blush.
“Ihavetogo,” I mumble that last bit out.
“I do know you,” he says. “You’re Emma Frost. The White
Queen. Biggest bitch.”
I glare.
“Hey and you kind of look like her too. Though your boobs
need to be a lot bigger. It threw me off at first.”
I purse my lips, feeling a little offended like Rose would.
“Stop making Batman look like a pervert.” As I pass, my shoulder shoves into
his, and I stomp away. It’s probably way more badass in my head than actuality.
Something about costumes—about being someone else—gives me a bit of confidence
that I’ve lost since my addiction was publicized.
“You even sound like her too!” he calls out.
I turn around, walking backwards. I contemplate shooting him
the middle finger, but my balls haven’t grown to that size yet. Instead I
squint, hoping all he sees is a fiery, narrowed gaze full of irritation.
He laughs.
Damn.
Suddenly, my back bumps into a hard chest.
I freeze.
This is a man-chest.
For sure.
“I lost something recently,” he tells me.
My heart swells at the familiar voice, and I spin around to
drop-dead-gorgeous cheekbones, a ruby-red visor, and lips that pull into a
breathtaking smile.
“Found her,” he says.
I don’t know why those words almost bring tears to my
eyes—but they do. They resonate deep within my soul, filling a part of me that
only Loren Hale can reach.
I fling my arms around his neck, standing on the tips of my
toes, and I kiss him. I feel safe in my costume and safe in his arms.
No one can stop me from loving him.
He kisses back, and he lifts me into a front piggy-back. In
the middle of the ballroom floor, booths lining the walls, people milling
around us.
I lose sense of everything, except the way his hands hold me
close, the way his urgency, the degree of his love, matches mine.
“I missed you,” I say between kisses.
He grips my ass, my legs wrapped securely around his waist,
ankles crossed. All is well. “Me too, love.”
We’ve been apart for three hours.
And then the surrounding noise escalates and breaches my
happy place. Guys are whistling. Girls are clapping.
“Stick it in, Cyclops!” someone yells.
“There are kids here!” an angrier person rebuts.
“Emma Frost, looking hot!”
“Scott, stop cheating on Jean Grey!” Obviously that guy
hasn’t realized that Jean Grey is dead.
I break from Lo’s lips for a second, the place between my
legs throbbing for a harder entry, but I force the need away, shelving it as I
concentrate on more important things.
Like being a spectacle without people even knowing our real names.
Camera flashes blind my eyes, and every fanboy and fangirl
watch us like we’re reenacting a scene from an X-Men comic.
We’re not.
We’re just…in love? Horny? Both. Definitely both.
“Letmedownletmedown,” I slur together in haste (and fright),
tapping Lo’s arm.
He sets me on my feet but instantly grabs my hand, lacing
his fingers with mine. “I’m not losing you again,” he says. He scans our
audience, and they start cheering.
“Encore! Encore!” about five people shout.
Nooooo. Well…I
take it back. There will most certainly be an encore. Only no one will be
watching it. Just Lo and me. Alone.
Lo draws me out of the crowds, giving them a stiff wave to
say that the show is over. Now we’re just part of the masses again.
“Should we go to the hotel room?” I whisper.
I can’t see his eyes behind the visor, but he stares down at
me with an intimidating scowl. He makes a good Scott Summers.
“Not to have sex,” I amend.
“We have friends now, remember? No more fake Stacey and
Charlie.”
“Right,” I say. No
more scapegoats.
“And with great friends comes great responsibility,” he
tells me. “Like trying to listen to your sister talk without me referencing a
demonic entity.” He looks at me. “It’s torture.”
Before I can reply, someone shouts, “I see her!”
I only flinch into Lo because Daisy’s voice emanates
“Ihavetogo,” I mumble that last bit out.
“I do know you,” he says. “You’re Emma Frost. The White
Queen. Biggest bitch.”
I glare.
“Hey and you kind of look like her too. Though your boobs
need to be a lot bigger. It threw me off at first.”
I purse my lips, feeling a little offended like Rose would.
“Stop making Batman look like a pervert.” As I pass, my shoulder shoves into
his, and I stomp away. It’s probably way more badass in my head than actuality.
Something about costumes—about being someone else—gives me a bit of confidence
that I’ve lost since my addiction was publicized.
“You even sound like her too!” he calls out.
I turn around, walking backwards. I contemplate shooting him
the middle finger, but my balls haven’t grown to that size yet. Instead I
squint, hoping all he sees is a fiery, narrowed gaze full of irritation.
He laughs.
Damn.
Suddenly, my back bumps into a hard chest.
I freeze.
This is a man-chest.
For sure.
“I lost something recently,” he tells me.
My heart swells at the familiar voice, and I spin around to
drop-dead-gorgeous cheekbones, a ruby-red visor, and lips that pull into a
breathtaking smile.
“Found her,” he says.
I don’t know why those words almost bring tears to my
eyes—but they do. They resonate deep within my soul, filling a part of me that
only Loren Hale can reach.
I fling my arms around his neck, standing on the tips of my
toes, and I kiss him. I feel safe in my costume and safe in his arms.
No one can stop me from loving him.
He kisses back, and he lifts me into a front piggy-back. In
the middle of the ballroom floor, booths lining the walls, people milling
around us.
I lose sense of everything, except the way his hands hold me
close, the way his urgency, the degree of his love, matches mine.
“I missed you,” I say between kisses.
He grips my ass, my legs wrapped securely around his waist,
ankles crossed. All is well. “Me too, love.”
We’ve been apart for three hours.
And then the surrounding noise escalates and breaches my
happy place. Guys are whistling. Girls are clapping.
“Stick it in, Cyclops!” someone yells.
“There are kids here!” an angrier person rebuts.
“Emma Frost, looking hot!”
“Scott, stop cheating on Jean Grey!” Obviously that guy
hasn’t realized that Jean Grey is dead.
I break from Lo’s lips for a second, the place between my
legs throbbing for a harder entry, but I force the need away, shelving it as I
concentrate on more important things.
Like being a spectacle without people even knowing our real names.
Camera flashes blind my eyes, and every fanboy and fangirl
watch us like we’re reenacting a scene from an X-Men comic.
We’re not.
We’re just…in love? Horny? Both. Definitely both.
“Letmedownletmedown,” I slur together in haste (and fright),
tapping Lo’s arm.
He sets me on my feet but instantly grabs my hand, lacing
his fingers with mine. “I’m not losing you again,” he says. He scans our
audience, and they start cheering.
“Encore! Encore!” about five people shout.
Nooooo. Well…I
take it back. There will most certainly be an encore. Only no one will be
watching it. Just Lo and me. Alone.
Lo draws me out of the crowds, giving them a stiff wave to
say that the show is over. Now we’re just part of the masses again.
“Should we go to the hotel room?” I whisper.
I can’t see his eyes behind the visor, but he stares down at
me with an intimidating scowl. He makes a good Scott Summers.
“Not to have sex,” I amend.
“We have friends now, remember? No more fake Stacey and
Charlie.”
“Right,” I say. No
more scapegoats.
“And with great friends comes great responsibility,” he
tells me. “Like trying to listen to your sister talk without me referencing a
demonic entity.” He looks at me. “It’s torture.”
Before I can reply, someone shouts, “I see her!”
I only flinch into Lo because Daisy’s voice emanates
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