The Last Superhero (9 page)

That's a fricking Rembrandt
on the wall and a Raphael.

And that's only the foyer.

Marble on the walls and the
floors, Victorian furniture, elegant grandfather clock...

A smiling man standing next
to me as I gape, taking my coat.

“
This
is beautiful.”

“
Thank
you,” he says, perching my coat on the rack and walking ahead.
“Two hundred years of history inside these walls. This house
has sheltered every kind of people.”

Curious steps take me over
to a large lounge room where a giant statue captures my eye. I know
it, recognize it. It's stunning and creepy and stunning again.

The archangel Michael, his
foot pressing down the head of a defeated Satan, his large wings
spread and his sword ready to pierce the skull of the devil under
him.

“
That's
the archangel Michael.”

“
My
uncle Michelangelo commissioned it to an artist, hence the face.”

What I was about to point
out.

“
Looks
so much like you.”

“
The
features run in the family. The nose, the eyes, the lips.”

“
Yeah.”

I'm so enthralled by the
statue I don't feel Steven closing the distance between us, standing
behind me, snaking his arms around my waist.

I look down and, even when
his arms are around me, he's holding his hands in the air.

His chin rests on my
shoulder, his mouth next to my ear. “I'm not touching you.”

“
Better
keep it that way.”

“
Would
you like the grand tour?”

“
I
interrupted your bath.”

“
I
was just getting out.”

He straightens himself and I
miss his arms around me already.

It's an awful big house with
a drawing room, and study, and office, and a bunch of bedrooms, and
bathrooms, and a kitchen that could hold a whole restaurant's staff,
and a library.

A motherfucking/floor to
ceiling/books everywhere/smell of old books hit you in the face and
invade your nostrils library.

“
Oh.
My. God.”

And I feel like pulling the
rolling ladder and precariously hanging on it while singing some
stupid song. Maybe there are some household objects that spring to
life when no one's looking spying on us right now.

I step closer to one of the
shelves and there are books so old they seem to be first editions and
in different languages.

“
Do
you like it?”

“
It's
wonderful!”

“
Then
it's yours.”

“
You
have no idea how much money we can make out of this!”

“
WHAT?”

“
I'm
kidding. Although, we convert all this to e-books and end up filthy
rich.”

He's got one eyebrow curved
in, the other one up.

“
Forget
it. It's a wonderful library. I love it.”

“
You
really have a talent for ruining the moment.”

He walks towards a bay
window overlooking the backyard.

Really, Giana? Facepalm
yourself.

He stands there, baggy
pants, baggy shirt, messy hair, messy self.

Be the flame and I'll be
your clumsy little moth.

I walk over to him, take his
hands, and press them against my cheeks, kiss them, feel them, hold
them close.

He seizes the moment to comb
my hair out of my face.

And I trust.

He kisses me. Searing.
Hungry. Demanding. Then pulls his own reins and glances at me, at my
eyes, at my lips.

We're still here, no
fantasy.

“
It's
been too long.”

“
Didn't
seem so last night.”

“
That
was completely different.” He brushes his nose against mine. “I
think we should talk about that.”

His hand finds mine.

There's a pair of armchairs
and a divan nearby and we're heading...

...for the armchairs.

No, sir. The divan.

I steer him. More like yank
him. He's unsure.

“
We
can play psychologist.”

Thank goodness for smiles.

He lets me guide him to lie
on his back on the divan though he never lets go of my hand, pulling
me with him until we're both horizontal.

Way to level the game.

Did I mention he smells of
soap and squeaky-clean skin and hair?

I must smell of pollution
and dirt.

Not that he cares.

I rest my head on his
shoulder and we're lying together, staring at the high-vault ceilings
and the top-most shelves that I bet no one has touched in forever.

I feel him burying his face
in my hair and have to ask myself if I washed it last night.

I did. Wash and blow-dry and
will the unruly waves into behaving like straight hair.

And I shaved my legs, yes
sir, I did.

“
Giana,
I must know.”

“
What
do you need to know?”

“
How
you do it. How you fight my fantasies.”

“
I
was praying you had an answer for that since I have no idea.”

“
Hmm.”

“
Hmm,
indeed.”

“
How
much time do we have?”

Pull out the phone in my
pocket and look at the time.

“
Four
hours.”

Put it on the hardwood floor
and don't look back at it.

No way I can do it anyway.
He wants to keep cuddling and I have no problem with that.

“
Steven,
there are things about my mother I feel I should tell you before you
meet her.”

“
I
bet she's as nice as you are.”

“
I'm
not nice.”

“
Not
when you're angry, but right here, right now, you are.”

One of his hands is
traveling from my hip to my ribcage.

“
She's
quite... How do I put it? Extroverted.”

He chuckles. “In a
good way?”

“
In
an I-don't-care-I'll-say-what-I-want-and-laugh-as-loud-as-I-can way.”

“
Sounds
like an enviable way to live.”

“
It
is.” No, it's not. Not if he knew exactly why she is how she
is.

Because she wasn't like that
five years ago.

His hand completes its trip
and ends up on my back, flushing me to him.

He sighs.

“
What
is it?”

Pulls back.

“
Don't...
Steven?”

Sits with his back to me,
slouched, hands on his head.

“
It's
been too long.”

“
I
don't care.”

“
I'm
not like...”

“
Like
what?”

“
Like
your fantasy.”

“
You
mean the fantasy I didn't ask for?”

“
It
was all there, in your brain. And you did ask for mind-bending sex.”

“
I
said I was fucking with you on that one.” He doesn't turn.
“Weren't you aroused by it? There's no need to be rough with me
anyway, believe me.”

“
I've
learned to control my body while I'm projecting fantasies as not to
be affected by them. I wasn't aroused; I was concentrating on
extracting what you desired and providing the most accurate depiction
I could.”

Accurate depiction? Huh.

“
And,
were I to make an accurate depiction of
your
desires, what would that be?”

Come on, dude, give me
something to work with.

He's taking too long to
answer.

Bold Giana – the same
one who climbed that wall – shifts on the divan and ends up
straddling him.

He
bites his lower lip and
ugh
.

We kiss again and coming
'round here unannounced morphs into the best idea ever.

I push off his T-shirt, he
unbuttons my shirt.

I bite him and tease him, he
breathes on my neck.

I suck on his earlobe, he
fondles my breasts.

I toe off my shoes, he tugs
my jeans away.

I rid him of his bottoms, he
holds onto my waist.

He seeks for permission, I
show him the way.

He comes to a halt, I say
don't hesitate.

He thrusts with a shyness I
really can't bear.

He shifts our position, now
I'm under his stare.

He starts letting go, I hold
onto his hair.

“
Keep
your eyes on mine,” he suddenly says.

The room spinning 'round us
is only a blur.

Entwined, almost breathless,
too far to care,

he loses himself when I moan
out his name.

He slumps all his weight on
my smaller frame.

The room ceases movement,
settles again.

I kiss his lips, his eyes,
his sweaty face.

He gathers me in his arms,
holds me in place.

I meant what I said when I
said 'I don't care.'

A moment well-lived, no
matter how short, is always a gain.

9

Grinning idiots, that's what
we are all the way to the airport.

Accomplices of a
too-delicious crime.

It's like a weight has been
lifted off his shoulders.

It's like my chest won't be
tight any longer.

We spent a good part of the
four hours between then and now exploring our naked selves and
retaking that bath I interrupted.

“
Can
I ask where your father is?” he asks once we're in the car.

“
He
lives in Madrid. Mom and Dad divorced when I was little and he
remarried.” He says nothing. “His wife's great, I love
her to bits.”

“
Really?”

“
Yeah.”
I change radio stations from some ear-splitting deejay scratches to
some softer tunes. “Dad's a doctor, although we're all involved
in the book business.”

“
Oh.”

“
One
big fucking family.” I wink at him and it's as if I had shouted
'at ease!'

“
What
will you tell her?”