The Last Superhero (6 page)

“
You're
on your own.” She hangs up.

I twirl to the half-closed
door and dart out.

He's not in the living room.

“
I
turned off the oven. It was beeping.”

A hand to my forehead.

Forget Daphne.

Think of Mom.

Feel all warm and fuzzy at
the sight of the man standing in silence in the middle of your
kitchen not knowing how you'll react to catching him red-handed
turning off your oven.

Scratch that, don't think of
Mom 'cause she'd be all over him by now.

“
You,
sir, have just saved dinner.”

I make my way to him, my
eyes straying to the bottle of vodka and he takes the cue.

Break the seal, turn the
cap, it's good to always have some lemons in hand.

And cranberry juice, I love
cranberry juice.

Mix it up and pour two
glasses.

“
I'm
joining you, but I'll only have one,” he says.

“
Okay,”
I answer.

“
Cheers,”
he winks.

“
Cheers,”
I smile.

Try it.

“
It's
not bad.” He's surprised. “Not bad at all.”

I don't know if it's the
alcohol – no matter what anyone says, it's always the alcohol –
but after a couple of sips I’m brave enough to get closer.

He likes that.

We're standing in the
kitchen and it's shrinking, pushing us closer.

I like that.

A lot.

A lot of a lots.

Especially that part when he
leans forward and his hand caresses my face and his lips find mine.

Soft, shy, hesitant,
ghosting lips that refuse to part mine until I've put my drink on the
counter, beside him, with blind hands, and I'm able to get a good
grip on his broad back.

It tastes oh so good. Feels
oh so fine. A fucking good kisser, this guy.

He's tall and can almost sit
on the counter just by leaning against it, so he pulls me up and my
knees are propped on the edge, my thighs constricting his sides, my
hands holding onto his shoulders as the kiss deepens.

Fuck yeah, this is nice.

How his hand finds my hair
and his fingers entwine themselves with my locks and he pulls my head
back so he can kiss my neck.

Oh, oh, oh...

It doesn't end there, oh no,
it doesn't even begin there.

He's
strong and his hands clutch me like claws. I can't see, can't breathe
because he's all over me, showering me with kisses and nibbles and
ouch
and it feels so good.

Without thinking, he's
carrying me over to the dining table.

Bye-bye, flower vase. Hello,
yellow lamp that I don't see for long because my shirt is being
tugged over my head and our clothes are disappearing from our bodies
and reappearing on the floor. Mostly mine, not that I care, not if he
keeps on doing that thing he's doing that I haven't felt before and I
have one eye closed and the other can't focus even for the life of
me.

Is that his hand?

I don't feel self-conscious,
not in the slightest.

But I always do, even in
complete darkness.

Pull me up by both arms and
make me sit, straddling you, and your mouth crashes against mine
while you enter me, your hands keeping my wrists together behind my
back.

This. I've only ever read
about this.

Real-life smut, good god
there goes my willpower and, with it, my thoughts.

“
No,”
I groan.

He's tying my wrists with
something.

“
Let
go,” he purrs.

And then it hits me.

“
Stop.”
Tension's building inside me at a fast pace as he sucks on a spot on
my neck.

I wiggle my arms out of
whatever it is he's using to cuff me.

I've read this. Yes, I've
seen this in my head before. Probably in some smutty piece of
porn-without-plot fan fiction.

The sudden build-up, the
pent-up need for release.

That is in no way true
because I know my body and it doesn't work that way.

This dude is either a sex
god or this is...

The lights dim and he
notices.

“
Let.
Go.” he whispers to my ear with a voice as soft as velvet and
deep as a roar.

“
Stop
it!” I cry.

The lights dim again and the
bulbs on the lamp above us explode.

He frowns at me, pauses his
assault.

One of his hands holds my
neck while he stares hard into my eyes. “What are you doing?”

We pant in unison for
eternity.

I can't speak, only follow
him with my eyes as he kisses my bare shoulder and I hate myself for
doing what I'm about to do.

Because when he removes his
hand we're still standing in the kitchen, fully dressed, my drink
secured in my hand, and I'm about to go all crazy on his ass.

6

Steven can't look up from
his plate.

I keep burning holes into
him whenever I get the chance.

We're eating in silence.
He's utterly embarrassed. I'm positively pissed at him.

He thought I'd like it. He
thought I wanted it. He thought I'd be happy.

I told him he had to stop
taking what I say so literally.

“
This
is really good. You
are
a good cook,” he breaks the ice.

I can tell he hasn't seen so
much food put together in a long time and can't help being excited
about it. Good, 'cause I spent a lot of time and effort on this
dinner and it's not going to waste, hence the fact we're eating and
he's not currently hauling his sorry ass back to his house.

“
Thank
you.” My tone is dry, annoyed, of course. I let a beat pass.
“You don't choke after projecting a fantasy?”

“
I
don't since it doesn't require physical effort, only mental.”

“
Not
even a headache?”

“
No.”

“
You
should.” It should give you a motherfucking head-splitting
ache.

He sighs, as if he could
hear my thoughts. “What did I do wrong?”

“
Nothing.
That's the point. It was fucking perfect.”

“
I
don't see the problem then.”

I glance at the unbroken
light bulbs on the lamp above us and the perfectly fine flower vase I
had to push to the side because it was shielding half his face.

“
I
don't want perfect. I don't care for perfect. And, above all, I told
you to stop it with the fantasies.”

“
You
fought it again.”

“
Was
I the one who blew up the lights?”

He nods.

“
I
would've imploded the whole place had I not been so lost.”

He smirks.

“
Don't
do that, don't smirk. This isn't funny.”

“
I'm
not laughing.”

“
I'm
not letting you touch me ever again. From now on you are to keep your
hands away from me at all times or I'll handcuff you.”

He sneers at me. “I
hate handcuffs.”

“
Then
you'll learn to love them if you want to keep seeing me.” I
watch him in all his ‘I'm so uncomfortable I can't sit
straight’ glory. “How did you know?”

“
How
did I know what?”

“
What
to do. How did you come up with the whole throwing me around and
shit?”

He pauses, thinking.

I can tell I'm not going to
like the answer.

“
Did
you look on my computer?”

“
No,
of course not!” He puts the fork down. “I didn't touch
the thing and even if I did, I wouldn't know how to use it.”
Cleans his mouth with the napkin. “Giana, listen to me. Part of
my ability depends on knowing what it is the person desires. It's the
only way I can give them accurate fantasies.”

“
So
you do read minds.”

Half his mouth quirks. “It's
not mind reading. I can only tap into the part of the brain that
holds those kinds of thoughts. I can scan a person's dreams, goals,
wants, so I can design the fantasies around it.”

“
Mind
raping.”

“
Stop
calling it that!”

I think it fits. After this,
I think it fucking fits.

Now
I'm
feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“
I
apologize. I'm sorry I made you feel this way.”

“
How
do I feel? Because, sincerely, I don't know how I feel right now. I
have no fucking idea of how I should feel right now.”

He cringes, recoils.

Then a noise starts in the
background and we both look up at the roof.

Some slow bass ripples
through the walls while the melody that accompanies it talks about
some soul-R&B-whatever-crap I don't want to be listening to right
now.

“
The
couple upstairs,” I say apologetically. “They do that
every Friday night.”

He's leaning back in his
chair, making a face at the ceiling while I clear the plates off the
table.

“
I'll
go up there and give them a piece of my mind.”

When I turn back to him he's
standing. “I'll go with you.”

“
You
stay right there until I come back.”

My demand goes unheard as I
make my way to the door and he follows me.

I roll my eyes in
frustration the moment we reach the elevator and he steps in behind
me.

Have I said before he'd make
a great dog?

“
Let
me do the talking,” I say.

Then, when I'm about to
press the button for the next floor, he interposes himself and pushes
the one for the top floor.

“
I
have a better idea.” He's smiling again.

“
But
the music…”

“
We’ll
sort that out later.”

This dude's persistent, or
stubborn, or very, very stupid.

When we reach the top floor,
he asks me to show him the rooftop access. Maybe he wants to jump off
the building? Maybe this was all a preamble to some psycho thing he's
got going on?

Why do I keep thinking about
him this way?

It's night and it's cold and
I walk behind him as he reaches the ledge. We're only a story above
the apartment with the music and it travels to us, not letting us go.

He looks, peeks down at the
street and I'm about to go for the grab when I see he's keeping
perfect balance.