Misadventures with a Super Hero Page 12

  Or was it?

  If my life hadn’t wound down this exact path, I never would have arrived here at the most extraordinary epiphany of my existence. At a moment that is making more sense than all twenty-seven years before it. At the feet of the person who’s brought me here.

  The woman for whom I’ve fallen. Literally. Wholly.

  The creature who crumples gently to the floor with me now, shuddering in the last throes of her climax, sagging into my arms with kitten-like surrender. I swear she starts to purr as I circle soft fingertips along the back of her neck, their soft glow illuminating the stray strands of her ponytail. With a resolved breath, I’m able to dial back the lightsabers of my fingers even more. Only my nailbeds pulse now, pulsing in time to my heartbeat. I work on calming that pace, but it isn’t easy with her face consuming my attention… With the satisfaction, a glow of its own, of knowing I alone brought that sated serenity to her incredible face.

  After a few minutes of our peaceful silence, she releases a long, soft breath. “Mr. Richards?”

  “Yes, Miss Crist?”

  “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  Her eyes flash open. Her pupils are huge and aqua—and alarmed. “Really?” A new flush takes over her face. She hastily clears her throat. “I mean, of course you agree.” She sweeps a look over her nude lower half. “This is getting kind of ridiculous.”

  “Agreed once more.” I feel a little shitty for leading her thoughts on, but only a little. Sometimes the endgame justifies the play. Only by throwing her off guard can I pry more edges from her armor, exposing her to see—and feel—the importance of what we’ve begun here. “I’d even say it’s gone beyond ridiculous.”

  “Well.” She stiffens and attempts to straighten. “That’s good, then—”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call it good.”

  “Pardon me?”

  I wrap an arm around her waist, preventing her from completing her frosty escape. I melt the rest of her iceberg with a thorough kiss, not letting go until she opens for the dominion of my tongue. By the time I pull back, she clearly craves more. Good. She doesn’t get any quarter from my gaze, which I keep latched to her while spreading my other hand along the back of her head.

  “Yeah,” I utter, my breath ragged. “Beyond ridiculous. Which means you don’t get to bring any reports or furniture dusters next time.”

  “Huh?” Her eyes flare. I’m torn between grinning at her and just kissing her again. “Wait. Next ti—”

  “Which will not be two nights from now. As a matter of fact, I won’t settle for one night.”

  Her brows crunch. “Reece, what are you—”

  I kiss her into silence. It’s quick and fast this time, because my point still isn’t complete. “What am I?” I counter. “What I am, Emmalina, is fed up with this. With us, and our treatment of this.”

  “This?”

  “Yeah. This. Us.”

  Her armor breaks away a little more. She quirks her lips upward, and her eyes shimmer like we’re standing in full sun. “There’s…an ‘us’?”

  Hearing her repeat the word drops a massive weight on my chest—with only one possible phrase to set myself free. “There is now.”

  Yeah. Oh, yeah. That’s perfect. That’s right.

  In my new lightness, I tenderly brush my lips across hers. “But that doesn’t mean we have to define anything other than now.” The honey of her mouth is so damn tempting. “No projections or forecasts. No definitions or boxes. Nobody telling us what we are or aren’t. Just this. Just the magic. Just us, okay?”

  She releases a high, soft sigh. “Okay.”

  “But that also means one more thing.” I tug her hair harder, enforcing her attention. “I refuse to fuck you on another floor, footstool, or any other furniture not designed for being naked and horizontal.”

  She curves her lips again. So goddamned gorgeous. “Okay.”

  I tug again. Her amenability makes me want to push my luck. “So when you get off shift tomorrow morning, you’re coming straight up to the penthouse.”

  Her grin grows. “Okay.”

  “And you’re letting me make you breakfast.”

  Here’s where her grin fades—though not enough to make me stressed. Not yet. “Breakfast.” She cocks her head. “So is that before or after the naked and horizontal part?”

  I kiss her again. I can’t help it. Resisting her is like denying myself the privilege of breathing. There’s tongue involved too. Lots of it. And hair pulling—hers and mine. And groping, twenty fingers’ worth, as we feel and fondle and grab and possess, sealing the new bond between us in the most primal, perfect way possible.

  Chapter Nine

  EMMA

  I emerge from my office, but I’m still in a fog. A giant, pink-tinted bank of the stuff—and for once, I don’t fight. I’m like one of those cartoon girls with birds and stars swirling around my head—or in the anime version, with my pupils turned into bulging hearts. Maybe that’s a good thing. If everyone’s gawking at my eyes, they won’t notice my knees have turned to taffy—another write-off, considering I don’t need them anymore.

  Knees aren’t important when a girl can just float through life.

  Okay, not Life, capital L. It’s only life right now, all lowercase. It’s not like Reece marched into my office and shut and locked the door with a ring in his hand.

  Though the man did show how magical he can be on his knees…

  And incredible. And passionate. And giving. And bold.

  Stealing my breath. Demanding my surrender. Blowing my mind.

  Yeah, even now. Especially now—a comprehension that has me gripping the frosted-glass countertop at the front desk for support. I actually glance down, confirming I’m truly and solidly planted, though the pastel cloud still lingers. The stratosphere into which Reece Richards launched me with the power of one word.

  “Us.”

  I run a finger along my lips after whispering it. I can feel the contact, meaning this must really be my life. Not a dream. Not a bizarre alternate world in which Reece Richards isn’t a tabloid darling and a world-class rogue and hasn’t just snuck out of the executive offices in the back elevator with a dorky smirk on his lips and my Pentatonix tour sweatshirt tied around his waist—hiding the crotch he’s just soaked while pleasuring me.

  Holy wow, that pleasure. Right before he brought on the wizardry. The sincerity. The honesty.

  The word that changed everything.

  “Us.” I dash it off again, almost in a song, while clicking into the guest-services log from one of the front desk terminals. Fershan is also at the desk, though he’s talking on the phone at the other end. Observing the lobby is busier than usual, probably due to the bored tour group members deciding to drink their night away in the bar, I stay put in case he needs any backup. Besides, a good song starts playing. A classic. My spirit as buoyant as the tune, I start quietly singing along with the anthem.

  “I got me a Chrysler, it seats about twenty, so hurry up and bring your—”

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?”

  I shut off my metaphorical microphone somewhere between “jukebox” and “money” before stammering, “Yes? I mean, good evening, ma’am. I’m so sorry. I was pulling something up, and then—”

  “Singing?” The blonde, a stunning mix of classic Catherine Deneuve and Gwen Stefani, adds to the exotic factor with her French accent. I gawk a little longer as she lifts one side of her flawless crimson mouth in a droll smile. “What would the world be without songs, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Valid point.” My response is polite but guarded. Why is this creature, in her black cashmere dress and red-to-black ombré fingernails, making my skin prickle and my instincts edgy? Okay, besides the obvious—that she’s worldly, sophisticated, and oozes more sexuality from one of those tapered fingers than I do in my whole body. This is the case for nearly half the women I meet up here, so that doesn’t fly in this instance.
There’s something else about her. An aloofness but a watchfulness…

  “How can I be of service to you this evening, Madame—”

  “Mademoiselle”—she dips her head, smoothly deferential about the correction—“La Salle.” A smooth arc of her hand produces a business card that wasn’t there two seconds ago. The engraved header gives away her first name. Angelique.

  Of course.

  A name evoking the heavens for a woman who could tempt a dozen monks to sin. At the same time.

  “International Commodities.” I read the next line down. The only other text on the card is her phone number, prefaced by the international dialing code. There’s no company name or her specific position in that organization—though for some reason, I’m anxious to find out. Or perhaps she makes me anxious, period. “Sounds…cosmopolitan.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “What kind of commodities, if I may be so bold?”

  “Collectibles.” Her tone remains impassive. “Rare finds. Objects of wonder. Works of art.”

  She moves at last, angling an elbow up to the counter, drawing out the last of it with curious vocal emphasis. Worksss of arrrt. All too clearly, I realize she isn’t talking about Renaissance busts and oil paintings of virgins getting pounced by devils—though this makes me feel exactly like one of those hapless maidens, gazing toward a heaven that doesn’t care about the Lucifer about to rape her.

  And did I seriously just go there?

  This is what I get for skipping my protein bar and yogurt to let the boss feast on me. My brain’s turned cannibal on itself, eating valuable logic links. But a logic deficit is still no reason to be rude.

  “So how may I assist you, Mademoiselle La Salle?” Again, I take in her ensemble. The cashmere is luxurious and fits her toned curves flawlessly. She wears no accessories except for diamond drop earrings so brilliant they must be real. More bling flashes from her feet, adorned in a pair of peep-toe platforms with black insets. “Ground transportation, perhaps?” I dare a between-us-girls grin. “You haven’t dressed up like this for the crowd in the bar. Who’s the lucky guy you’re going to meet?”

  Her laugh is an elegant husk. “You mean…already have met.”

  “Ohhh.” My voice rises knowingly. “That explains a great deal.”

  “Comment ça? A great deal of what?”

  “Of everything.” I nod toward her. “Here in LA, we call it your vibe…your energy. The French probably have a more melodic term.”

  “Je ne sais quoi?”

  “Sounds about right.” I’m able to smile and mean it, but when she responds with nothing but a silken silence, I’m back in the realm of the gawky nerd trying to chat it up with the prom queen. “Well, then. It’s clear that you’re a woman who enjoyed her evening, at least.”

  “Hmmm.” She leans a little closer, still looking like a cat contemplating a bowl of cream, until I even get the impression she’s smelling me. “That likely depends on how you define enjoyable.” Her gaze, wide and inquisitive as a Siamese, lifts to my blushing face. “Perhaps you have had some ‘enjoyment’ tonight as well, my friend?”

  Heat floods my face. The woman’s smile widens. I wave a dismissive hand. “I’m…working.”

  “Hmmm,” she drawls again, one brow arching in perfect amusement. “Of course.” She smoothly folds one hand atop the other and rests them on the counter, the move of a feline Bond girl in one of those scenes where you don’t know if she’s a good girl or a killer. “So I am just…imagining…that interesting scent of yours, then?”

  I’m validated but weirded out in the same strange moment. She is sniffing. “I only wear light body spray to work. Maybe that’s strange in your circles, but it’s common courtesy in mine.”

  “Ah. Of course.” She backs away, dipping her head. “Desolée. I meant no intrusion. It is only that…”

  “What?” I’m more irritated than interested now. The only creature fascinated by a cat’s string is the cat—except her teaser has a chunk of psychological Godiva tied to the end. I only hope the chocolate isn’t laced with arsenic.

  “C’est rien.” She quirks another half smile. Zero sincerity backs the look. “It is nothing.”

  I return the look, probably with more gusto than I should. Hanging with the high-end circles of the OC, where every other pretentious person irked me, honed my perfection at the skill. Kill ’em with kindness—and if kindness isn’t possible, fake it. “So how did you need our services tonight, mademoiselle?”

  “Ah.” She dashes a finger up, and I almost expect to see a reminder string tied to it. Instead, she opens her graphic-print Balenciaga and produces a pair of items much nicer than string. The cufflinks are simple but luxurious, squares of silver inset with black diamonds. They’re the kind of thing a man would never buy for himself but would wear with pride if given from a special woman.

  “Ah.” I repeat it with meaning—and more than a little relief. Deneuve has a weak spot after all. “These are stunning.”

  “Merci.”

  “And…the man for whom they’re intended?” I go there, but with care in my voice.

  “Equally as stunning.”

  Just like that, my relief disappears—though I don’t return to unnerved either. I’m…confused. Her words don’t match the vibe from her eyes. Je ne sais quoi has gone au revoir.

  “Unfortunately, we were caught up in a…discussion. He left them behind in the car.”

  “Well.” I try to focus on my monitor, clicking to the in-house guest registry instead of gawking at her mysterious expression. No luck. She’s weirdly riveting. Not a trace of a smile touches her lips, though her longing is a palpable force on the air. “That must have been an epic discussion.”

  “They usually are with him.”

  It’s none of your business, Emma. Mademoiselle La Salle and I have already skated on the edge of too much information with each other.

  “And his last name?” There. Cordial but impartial, likely what she’s been after this whole time anyway. “So I can call up to his room for you,” I clarify. “Or, if you prefer, I can just store them in the hotel’s safe and leave a message in his room.”

  Another win for professionalism—until the woman picks that moment to break the surface of her cream, erupting in a light laugh. “Room? Oh, he is not a guest in this hotel, mon amie.”

  My face tightens into a scowl and a vise closes over my chest. “He…what?” I manage to ask, despite my instincts suddenly clicking and knowing what her response will be. And dreading it.

  “Non.” The worldly smile slides into place. “He owns this hotel. You know him, oui? Monsieur Richards?”

  I’m rocketed out of my fog, only to descend into another. A darker mist. No more cotton-candy clouds. Sherlockian gray and Jack the Ripper black are the new colors of my vision, shrouding my movements.

  Somehow, I manage to make an excuse—more truth than she needs to know—that I’m suddenly not feeling well. I hand her off to Fershan and stumble away. Far away. A black corner. An empty office. Somewhere with space for my shock to choke out, the shit-shit-shits to fade, and the nausea to pass.

  Or maybe not.

  “Em? Dearie?”

  Neeta finds me in the copy room, butt parked atop the shredder, head between my legs over an empty trashcan. Returning to my office is nowhere near an option, not after what I just did in there with Reece.

  After what he did before that with Angelique La Salle.

  Us.

  His perfect spell of a word.

  Did he use it with her too? Before or after she got him out of those cufflinks? Taking off the cufflinks meant she’d gotten him out of his shirt. I’ve never even seen the man without his shirt. But there I was just an hour ago, two offices away, letting him “us” me into visions of pink castles, swirly stars, and omelets cooked in his decadent designer kitchen.

  The comprehension brings back the fog. And the sick.

  “Dearie.” Neeta crouches next to me,
voice resonant with concern. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Not a lie. Have I known Reece Richards at all? Were naïve and desperate plastered that clearly across my forehead this whole time? “It just hit me.” I’m more sickened when realizing his lie from earlier in the week now provides my perfect alibi. “Maybe I never got rid of the other bug that bit me.”

  Neeta’s features tighten. She shakes her head. “And both times, you had to spend time with Reece Richards.”

  I push out a long huff. “He’s not a Zika mosquito, woman.”

  “But he’s just as strange.” She shakes her head. “Gorgeous but strange.”

  “I refuse to validate this conversation.” That’s the truth too—though it’s also a convenient cut to the real issue at hand. “I… I think I just need to go home.”

  I need to be anywhere but here.

  In an environment he can’t control. A place where I can think.

  More to the point—where I don’t have to think at all.

  “Of course.” She starts, glancing at the clock. “But it’s nearly eleven. Will you be all right on the train? Maybe I can spare Fersh or Wade to drive you…”

  “The hell you can.” I inwardly applaud myself for always insisting Z drop me around the corner from the lobby. I also know he’s already waiting in the same spot, which is perfect. My route to the train station is the opposite direction. But I don’t care anymore. Or feel the need to answer to his “employer” about anything.

  * * *

  It’s oddly comforting to get onto the train again, especially at this time of night. Rush hour is long over, giving me space to breathe along with the comfort of anonymity. The roar of the ride is perfect too—a fitting sparring partner for the rage of my senses, the tumult of my heart.