watching her dewy lips and the slow rise and fall of her chest.

  That, of course, was impractical. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, then went off to explore her kitchen. Not badly stocked, actually, and he took his time, figuring that she could use the sleep. They had, after all, stayed up late.

  Cooking had always been his favorite way to relax and, in fact, his house in the mountains had a fabulous kitchen. There was something relaxing and engaging about the process. Edible chemistry. And when he hit upon the perfect combination, there was very little joy more poignant than sharing it.

  In Colorado, he’d had no one to share his meals. No one he cared about, anyway. And without consciously thinking about it, he prepared a simple breakfast for Lydia with extra care, imagining what it would be like to serve her in his huge bedroom. Or, better, to take her onto the redwood deck and eat with the sky above and the trees below, suspended there with the world spread out beneath them.

  It was an image that was far too appealing, frankly, and he tried to shove it away, forcing himself to instead concentrate on French toast, sausage and freshly squeezed orange juice.

  He took a tray in to her and found her waking. She blinked at him, the corners of her mouth curved up; whether from happy memories or because she was glad to see him, he didn’t know. Both, he hoped.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself.” He slid the tray onto the bed beside her. “I thought you might want breakfast in bed.”

  She laughed. “Because I’m too weak to walk, thanks to you.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, lacing his voice with false sincerity.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said, seeming genuinely contrite. She propped herself up on one elbow. “About that Silver Streak thing. I never meant—”

  He hushed her with a soft finger on her lips. “I overreacted. It’s a sore subject with me.”

  “How come? I mean, I get that you’d rather not be compared to a comic book guy but—”

  “I am the comic book guy,” he said, then told her the whole sordid story. She was, in fact, the first person he’d told it to, other than the Council investigators. When he finished, he managed a grin. “When the Silver Streak appeared as a guest in an X-Men comic, the Council was more than a little miffed. And then when he got his own comic book . . . well, all Hades broke loose.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say it caused me all sorts of problems,” he concluded, the soft skin of her shoulder so distracting under his fingertips. “You know how the Council is.”

  How the Council is?

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” she said automatically, then frowned. The truth was, she didn’t know how the Council was, and although in the alley she’d been perfectly content to assume that the Council and the Protector thing and all the other odd little statements he’d made had related to her shoes and Shoestra and Hiheelia .com, that theory was losing credibility.

  For one thing, she hadn’t seen a single pair of men’s shoes on the Web site. In retrospect, maybe she should have thought of that earlier. Because unless her gorgeous Silver Streak was running around in two-inch pumps, he had no business surfing to Hiheelia.com.

  For another, the whole thing didn’t feel quite right, not now after the alcohol haze had finally worn off and her brain was semifunctional again. Semi being the operative word since she was a little hungover, not to mention fuzzy from a lack of sleep about which she would never, ever complain.

  Still, he thought she was someone (or, rather, something) she wasn’t, and that wasn’t a good way to start a relationship. And the truth was, she desperately hoped this was a relationship, or at least the beginning of one.

  She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, prepared to tell him all about the shoes and the Web site, but instead, he kissed her, nodded toward the tray; then said one tiny, magic word: “Breakfast.”

  Lydia’s stomach sprang to life, and whatever else had been in her head left, replaced by the delicious scent of the breakfast he’d fixed. For her. Wow.

  She reached for the tray, her eyes on his face. Her fingers brushed the coffee cup; she pulled it toward her—and somehow managed to upset the entire delicate balance, sending the tray tumbling to the floor and the fabulous food spilling everywhere.

  “Oh!” She leapt out of bed, completely mortified. “Oh, my gosh. You made it for me and I totally ruined everything!” She felt tears prick her eyes, and she blushed furiously, wishing the shoes could turn back time.

  “It’s okay,” he said, his smile confirming the sentiment.

  “I’ll make everything again,” she said, feeling desperate.

  He laughed, the sound warm and reassuring. “I used the last of your bread.” He held out his hand. “But I’d be delighted to take you out on this fine morning.”

  She cocked her head. Was he seriously not mad?

  His mouth quirked up as if he knew what she was thinking. “Of course, there is one downside.” His eyes grazed over her naked body and made her skin tingle as if he’d trailed his fingertips over every inch of her. “It’s a pity, but I think clothing is required.”

  “That is a pity,” she said, taking a moment to boldly look him up and down before focusing on her bare feet and concentrating on not blushing. This new confidence was exciting, but it took a little getting used to.

  After a few minutes of scrounging and peering under various bits of furniture, eventually they found their clothes. Lydia pulled her jeans and sweater back on, feeling decadent for not showering off the scent of him, then gave her hair a few strong strokes with a brush before pulling it back into a ponytail. Not the sexiest style, but from the way he was looking at her, you would have thought she was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.

  “You’re staring,” she said.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She laughed. “Good answer. Stare all you want.”

  “So, just how hungry are you?”

  She cocked her head, fighting a smile. “Put it this way. I’m weak from hunger. Do you want me weak? Or do want me energized when we come back?”

  “Well put,” he said, tossing her one of her shoes. “Get dressed.”

  She caught the shoe one-handed, then frowned. Yesterday, whatever assertiveness she’d had was from the shoes. But right then, she’d bantered and joked and generally goofed around with him in a provocative way, and she wasn’t wearing the things.

  Wow.

  “What?” he said, looking at her face and smiling.

  She shrugged, then slipped her feet into her shoes and laced them up. “Nothing much,” she said. “Only that I’m in a fabulous mood.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said, taking her hands and pulling her into his arms.

  They wandered out into the Brooklyn morning, and Lydia took him to her favorite restaurant, Maisie’s, on the corner near a community park. They sat outside and talked about everything and nothing, and Lydia was absolutely certain that it was the best morning she’d ever had. Not even the din of nearb
y argumentative voices could put a damper on her happiness.

  “Dammit, Roy,” a woman said, her voice harsh and a little scared. “We’re broken up! What are you doing following me?” As Lydia turned, she saw the woman, a brunette with a pale, drawn face, push back from the table. “I’m going home.”

  “No, you’re not. We gotta talk,” Roy said, reaching across the table and grabbing her arm so hard the woman winced. “Now sit down,” he said, jerking her roughly back into her chair.

  That did it. Lydia leapt up out of her chair and stormed across the restaurant, then pulled the guy up by the back of his collar. “I think you must have misunderstood the lady. She said she wanted to go home.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Lydia smiled, feeling powerful and more than a little righteous. “Your worst nightmare if you don’t leave the girl alone.”

  For a moment, she thought the guy would call her on it. And, yes, she actually imagined how it would feel to smack him hard in the nose.

  But he backed off, his hands lifting in a whatever kind of gesture. “She ain’t even worth it,” he said. “I got a new girl now, anyway. New job. New place. Don’t need her at all.” He glared at the girl as she shoved her chair back, lips pressed tight together and her eyes damp.

  She mouthed a silent thank-you to Lydia, then grabbed her purse and ran from the restaurant.

  Lydia watched her go, then turned back to Roy. “Stay away from her,” she said. “Okay?”

  The guy’s lip lifted. “You wanna get out of my face now?”

  Her fingers curved into a fist, and she was just about to thrust forward and catch him in his sanctimonious nose when she felt a hand close over hers. She turned and looked back to find Nikko holding her.

  “You did a good thing, Lydia,” he said. “And this one’s not worth making any more effort.”

  Roy glared at Nikko, but sank lower in his seat, looking worn-out and pitiful.

  “No,” Lydia said. “He’s not.”

  “Come on,” Nikko said, paying and taking her out of the restaurant, then indulging her as she paced up and down the sidewalk in front of the park, muttering to herself.