I bite back a little moan, circling faster around my clit. The fantasy I spin myself is as absurd as any porno featuring a plumber with pipe to lay, the narrative just a flimsy, but in the moment I don’t care. I want to imagine him landing on my balcony, wings and tail outstretched, to see my legs spread and ready for him. I shouldn’t. It’s not right. You definitely can’t have a crush on one of the mutant supervillains wrecking the city you live in.
The familiar sensation of a climax building stirs within me, and I hold back a whimper, stroking more. I’m already so close from being so turned on.
My apartment doorbell rings, and I freeze.
Shit. I kick my vibrator under the covers, get up and brush off my dress, setting everything back to normal. My clit throbs needily. Another minute and I’d have been utterly satiated.
There’s the sound of the mechanized lock on my front door whirring open, and I have to suppress a groan of annoyance. Clayton doesn’t like to be kept waiting, even a moment. I’ve just finished straightening myself up by the time he lets himself in.
I’m so sure I took my apartment key back from him. But then again, when your billionaire ex-boyfriend owns the building, of course his phone is keyed to all the electronic locks. I really should start looking for a new place.
Maybe a guy just letting himself into my home isn’t actually my fantasy. At least, not if it’s my ex. Maybe one of these nights, I’ll just go out on the balcony and bring my toy out there with me, see what I catch.
“Lacey, there’s a car waiting for us downstairs,” Clayton calls out. “The sign says fifteen-minute parking.”
“I’m sure no cop would ever dream of issuing Mr. Steel a parking ticket,” I reply dryly, and he pushes into my bedroom without even knocking. I frown. “Excuse you, what if I was still getting dressed?”
He doesn’t answer though, his eyes immediately snagging on my bedroom TV. He scoffs. “Not you too.”
My cheeks scald guiltily, and I glance toward my bed to make sure my vibrator is hidden.
“What do you mean? I’m just...watching the news,” I lie, as if I hadn’t just been masturbating to it. I’m still wet between my thighs.
“One new vigilante shows up on the scene, and everyone forgets everything I’ve done for this city.” Clayton sighs, shoving his hands in his suit pockets and glowering at my TV.
It’s not surprising that he’s upset about this guy. The whole city has been making wild speculations based on thirty seconds of blurry footage, and somehow even though I actually saw, touched, and talked to him, I know just about as little as all the other broadcasters.
I know one thing more than everyone else. He was one of Maestro’s henchmen. And he fed me pizza. Probably shouldn’t bring that up.
“The news is calling him a vigilante, but more than that, they’re calling him the new super in town,” Clayton grumbles. “I don’t know that this town is big enough for more supers. They can’t just let anybody do it.”
“You should really focus your attention on Maestro,” I tell him. “He’s up to something—”
“I fought one of his monsters yesterday. Didn’t you catch the fight?”
“I was a little tied up,” I remind him. Come to think of it, he hasn’t even asked how I am, after being, y’know, kidnapped. “I’m fine, by the way.”
“Well, I’m sure you can find a taping online somewhere,” he grunts without tearing his eyes away from the screen. Ok, and I thought I was obsessive.
“Maybe I’ll stay in then, catch the re-run,” I offer tonelessly, crossing my arms. It’s an empty threat, but it pulls his attention back to the moment.
“No, of course not. But nothing would make the public happier than seeing you present and healthy, especially after your recent scare,” he says, and offers me his arm.
I bite the inside of my cheek. That’s easily accomplished by my weather broadcast, but I don’t point that out.
I slide my clutch into the crook of his elbow and then busy myself with the clasp on my bracelet instead of taking his arm. The longer I fiddle with my bracelet, the longer I can hold myself a little away from him. It’s not going to work at the gala, but it might last me all the way to the car.
I stride for the door. “C’mon, we have less than fifteen minutes with that parking spot.”
“Lacey . . . you’re wearing the wrong shoes,” he calls from my bedroom.
I sigh and kick off the nice new two-inch heels I bought myself last week. When I put them on earlier, I had every intent of holding my ground on this, but now I just want to get through tonight with as little friction as possible. Right now, my only realneed is to eat a bunch of those fancy little hors d’oeuvres and get champagne-tipsy.
He comes out of my room and hands me my black silk flats with pearl accents. They match his look more than my dress, keeping me at just about the same height as him.
People are always surprised that Clayton is not larger than life in person; he’s just an average guy. Clayton is handsome in the same way a lot of Hallmark actors border on the term. He looks a lot taller when he’s wearing his power armor—the thruster boots add several inches. It wasn’t an issue for me when we started dating, until he started picking fights about my footwear.
I feel awful for resisting him on this issue; I should let him have a little vanity. He protects this city. He gives and gives, and I worry that there isn’t anything left for himself at the end of the day. I hate to admit that it makes loving him difficult, like it says something about me. There were too many nights that I selfishly wanted more of him for myself. But what kind of bitch would I be for saying he was more committed to saving this city than he was to our relationship? I hate that I couldn’t love him better, but I didn’t know how to love someone who wasn’t there.
