Heroine Complex (20 page)

“Stop.” I met his eyes. “I may not know much right now, but I know I want this. And I don't want to think about what it means. I want to exist in this moment and I want . . .” The full weight of everything that had happened that day washed over me. My voice broke and I
swallowed. No more crying. “I want the rest of the world to disappear for a little while. Okay?”

He stared back at me and I thought he was going to move me to the side, to leave, to let my delicate girl-soul down easy. Instead, one side of his mouth tipped up and his eyes lit with tenderness, softening his face even further. He covered one of my hands with his.

“Okay.”

We took a few precautions. We agreed to go slow. And at my request Nate found the fire extinguisher we kept downstairs and put it next to the bed.

And then we were back to me straddling him. We stared at each other, unsure of what to do now that we'd taken a little break from the heat of passion. I shifted uncomfortably as the silence stretched on too long.

Finally I said, “Maybe you should kiss me.”

He rested his hands on my waist.

“You're the one who made the, er, final decision. That we should do this. I think
you
should kiss
me
.”

“Yeah, pretty sure we're both really into my decision. I'd say there's some very convincing proof . . .” My eyes drifted downward, right below his waistband. “ . . . that you're equally—”

His mouth was on mine before I could complete that thought, his hands taking charge and pulling me flush against him. The aforementioned proof pressed against the critical juncture between my legs, but before I could so much as moan, he rolled me onto my back, his hands sliding underneath my tank top, the electric brush of his fingertips raising goose bumps on the most sensitive parts of my skin.

“Are we really fighting,” he said between kisses, “about
how
we're going to have sex?”

“You started it,” I murmured, biting his lower lip.

“I don't think so. But I'm not going to argue with you.”

He pulled back and gave me a wicked smile. “There are much better things I could be doing with my mouth right now.”

Before I could fully process the fact that 1) Nate made a joke and 2) Nate made a
dirty
joke, he was making good on that promise, trailing kisses down my neck and between my breasts. Every brush of his lips was an incendiary mark, a touch that sent shockwaves coursing through me. His hands skimmed my torso, playing with the ragged hem of my old tank top, then yanking hard, instantly transforming my shirt into shreds.

“Hey.”
My hand jutted out, landing on his chest. “Do you really have to ruin all my shirts like that?”

He smiled at me, twisting a particularly sproingy lock of my hair around his finger and giving it a little tug. “The one I just . . . removed was almost destroyed anyway.”

I bit my lip to keep my traitorous mouth from smiling back. “Take yours off, too.”

His grin widened and he obliged, slipping his black cotton number over his head and revealing . . .
wow
. I knew he was fit. But even my most vivid imaginings couldn't have conjured the beautiful muscles of his chest, the way they flowed into impossibly broad shoulders. My greedy fingertips skimmed over the terrain of his bare skin. I wanted to touch it all.

We made a wordless agreement to do away with the rest of our clothes. And then he knelt between my thighs, nothing left between us but the thin cotton of his boxers and the lace of my panties. I allowed my eyes to flutter closed, wondering what was next. He was so
big
. Those broad shoulders. That gorgeous chest. I couldn't help but wonder if he was, you know . . . proportional.

I mean, he'd certainly
felt
impressive when we were pressed up against each other the night before, but I hadn't been able to really get the full picture—

“Oh.” His voice broke into my porny thoughts. “Wow.”

I remembered then that I was wearing neon yellow underwear. My eyes flew open.

“You trying to blind me?” His voice was laced with amusement.

I propped myself up on my elbows, getting my best glare on. “I didn't exactly expect that we would be—
oh
.”

Suddenly his tongue was stroking me through neon lace, hitting the exact right spot to send spikes of pleasure rocketing through me. I gasped hard,
want
giving way to
need
.

He lifted his head. No wicked grin this time—just pure intensity. He touched my hand. Which was still perfectly cool, no sign of fire at all.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I managed to squeak out.

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of my panties and slowly dragged them off, his eyes never leaving mine.

And then I was naked in front of him.

He hesitated, his eyes roaming my body, and I felt self-conscious. I hadn't been naked in front of someone in a very long time. Not since Richard.

“Wh-what?” I stuttered. My arms crossed over my chest, trying to cover some of my bared skin. “Is something wrong?”

Maybe my breasts were lopsided. Maybe that random smattering of freckles on my left hip was off-putting. Maybe I looked weird naked.

He gently pried my crossed arms away from my body, interlacing his fingers with mine and pinning my hands on either side of my head. “No,” he said softly. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “I just like looking at you.”

I flushed all over.

He squeezed my hands. “Still okay?” he whispered.

I took inventory. My hands remained nice and cool. The fire was staying put.

“Definitely okay,” I whispered back.

He released my hands and pulled back to study me again, and now I could see the raw desire in his gaze. He slipped off his glasses and set them on the nightstand—an endearingly tidy gesture—then lowered himself along my body. He framed my hips with his hands and found me again with his tongue, marking my most intimate spot with his mouth. The pleasure had been intense even with the barrier of my panties. Now it was almost unbearable, nearly sending me over the edge. My fingernails dug into his shoulders.

I was practically panting with need as he worked his way up, planting lingering, open-mouthed kisses on my hipbone, my navel, the delicate underside of my right breast. When he finally slipped my nipple between his teeth, I almost combusted, white light exploding behind my eyes as my lashes fluttered shut, my fingers thrusting into his hair to pull him closer, my back arching so far off the bed, I felt like I might break in half.

A sharp cry of protest escaped me as he pulled away from my breast, but he stopped it with a kiss, his wall of a chest pressing against me, both of us slick with sweat, our heartbeats united again.

He pulled back and brought a hand to my face, brushing my hair out of my eyes. Gentle, even in the midst of our moment of complete inhibition-shedding.

He took my hands again, brushing his thumbs over my palms.

My palms were good to go.

All of me
was good to go.

Stay put,
I thought at the fire.
For the love of God: please stay fucking put.

“Yes?” he whispered.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, bringing my lips to his ear.

“Yes
.”

He rolled away from me and yanked open the nightstand drawer, scrabbling around for a condom and
nearly falling off the edge of the bed in the process. If I hadn't been so focused on the very serious business of having sex with him, I might have giggled.

He finally found what he was looking for and slipped off his boxers and . . .

Oh. Oh, God.

So, yes—he was
definitely
proportional.

He put the condom on and then he was back to me, his big hands lifting my hips. He slid inside of me in one long thrust and I groaned low in my throat. He felt good. So goddamn good, I could barely stand it.

He gasped my name in that hoarse, husky way that undid me completely.

And we went over the edge together.

THE DISEMBODIED HAND
reached for my neck again.

I scuttled backward and it swiped at me, claws extended, as if it could already feel my neck in its slimy grasp. The crude tattoo on its index finger mocked me, a mysterious rune I couldn't decipher. I tried to scoot backward again, tried to get the fuck out of the way, but I couldn't gain traction. One of the claws made contact, cutting a deep groove into my wrist.

I stared at the cut. It didn't hurt. In fact, my entire arm was numb. Blood started to drip from the wound, slowly at first. Then it picked up speed: gushing, flowing. I pressed my hand over the cut, but blood poured through my fingers. And then it was everywhere, coating my entire body, a red haze obstructing my vision. I opened my mouth to scream and was choked by an onslaught of blood pouring into my mouth.

I couldn't call for help. I was drowning. I was dead. I was overtaken by the roaring in my ears, a deep growl that started low and crescendoed into a wall of sound. And then I was slipping away . . .

My eyes snapped open. I jerked my wrist up to my face. It was unblemished, unbloodied. I wasn't dead. I was in my bed, safe.

And yet the roaring in my ears was still disturbingly present. I rolled onto my side and was greeted by a wall
of muscular man-flesh. A wall of muscular man-flesh emitting a snore so powerful, I could practically feel the bed frame shake.

Oh. Right.

I eased myself into a sitting position, doing my best not to wake Nate. My fuzzy comforter had twisted itself around his giant frame, a comical imitation of a too-small toga. There were things about his body I hadn't noticed in the dark of night: the muscular curve of his back, the surprising grace housed in those thick limbs, the pale latticework of scars crisscrossing over his left shoulder. I brushed a fingertip over the scars, wondering where they had come from.

He was, I thought, kind of heartbreakingly beautiful.

My fluttery thought was cut short when he let loose with another snore.

I bit my lip to keep from giggling. I was thankful to that snore for snapping me out of my nightmare. I rolled onto my back, shuddering at the memory of the hand reaching for my neck.

Three makes a trend.
The phrase popped into my head out of nowhere. It had been a standby during my stint in academia, a thing professors liked to spit out to get you to better prove whatever thesis you'd been struggling to justify. And while I'd definitely struggled with it at the time, the rule was pretty sound and eventually led me to some of my best paper topics.

The Aveda statues. The Tommy demon. The hand.

All three of these things moved in similar lurching fashion. And . . . hmm. Come to think of it, the hand followed the pattern of imprinting on something very human-like. Did that mean something? What was the trend? Besides the fact that they were different from the demons we'd dealt with before?

What were they after?

Suddenly it hit me.

That's it,
I thought.
Or at least . . . that's something.

I sat up and punched Nate in the arm.

“Nate,” I yelped. “Wake up.” He grunted and pulled a pillow over his head.

I clambered on top of him, straddling him at the waist.

“Nate.”

“Mrph?”

I yanked his pillow shield away and tossed it to the side. He threw an arm over his eyes. I jounced around, batting at his chest.

“Naaaaaaate!”

He lowered his arm, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the light and took me in. I was wearing his shirt and nothing else. He'd argued that I should put it on before going to sleep so I didn't “catch cold from the freezing air seeping in through that window you insist on leaving open.” I'd just wanted to pass out after the mind-blowing series of orgasms he'd given me. We'd bickered about it, but I'd ultimately given in—the shirt was soft and smelled like him.

It hit me that we were both half-naked and in the potentially awkward throes of the morning after. I decided to just motor through the theory I wanted to share without acknowledging that.

“This possible new breed of demons,” I said. “I think they're stalking Aveda.”

I paused to make sure he was fully awake and listening to me. He appeared to be. He was also resting his hands on my hips. Which was kind of nice. I forced myself to focus.

“In the places where we've seen these out of the ordinary demon things—Whistles, the Yamato, and the mall—Aveda was there right before the attack happened. She had to go down to Whistles the day before the party to scope out the atmosphere. She was skulking around the Nordstrom shoe department, shoplifting with Bea, right before the hand appeared.”

“And what about the Yamato?” he asked. “Since when has Aveda Jupiter deigned to go to something as pedestrian as a movie?”

I poked his chest. “Every Friday, eleven a.m. matinee. She's there, usually wearing some terrible disguise. Always hoping someone will recognize her and tweet about how down-to-earth Aveda Jupiter is, going to bargain matinees and all. And how fantastic she looks in her disguise, of course.” His eyes widened in surprise. “I guess that was our secret.”

“What about the League benefit?” he said. He looked at me thoughtfully, his words free of their usual know-it-all air.

“What about it?”

“Didn't you see a demon on your way to the bathroom? While you were glamoured as Aveda? One of the statue demons?”

“I thought I imagined it, but . . .” I called up the image in my head and forced my brain to accept what my gut already knew was true. “It was there,” I said. “I think it must've ducked out that alternate bathroom exit you and I used to leave. And . . .” A chill ran up my spine as I replayed the scene from yesterday. “And the hand at the mall: it threw itself at her. It was trying to strangle her before I stepped in the way.”

He nodded slowly. “So if they are stalking Aveda . . . why? What's their goal?”

I thought about it. I'd been giddy about my possible revelation, but as I contemplated it further, dread built in my chest. “Let's think about the theory that this new evolution of demons is smarter. I mean, the hand didn't interact with us like Tommy, but it played piano, which indicates some level of intelligence beyond the usual ‘I want to eat everything in sight' credo.”

I looked at him to see if he was following me. He nodded.

“So if they
are
smarter, maybe they've keyed into the fact that Aveda Jupiter always takes them down,” I said. “Maybe they think if they defeat her, they can take over the world. Or at least the city.”

“Do you think that directive-issuing stone from Cake My Day—‘You need three'—is connected?”

“Three . . .” I trailed off, a shiver running up my spine.

Three makes a trend.

“Maybe whoever's in charge, whoever the directive was issued to, has the three they need?” I said. “The statues, the hand, and Tommy? But if so, what happens next? Does that mean they're all set to take Aveda out?”

“If that were the case, I can't help but feel they would have mounted a more ambitious initiative than sending a single demon hand to strangle her,” Nate said. “And since you defeated Tommy and the hand, it's unclear what these demons actually have in their arsenal right now.”

“The statue demons came back, though,” I said. I gnawed my lower lip. “I swear I destroyed them all, and then one of them just showed up at the benefit. Like it resurrected itself or something. What if Tommy and the hand can do that?”

Nate nodded, thinking. “Let's see if we can make some of these connections more solid. I need to dissect the specimen from yesterday—the tip of the thumb.”

“And we should bring everyone up to speed.” I attempted to shove my burgeoning dread to the side. No sense in getting all freaked out until we knew more. I started to hoist myself off Nate. “Time to rally the troops. Or at least figure out if the rest of the troops are awake.”

“Wait.” His hands tightened around my hips. “Before you go rally, I . . .”

“What? You want your shirt back?”

“No.” He gave me a slight smile, then eased himself into a sitting position. We were face to face: me still straddling him, his hands moving to my lower back. He hesitated, something unsure flitting through his eyes.

“We should have sex again,” he said.

“Like . . . now?”

“No. I mean, I am not opposed to that and if you had
woken me up for sex rather than demon theory discussion, I would have been very open to it, but that's not what I . . .” He shook his head, frustrated. “I can never seem to say things right.”

I thought about his gentle words to me when I couldn't stop crying the night before. His insistence that I was brave when I felt anything but. “You do okay sometimes.”

He took a deep breath and let his thoughts pour out in a rush. “I think we should have sex again sometime in the near future. Possibly several times in the near future. If you want.”

“Are you interested in testing my control further?” I teased. “See what does and does not provoke my flame-y reaction? Like a sexperiment?”

“No, that's not it.” He didn't laugh, just regarded me steadily, his serious expression contrasting in bizarre yet appealing fashion with his sleep-tousled hair. “I am not someone who has fun very often. But I had fun last night. And I'd like to have fun with you again.”

I couldn't help but smile. I hadn't had time to consider our sex status post-last night, but now that he mentioned it . . .

I'd also had fun. I totally wanted more multiple orgasms. And if our theory about this new breed of demons targeting Aveda was in any way correct, I was going to need major stress relief.

God, was I really trying to come up with a list of reasons to have
incredibly hot sex
? Which, by the way, hadn't resulted in anyone being burned to death?

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay?”

“Yes. But we need a couple of ground rules.”

“Such as?”

“It can't mean anything beyond the sex. I don't have the emotional bandwidth for that right now. Fun and orgasms: those are our only objectives. And no telling
anyone. I'd rather not explain this, uh, arrangement to Aveda or Bea. Or even Lucy. Oh, and I still get to call it a ‘sexperiment.'”

He gave me a solemn nod. “I accept your terms.” He pulled me closer. “And as far as sexperimental aspects to explore . . .”

“I'm listening.”

He smiled. This whole tousled, naked, “I just woke up and successfully proposed a possibly disastrous sex plan to the girl in my lap” thing he had going on was really working for me. I suppressed the big, dopey grin that was threatening to spread over my face.

“We can try different locations. Perhaps places containing elements that counteract fire, just in case.”

“Like . . . what, a rainstorm?”

In one fluid motion, he slid off the bed and stood, taking me with him. “Like the shower.”

This time, I didn't suppress my big, dopey grin. I didn't even try.

After my sexperimental shower, I bolted downstairs, all ready to make with the troop rallying.

Instead I stumbled into an intervention.

Lucy and Bea were clustered around the kitchen table and Scott was standing off to the side, his usual easy posture disrupted by the steady drum of his fingertips against the kitchen countertop. They were all frowning at Aveda, who was sitting in a chair across from them. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her face was screwed into an “are you kidding me?” version of her usual imperious look. There was a single empty chair positioned next to her.

I didn't have to ask who it was for.

I sat down and resisted the urge to fidget or play with my hair, which was matted against my head in an
awkward half-wet, half-dry formation. Silence blanketed the air.

“Maybe you should go first, Bea,” Lucy said.

“Me?” Bea frowned, swirling Froot Loops around in an overflowing bowl of milk. I was firmly anti-milk, but Bea liked to drown her cereal in the stuff. Even as a toddler, she was obstinate about this, furiously banging her spoon against her high chair to demand more. “But you're, like, the most senior person, Lucy. You should go first.”

“Well, I don't know about that. Scott, you've been friends with both of them since junior high. Maybe you'd like to—”

“Technically, Bug's known them the longest, though,” Scott protested, gesturing to Bea. “You know, since birth. And I heard about everything that happened yesterday secondhand—”

“Exactly,” said Bea. “So you're the best person to speak to—”

“That doesn't make any sense—”

“Actually, it kind of does if you really think about it,” Lucy said.

“Oh my God,” I blurted out. “You guys are the absolute worst at putting on an intervention.”