Misadventures with a Super Hero

by Angel Payne

The cherubs sculpted into the corners of the crown molding have no response for me. But the man between my legs sure as hell does. He’s everything they aren’t: full of motion and passion and wicked, wild intentions firing like quicksilver in the depths of his focused stare.

  “Doing to you?” he echoes, grabbing my face to angle me for his deep, hard kiss. “Everything I possibly can, Miss Crist. Everywhere I possibly can.”

  REECE

  “Yes, Mr. Richards.”

  I’m not sure what turns me on more, the formality she automatically returns to or the submission with which she does. Everything this woman does and says has my cock surging with magma, pressure building, heat increasing, like a volcano about to explode.

  There’s no more time. Her surrender, open and generous and perfect, is all I’ve been waiting for.

  I slide my hips forward, impelling her legs to widen for me. I aim my aching dick toward her willing entrance, ready to take her pussy with one full push—but stop myself. Fuck. Twelve months of imposed celibacy and I’ve really gone as stupid as a teenage virgin.

  “Damn it.” I lower my head and push up a little, breathing hard. Our foreheads are pressed together, so I feel her puzzled frown at once.

  “Wh-What’s wrong?”

  Shockingly, I’m able to grunt out a laugh. “No condoms.”

  “Wh—” She huffs. Stares at me harder. “Are you kidding?”

  “Wish I were.” I raise my head a few inches more to study every adorable line of her scowl. “And you don’t believe me.”

  “Would you, if you were me?”

  Damn good point. Probably not. But hell, I want to change her mind. Right here, right now, I want to give her all the real answers for trusting me. As in, I want to tell her everything. All of it. For just once, for just this woman, I long to come out of the shadows. To trust her with everything. The whole truth, from beginning to end, exactly as it happened last year.

  Out in the foyer, there’s a loud chime.

  Emma starts. I break away, springing off the bed.

  “What is that?” Anxiety fans her tone. Before I can stab both legs back into my sweats and throw on an old T-shirt, she’s clutching the cover to hide her breathtaking nudity.

  “Stay here.” I curl one knee to the bed, grab the back of her neck, and slam an adamant kiss to her lips. “We’re not done yet.”

  Not by far.

  I shut the bedroom door and clear the hallway into the foyer just in time to plaster a professional smile on my lips. It’s enough of a reply, at least for the moment, to the questioning gaze in the pretty face of the woman stepping off the elevator.

  “Miss Jain. Good day. What can I do for you?”

  EMMA

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  I rasp it at least twenty more times while peeking through the crack in the door at Reece and Neeta. I’ve dragged the comforter off the bed with me, certain Reece has simply gone to sign for a package or something. But now I’m gaping at my boss, who stands there with her boss, less than ten feet from where I flailed and screamed like a porn star last night. While he watched.

  Yeah. I’ve finally realized it wasn’t a dream.

  And no, I’m not thrilled about that fact.

  Especially because I can’t see if Reece had the time or inclination to clean up after our debauchery last night.

  And holy wow, what debauchery.

  I let my head drop into my hands and succumb to a nearly silent sob. This is fate’s version of ultimate sarcasm, but it’s not funny. I’ve finally escaped the OC, gained freedom, independence, and a great job, only to risk it all because I got horizontal with my tantalizing god of a boss—who, by the way, also happens to be the most amazing lover on the planet.

  And no, I don’t need to sample the rest to be sure of that.

  My attention rivets back to the discussion in the foyer. Neeta’s talking about me—and looking pretty stressed about it.

  What the hell?

  “…can’t believe she fell ill like that so fast.” Her hair catches the sunlight coming through the same bank of windows that caused my holy-shit-is-that-China gawks a few hours ago. She’s dressed in the same suit she wore for last night’s shift, making me realize it isn’t as late in the day as I first thought, though she still looks as fresh as the moment we first clocked in. I’m not sure if I admire her or hate her for that, especially as she executes a classic toss-toss of her ebony mane. The move would’ve likely preceded a sweet and worshipping smile at Reece if the subject matter weren’t my health. I can’t even blame her. Reece is, as Wade and Fershan would phrase it, “clickbait for the chicks’ sake.” I’m not sure of that definition, but it’s close enough to “freaking hot” that Neeta’s thin ruse of a flirt is no-brainer obvious.

  “Stomach bugs can be capricious,” Reece responds diplomatically. “Which was why I insisted on calling a car for her. She wasn’t in any condition to drive.”

  Neeta’s head jogs to the side. “She told you that?”

  I’m oddly tempted to restart the shit-shit-shit litany as Reece takes a second to consider her question. I’d have thought a man who spent more time on nightclub couches than conference calls would be better at bluffing, not worse.

  “Not in so many words,” he finally says, re-earning his master bullshitter stripes. “She wasn’t really in the mood to…talk.”

  Neeta’s forehead pinches. “Oh. I see.” Though I wonder if she really does—another instinct I’m unable to verify, since she clearly forgets the thought behind it once Reece folds his arms, returning to pharaoh mode. The move—so arrogant it can only be pulled off by a man of his glory—stretches his clothes across his muscled limbs until Neeta defaults into flustered-and-faltering mode. I don’t blame her. I’d be doing the same—if I weren’t so preoccupied with wanting to brain the man.

  “Well, then.” She readjusts the shiny red purse on her shoulder. “May I be forward and ask if she followed up with you…to let you know she got home all right? I normally worry because she insists on taking the train home, but if you had a driver take her—”

  “He called after the drop-off. Told me she got in fine.”

  I swallow hard. The easy undertones in Reece’s voice are gone. He’s lying through his teeth and not happy about it.

  It’s so time for shit-shit-shitting again.

  Instead, I let the comforter drop and dart into the bathroom, hoping beyond hope he somehow brought my—

  Yes.

  My suit has been placed onto a couple of hangers that dangle from the side of a door to the connecting bathroom. As I shimmy into my skirt, I fling a longing gaze to the palatial setup of the space. Roman tub with jets. A shower so big it has a seat. A little vanity area with a mirror lined in adjustable lights. In a little side room, there’s a toilet with an electronic bidet extension.

  I’m thiiiiis close to letting the skirt fall in the name of honoring this bathroom by having sex in it, but then Reece’s voice bleeds through the door beyond the bed. He’s still uncomfortable about the charade for Neeta’s sake—a pretense he propagated, I might add—but I’m not about to sit around and extend the fib any longer.

  With a few twists, I reattach enough of the buttons on my blouse to get out of here without flashing the world. The effect is better once I get my suit jacket on, especially because there’s no time for the whole bra thing. It, as well as my panties, can be his souvenirs for the blue-ribbon debauchery.

  Hell.

  Debauchery.

  No way will I ever be able to hear that word again and avoid remembering last night’s precious, perfect, mind-altering version of it…

  Or the man who gave all that wickedness to me.

  The man I now have to escape at all costs. No matter what.

  I need this job.

  I. Need. This. Job.

  Not just keeping it. Thriving in it. Excelling at it. Showing Mother and Lydia and everyone else at the club that “little Emma” is capable of succeeding in the
big, evil city. That their checklist for happily ever after doesn’t have to be mine. That not everyone on the face of the earth measures success with a house that sleeps thirty, a car that transports ten, and a passport that’s stamped in Paris, Milan, and London.

  My checklist is bigger.

  So much bigger.

  It starts with this job. And does not include shacking up in the penthouse with my boss.

  I need to get out of here. Now. Before he finishes chitchatting with Neeta. The second her elevator returns, he’ll be back in here, frying my resolve with his force field magic.

  I creep to the door on the other side of the room, praying it leads to a back corridor of some sort. The front elevator that brought Neeta up isn’t the only way into this place. Reece himself usually gets up here via the private elevator in back, which is located somewhere along this side of the tower.

  I crack the door and sneak down a short hallway until I enter the kitchen. Still a good sign. The back elevator is also the service elevator for the suite, so direct kitchen access makes sense.

  I step across a polished black wood floor and through a culinary spaceship made of glass and stainless steel. Side-by-side ovens, a fully stocked wine cooler, and a coffee bar nearly induce me to another orgasm—okay, so maybe I do miss a few creature comforts from the golden land—but there’s no time for more than a few drops of drool right now. I need to locate that back elevator.

  Ding ding ding.

  A small anteroom also turns out to be the landing for the elevator. I pad across it and stab the call button for the car. “Please, please, please,” I whisper, hoping the car is already parked at this level, but since Reece came up in the main elevator last night, I have to wait while the system brings it up.

  Thankfully, the gears work fast. Not so thankfully, as I hurry into the car and jab the button for the ground floor, the last sound I hear from the penthouse is Reece’s unmistakable baritone, bellowing my name from the bedroom. His voice all but topples the walls between us, thundering straight to my belly, making me wrap both arms around myself.

  As the doors shut, I lean against the elevator’s back wall, seeking solace from the silence that encompasses me.

  I’m doing the right thing.

  I’m doing the right thing.

  I’m doing the right thing.

  And soon—please God, soon—the rest of my senses will catch up to the strength of that mantra.

  Because right now, it feels freaking useless.

  REECE

  Useless. This all feels fucking useless.

  Even as I pulse yet another asshole bank robber into the waiting arms of the cops, I can’t escape the ruthless claw of my feelings. Eight thwarted crimes in three days, and goddamnit, there’s still nothing in my gut but half a bean-and-cheese burrito and a shit-ton of unanswered rage.

  Fury that seems to have only gotten worse since the moment I stood in the penthouse kitchen, watching the numbers over my private elevator doors descend—and never come back up again.

  Ramping up the Dudley Do-Right gigs have only made the rage worse. It’s like a field of electric towers in my brain right now, buzzing louder and louder, pushing the limits of my skull thanks to the screams of the civilians, the wail of the sirens, and the antics of the scumbag himself.

  “Yeah!” As the officers scoop him off the floor, he jumps a few feet, a victorious grin on his face. “I was zapped by Bolt, y’all! I was zapped by Bolt!”

  “Fuck,” I mutter while whipping a double take at the asshole, who’s juiced more by the cheering crowd. “What the hell?” I bellow, unsure whether I mean it more for him or them. Why can’t everyone calm the hell down and get back to work and their lives? On the other hand, why the fuck do I care?

  My confusion triggers his. “What the hell, what?” He nods, indicating my leathers—necessary attire despite the fact that it’s nearly ninety outside today. “Come on, man. You’re really him, right?”

  “Him who?”

  “You serious?” Harsh snort. “You really don’t know?”

  A chuff comes from the cop double-checking his cuffs. “He’s probably been too busy lately to notice the news, asshole. You know, dealing with scumsuckers like you?” He tips a grin my direction. “Some of us are just more grateful than others for it.”

  I return his compliment with a glare. The move dances on the edge of asshole in its own right, but my bafflement doesn’t know the difference. “The news about what?”

  “You have a name now, buddy,” the cop supplies.

  A headache develops behind my scowl. “A what?”

  “A name.” He chuckles. “What? You don’t like Bolt?”

  “Bolt?” I pronounce the word so slowly, it almost becomes two syllables.

  As two more officers come in and haul the criminal out, he’s given the physical freedom for a shrug. “Beats ‘super hero dude in tight leather,’ yeah? Unless you’re all about the look?”

  “Sure.” Now I soak it in sarcasm.

  “That’s what I thought too.” He takes a step closer, going for a just-between-us-guys kind of thing, though giving his true outlook away by glancing over at his buddies with a shit-eating smirk. Look at me. I’m chattin’ it up with Bolt.

  Bolt.

  Shit.

  As nicknames go, it’s not the worst. If I were a dog, I’d be something like a Doberman or a Great Dane, right? Considering how I’ve chosen the mongrel therapy route this week, I should have seen this coming. Dog discovers toy. Dog really likes toy. Dog loses toy. Dog deals by pissing electricity all over the city.

  Or something like that.

  “Figured with all the power you’re throwing around, the suit helps keep it in check. Something like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Speaking of moving on…

  Though the cops still have the bank lobby locked down, the blare of camera lights through the tinted windows alerts me I’ve overstayed my welcome at this party. The cop, Officer A. Feliz according to his name badge, could’ve been a guy I’d hang with for a while, pounding beers and playing darts. The old Reece likely would’ve suggested such a thing. Hell, the new Reece likes the idea too. But the two Reeces don’t get to share a universe. It was part of the deal I made with Karma. The bed I made and now must lie in.

  Where I’m having issues with Karma is the bridge between figurative beds and real ones.

  Like the one in which I’d finally felt alive for the first time in a year. Alive because of the goddess who’d slept in my arms. White-gold hair, cream silk skin, sated sighs. Who’d stayed the night. The whole night.

  The first woman—the first person—who’d given me a gift more important than all the shiny objects I’ve possessed in my twenty-nine years of existence.

  Hope.

  I’d fought it that night. Damn, how I’d fought it. But after those hours of holding and smelling and breathing her, the sensation took root. The sliver of belief, however tiny, that maybe Karma would be merciful and give me one person who didn’t feel like crawling out of their skin just because I was in the room. That maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to think about every day of my life going down just like this one.

  Waking up alone.

  Putting some bad guys away. Saving a few thousand people.

  Going to sleep alone.

  For a few amazing hours, I’d let myself think otherwise. Held the gift in my arms. Savored it. Treasured it. Been able to shove aside the fact that this nickname they’ve given is more ideal than anyone realizes.

  Bolt.

  Why the hell not? It’s the way I’ve treated my own life for so long. Why shouldn’t it be the way I’m treated now?

  Why shouldn’t it be the word I’m celebrated with as I crouch low, surrounded by cheers I barely hear, and sprint from everyone’s view—and in a few minutes, from their minds too—as their lives go on again, secure because of the super hero they can forget as swiftly as a tabloid magazine cover?

  Again.

  C
hapter Five

  EMMA

  “Seriously?”

  I can barely huff it out before I’m approached by a swarthy ponytailed guy standing next to a spotless stretch Mercedes parked in front of my apartment building. He flashes me a crooked grin. “Well, good afternoon to you too.”

  I jab up my chin. “We agreed on this, Z. Yesterday was going to be it for this nonsense.”

  He adds a shrug. “It’s not an imposition. I wasn’t doing anything else.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  The smile takes on a cute quirk. “Fine. You’re right. Go ahead and gloat. You want to.”

  I resist the pull of his Armenian charm. “I swear by the planet you’re named after and the insane god who created it—”

  “Don’t care about that god,” Zalkon volleys. Yeah, a planet. Poor Z came along after his mom binged on Star Trek during mandatory pregnancy bedrest. “But the god who’s making sure you get to and from work in this every day?” He jerks a thumb toward the Mercedes. “Him, I care about.”

  I’m tempted to yank out my phone and call said god-on-high. I have a direct line to his cloud. The all-powerful, all-knowing, overprotective Zeus in the penthouse has made damn sure I have the digits all but tattooed on my brain, thanks to his hourly texts for the last three days. Creepy? Under normal circumstances, yes—but what’s been normal about Reece Richards’s arrival in my life? Everything about this, about him, is a flash storm from fate, sizzling through my atmosphere and frying all my circuits. Yeah, including the man’s texts.

  Even the one vibrating the device in my palm right now—then quivering all the way up my arm, over my shoulder, and down my spine, gripping my whole torso in tendrils of heat I can no more ignore than my own breaths.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, turning from Z. “Just let me get this.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I ignore his knowing jibe while swiping at the phone with the zeal of an Austen heroine opening a secret love note. I was responsible as hell getting myself out of the man’s bed—not a decision my hormones let me forget during the solitary ride in the penthouse’s private elevator—so I’m due the indulgence of at least knowing I’m still in the man’s head. It’s not like the situation’s going to last. Nothing in the world of Reece Richards does, including models and actresses who spend the equivalent of my monthly salary on a single facial. Last year, the press didn’t know what to do with themselves when he spent—gasp—a whole six months with some power blonde from France, and I’m nowhere near her league. I have to be real about that. I’m just a diversion during the man’s quest for his next piece of sparkling arm candy.