Karma Girl Part 10

Chairs flipped over. Food spilled everywhere.

The air sparked and snapped between us. Electricity hummed through my body, burning me from the inside out. I'd been jolted out of the half-alive state I'd been trapped in for so long. Everything felt more vivid, more intense, and far more pleasurable.

We stumbled into the living room and fell onto the sofa. Striker's gloved hands roamed over my body.

"Not enough," he muttered. "Not nearly enough." He ripped off one glove with his teeth. The other followed. Striker lifted my T-s.h.i.+rt over my head. My bra un-snapped with a whisper. The shock of his bare hands on my body heightened my desire. I ached for him. Striker's warm, sure hands stroked my taut b.r.e.a.s.t.s, cupping them, circling my stiff nipples. I arched my back in pleasure. He dipped his head.

Striker's wet tongue trailed down my breastbone, and he closed his mouth over my nipple. I gasped.

He ran his tongue round and round my nipple, while his hands moved down my body. My jeans popped open. With sure, hot strokes, Striker trailed his hand down into my underwear. I opened my legs, and he dipped his finger inside me. Wave after wave of pleasure cascaded through me. I was drowning in a waterfall of sensations. I shuddered and cried out.

"Better," Striker murmured in a hoa.r.s.e, husky voice. "Much, much better."

I thrashed on the sofa. A whimper escaped my throat. I wanted to touch him like he was touching me.

Pleasure him as he was pleasuring me. My fingers clawed at the slick leather, seeking some sort of entry.

Somehow, I found a zipper, yanked it open, and shoved my hand inside. Striker's flesh was as warm and solid as I'd dreamed. More so. My fingers trailed down his sculpted abdomen, past his navel. I took him in my hand, stroking him. That, too, was just as hard and solid as I'd thought it would be. Striker's breath quickened.

"Carmen," he murmured in my ear. Raw need filled his rich, deep voice. "Carmen."

The pressure inside me reached a fevered peak. It needed to be released. Now. I lifted my hips off the sofa. Striker slid my jeans down. My panties followed. I yanked on the bottom half of his suit, exposing his erection. He pulled a condom out from somewhere inside his suit and covered himself with it. None too soon.

I crossed my legs around his waist. He slid inside me, filling me.

Our eyes locked.

"Striker," I whispered. "Striker."

Slowly, we moved together. We rocked back and forth. Every thrust went deeper. Every thrust pulled me under even more. I was caught in an undertow I couldn't escape. One I didn't want to escape.

Striker kissed my neck. I ran my hands up and down his back. Our strokes grew quicker, faster, surer.

Desire had swallowed us both whole.

KarmaGirl.

Oh. My. G.o.d.

That single thought kept running through my head the next morning. Somehow, after making frenzied love to Striker, I'd drifted off to sleep. I'd woken up on the sofa in the middle of the night, a blanket covering my naked body.

The only thing I'd still had on were my socks. Striker, of course, was long gone. He'd even shut the window on his way out. How considerate of him. I wondered if he treated all his late-night conquests with such respect.

Now, I sat on the sofa, the blanket still wrapped around me. Early morning sunlight peeked in through the windows, illuminating my apartment and the colossal mess I'd made of my life.

What had I done? What the h.e.l.l had I been thinking?

I hadn't been thinking. I'd ignored my inner voice, and to my utter shame and mortification, I'd had s.e.x with a superhero. And not just any superhero. Striker. The superhero whose ident.i.ty I was trying to uncover. The superhero who had every reason to hate me.

I groaned.

I wasn't the sort of woman who slept around. I'd had only a few lovers-my college boyfriends, Matt, and Striker. I'd dated Matt for almost a year before we'd had s.e.x. Yet somehow, I'd slept with Striker after knowing him only a few weeks. And I didn't even know the real him. He was just a guy in a leather costume and a mask who followed me around and broke into my apartment on a regular basis.

How kinky was that? I had no idea who he was. He could be married for all I knew. I smacked my hand against my forehead. Adultery. I didn't need to add that to my list of sins. My karma was already black enough.

But the worst part was I couldn't get Striker out of my mind. I could still feel his lips on mine. Still feel his hands caressing my body. Still feel him moving deep inside me. It made me want him all over again.

I felt warm and squishy inside just thinking about him. If Striker were to slide through my window right now, I'd welcome him with open arms. h.e.l.l, I'd probably pounce on the poor man and demandhe pleasure me again and again and again. I buried my nose in the blanket. It smelled like him. Musky, manly, s.e.xy. I sighed.

s.e.x with Matt had been good. s.e.x with Striker the superhero had been, well, super. All right. Better than super. Fantastic. Amazing. Earth-shattering. Everything I'd ever dreamed of and more.

But there was more to it than just s.e.x. I'd felt safe in Striker's arms. Completely safe. And even cared for. That thought, the need for it to be true, rattled me. Striker had stirred up emotions I thought I'd buried for good after the brutal breakup with Matt.

Snap out of it, Carmen! So what if I'd had s.e.x with Striker? It didn't mean anything. According to all the articles I'd read, superheroes sleeping with people they'd saved wasn't uncommon. Some of them even got off on having anonymous s.e.x with strangers. And on the flip side, there was a whole cult of people called Slaves for Superhero s.e.x who put themselves in danger just so they could get rescued and make time with a superhero.

At least I wasn't that far gone.

Yet.

Besides, it wasn't like Striker and I could ever have a real relations.h.i.+p. There was too much bad karma between us. He was a superhero, and I was a nosy reporter. The two just didn't mix, no matter how much chemistry we might have.

And did we have chemistry. I'd been so hot for Striker I thought I might spontaneously combust.

KarmaGirl.

Judging by the way he'd called out my name, Striker had had just as good a time as me. At least, I hoped so.

I shook my head to clear away my charged thoughts. I'd chalk up last night to a temporary bout of insanity and the fact that I hadn't had s.e.x in over three years. Maybe the drug Frost had knocked me out with had some sort of weird pheromones in it. Maybe that's why I was so attracted to Striker. Or maybe the superhero sprayed his costume with some woman-attracting musk that made him irresistible to the opposite s.e.x. My weak excuses did little to comfort me, but they were all that I had.

At least we'd used protection, and I'd started taking the pill again recently in hopes of dating and having s.e.x sometime in the near future. So I didn't have to worry about getting knocked up by the superhero.

How embarra.s.sing would that be? Unless, of course, Striker had some sort of weird, superstrong sperm that could thwart any attempts to counteract it. Were supercharged s.e.x organs part of being a superhero?

I'd seen some sort of journal article on superhero-and-ubervillain reproduction during my research, but I couldn't remember the details.

My inner voice chattered, and another alarming thought popped into my mind.

What if Striker had been wearing an earpiece, as he did so many nights when he dropped in? The other members of the Fearless Five could have heard every word, every sound, every moan and cry of pleasure. They could even be dissecting our night of pa.s.sion at this very moment.

My cheeks flamed. I buried my face in my hands.

Oh. My. G.o.d.

KarmaGirl.

10.

Somehow, I pulled my thoughts away from Striker. I took a long, hot shower, cleaned up the mess we'd made in the kitchen during our fit of pa.s.sion, and got dressed.

That night, I attended the annual Fall Ball, hosted by the Bigtime Debutante Society. It was the night when all the proud, marriage-minded mothers introduced their daughters to Bigtime society and made them go trolling for suitably rich husbands.

My eyes roamed over the crowd. I studied all the men, comparing them to Striker. I wondered if one of them sported a black leather suit underneath his tuxedo. Wondered if one of them had a mask hidden in his jacket pocket. Wondered if one of them was thinking about what had happened between us last night.

Wondered- High-pitched laughter caught my ear. A cl.u.s.ter of twenty-something debutantes gathered around Sam Sloane, giggling at his every word. For once, the billionaire appeared to be a little fl.u.s.tered by the hungry, female attention. He seemed distracted and kept glancing around, scanning the crowd. Who could he possibly be searching for? People flocked to Sloane. He didn't have to seek out company of any kind-female or otherwise. And where was his latest supermodel? The billionaire looked rather exposed without a towering blond clutching his arm.

I stared at Sloane. Wondering. Comparing. Contrasting.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Oh, he had black hair like Striker, but so did lots of rich businessmen. It was practically a job requirement on the society scene. If you weren't a thirtyish playboy with dark good looks, then you were fifty-plus, with a mane of silver hair, and searching for trophy wife number three. Besides, Sloane just didn't seem to have Striker's intensity. Sloane was as handsome as the next playboy, but he couldn't turn me into a puddle of mush with a single glance. Still, for some reason, my eyes strayed back to him again and again. Perhaps I should use Henry's list to dig a little deeper into Sam Sloane, just to be sure he wasn't Striker.

Sam Sloane, Nate Norris, Devlin Dash. Each of them and a dozen others fit Striker's general description.

I paid special attention to Dash, who always sported a pair of silver-rimmed gla.s.ses, usually a dead giveaway. But Dash seemed too quiet and introverted to be the leader of a team of superheroes like the Fearless Five. All he did was wander around, sip champagne, and look at the paintings that adorned the walls.

After an hour of sizing up every man on the premises, I gave up. If Striker was hidden among the high-society crowd, I wasn't going to discover his ident.i.ty tonight. There were just too many suspects.

I was finis.h.i.+ng up my last interview when excited whispers cut through the air. A group of people cl.u.s.tered around an older man. A fancy cell phone flickered in his hand, and I spotted an SNN logo on the tiny screen.

"What's going on?" I asked, shoving my way through the crowd.

"The Terrible Triad's on a rampage," a matronly mother piped up. "They've ransacked the Complete Computer Company already, and they're at the Super Duper Sweeper Upper Vacuum Cleaner Plant right now. Everybody's wondering where the Fearless Five are. Why they haven't stopped them yet."

My breath caught in my throat. Where the Terrible Triad were, the Fearless Five would soon follow.

Including Striker. I dashed out of the ball, flagged down a taxi, and leapt into the backseat.

KarmaGirl.

"The Super Duper Sweeper Upper Vacuum Cleaner Plant. And step on it."

"What's the address?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know? Just follow the police cars and the sound of the explosions."

"What are you?" the driver asked. "One of those weird superhero chasers?"

"Something like that," I muttered. Superhero-obsessed s.l.u.t was more like it.

The cabbie double-timed it, and ten minutes later, we stopped a block away from the plant. I shoved the fare at him, scrambled out of the taxi, and started running. Now, running toward the scene of an ubervillain crime spree wasn't the smartest thing in the world to do, especially when Malefica wanted to turn me into a monster. But I couldn't stay away. Not if there was even the smallest chance he would be there. Striker . . . Striker . . . Striker. My footsteps pounded out his name as I sprinted toward the plant.

The cops were already on the scene. Police cars, SWAT vehicles, and a couple of tanks crouched in front of the plant, a square, squat building in one of Bigtime's blue-collar neighborhoods. Lights swirled on top of the vehicles, bathing everything in a harsh, red glow. I dashed past the old ladies in their curlers and housecoats, and the kids in their baggy sweats. A beefy cop held up his hand, but I flashed my press pa.s.s at him and zoomed by before he could protest. Sirens screeched, and walkie-talkies cracked and squawked. I made my way as close to the front of the barricade as I could, grabbed an official-looking guy in a dark suit, and shoved a tape recorder into his face.

"Carmen Cole with The Expose. What's the situation?"

"In case you haven't noticed, we've got three ubervillains on the roof who don't want to come down.

That's the situation," he growled. The guy pulled his arm free and turned back to his fellow policemen.

I craned my neck up. Sure enough, the Terrible Triad stood on top of the two-story building. Malefica put her hands on her hips. Frost cradled his infamous freezoray gun in his arms, while a large metal briefcase dangled from Scorpion's meaty hand. I eyed the briefcase. What could there possibly be of value at a vacuum cleaner plant?

The three of them stared down at the crowd, unconcerned by the cops' considerable show of strength.

"Put your weapons down and your hands up!" a cop roared through a bullhorn.

Malefica just laughed. The pealing cackles sent chills up my spine. She turned to Frost and gestured at the policemen. The thin ubervillain stepped forward. His icy eyes swept over the crowd.

"d.a.m.n that's cold!" a cop close to me muttered.

Something hit the ground next to my feet. It had been a gun at one time, but now a solid lump of ice covered the weapon. One by one, the cops dropped their frozen guns. Even the ones on the tanks iced over. Frost sneered.

"Your puny weapons are no match for me!" the ubervillain shouted. "And your lack of intellect is too small to calculate!"

Scorpion cracked his knuckles. He looked like he wanted to drop the briefcase and dive off the roof onto the cops below. Malefica waved and blew kisses to the crowd. Some of the men cheered her name and let out low whistles and catcalls. At least, until their wives glared at them.

The policemen exchanged nervous glances. A couple checked their watches. They were outmatched, and they knew it. I looked for Chief Newman, but I couldn't spot him in the crowd. And where were the Fearless Five . . . ?

Suddenly, a fireball slammed into the building where the Terrible Triad stood. Three more figures popped up on the far side of the roof. The Fearless Five had arrived. Fiera flashed by in all her flaming glory and hurled a fireball at Scorpion, who ducked out of the way. Mr. Sage focused his gaze on Frost's KarmaGirl.

gun, trying to rip it out of his hand with his telekinesis, while the ubervillain tried to put the deep freeze on him.

But I only had eyes for Striker. He ran at Malefica as if to tackle her, but she used her telekinetic powers to pick up a couple of cement blocks and throw them at the superhero. The blocks slammed into his chest, and Striker fell to his knees. I gasped. My knuckles whitened around my tape recorder. But the superhero got right back up and went after Malefica again.

For the next ten minutes, the two groups tried to kill each other and level the surrounding neighborhood.

Fireb.a.l.l.s, rubble, and more flew through the air. Explosion after explosion roared out. Grunts, shouts, and curses floated down from the rooftop.

The spectators oohed and aahed at the pyrotechnic show.

Girls played with Fiera action figures. Boys crossed mock Striker swords. Teenagers punched each other with foam Scorpion fists. Just another typical superhero-ubervillain battle in Bigtime.

With a loud groan, part of the roof collapsed. All sorts of things smashed and cracked and shattered. A cloud of smoke puffed up, obscuring the roof. Everyone screamed and leapt back except me. I couldn't move. Not until I was sure that Striker was okay. It was suddenly very important to me that he was all right.

"Let's go!" Malefica shouted above the roar of the crowd.

A horrible screech rang out. It was like a thousand ice picks stabbing into my brain at the same time.

Agony, pure agony. I stuck my fingers in my ears to try to block the noise, but it didn't work. The sound intensified. Just when I thought I couldn't stand another second of it, the terrible noise stopped. I shook my head, trying to clear away the painful fog. All the cops around me wore similar, dazed expressions.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?"