Haunted

She had watched the lithe swagger of his body as he made his way through the crowd. He shouldn’t be able to move like that, she’d thought. Muscle and brawn shouldn’t have such grace. It was as if he contained some sort of magic, like he held an invisible scepter in his hand and commanded the world to fall at his feet. Time and again she watched in disbelief, heralding tangible proof that indeed, the world obeyed.
Not me, she silently vowed. I won’t give in.
She refused to feed the powerful jaws of such a man’s ego, for surely it meant imminent death of pride.
She secretly referred to him as a modern Henry VIII. Females flocked to him, making fools of themselves in an attempt to attract his attention. She knew of more than one woman who would kill for a mere glance of those turquoise eyes.
Please, not me.

But against her will his face returned to haunt her, and for seven hundred and seventy seven days the images had swirled in her dreams, the spicy and sweet and bitter morsels of fantasy. She considered the eight seasons that had come and gone, the two birthdays that had reared their monotonous heads, putting from her mind the infinitesimal amount of lips she was sure had brushed his since he had sauntered into her life.
She cursed herself for a moment as the sunlight cut through the dark shade of her sunglasses, as she watched his panther-like car idle on the curb. She cursed him, too. He knew what power he had over her, no matter that for eighteen thousand, six hundred and forty-eight hours she had wished he might find her attractive. Even now, while he sat grinning at her from the open window of his sleek ride, she wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about her.
“You lookin’ for a date?” he purred in her direction.
She grinned back in spite of herself. Damn his charm. Flipping shut her eight hundred page novel, she rose from bench where she had waited for him. She was annoyed with herself, knowing she had brought the book for his benefit, hoping that he realized her brain housed more than Brangelina fodder. Her inner self rolled her eyes in disgust. She knew the type of girl he liked. And why did she care what this man thought? He would never be more to her than a handsome flirt and she felt her heart squeeze in disappointment.
She opened the passenger door and slid a long, thin, shorts-clad leg in, again aware that she did so to elicit his admiration.
It worked.
She felt her blood rush as his gaze rested on the bare skin of her thigh, hoping – though she knew better – that he wouldn’t notice the quickening of her breath.
She had to make it through the night without losing her sanity.
Or her heart.

Their laughter sprinkled the night air and she ached at the bittersweet ease that wove its way around them; one little tug and she would unravel completely. She was struck with the truth that although he was cocky, underneath his confident façade lay an insecure little boy, one who constantly amazed her as each new layer was revealed, his mind more attractive than his beautiful face.
The proverbial line loomed on the horizon, one that they both wanted to cross, she knew. She felt it in the way his eyes brushed her face, and in the electricity that sparkled across her fair skin.
At midnight he walked her to her door and with a hesitation so brief she might have imagined it, he accepted her proposal and followed her inside.
He lay on the bed.
He offered her the place beside him.
She said she was afraid.
At that word his gaze softened, replaced by what she might have deemed regret if she hadn’t known better, hadn’t been aware that she was merely taking her place in a long line of females. So she pretended she didn’t see his eyes go dark and lowered herself into the crook of his heavily muscled arm.
When would she learn? The question hung in the air as his divine mouth found hers and she was swept into his Herculean grasp.
Oh god, his kiss. She danced in a storm of falling stars, purple night gripping the edges of her conscience, and she fought to keep from drowning in the fiery waters of desire. She had never tasted anything so sweet, except perhaps the kiss of another man so long ago, one who appeared sometimes in the crinkle of laughter around the eyes of the man whose lips she now devoured.
She felt the hum of irony against her skin as she sluggishly contemplated why she insisted on self-torture. Their case had been tried endlessly for two years. They could never be together, she knew that. “Opposites attract” had been the best argument of the defense, but the jury knew that adage would never hold up in the court of her heart.
For some people, beliefs in complete opposition were the icing on the cake, but not for her. Never for her. She was always left with a sticky mess, one she had cleaned up more times than she cared to remember and she wondered where this kiss would lead, wondered if she had the strength to tidy the ravaged heart he was sure to leave behind.
Why did he have to know how perfectly to touch her? Why did her body ignore what her brain commanded, to rip her mouth from his, to tear his hand from her breast? He murmured her name against her neck and she was flooded with the scent of him, blackberry sin and October starlight.
She knew this would change things.
This night wasn’t like the times she had kissed a mere stranger, one who made her body tingle but failed to reach the part of her that mattered. This time she had given pieces of her heart to the man who held her now, in amounts so small she’d hardly noticed and the realization dawned that he had more of it than she had ever intended.
And then his mouth left hers and he was talking, and she fought him as he raised her to the pedestal that so many men put her on. But he was stronger than she and so she went rigid, balancing precariously on the edge of her jewel-encrusted prison.
She listened to his words as they floated up to her perch, I’m not good enough. Don’t love me. You. Are. Perfect.
She didn’t have the strength to combat his misconceptions. Her body was still weak from the heat of his mouth, from the delicious bruise his fingers had left when he accidentally held her too hard, and the lazy gaze of his honey-lashed eyes.
And so she lay down on her golden throne and tried to forget, tried to ignore the melodic lilt of his voice as he said out loud what her heart already knew.
She wished he didn’t have the power to read her so well. He saw it. Her tragic flaw.
She ached to save those who only sought destruction.
But what about me? She silently wept. Sometimes even superheroes need a savior.