Sexy Six Anniversary Short – A Super Reporter’s Work Is Never Done by Pearl Love

May 28, 2013

Closing my eyes to avoid the goo trying to drip into them, I flicked my hands up and down several times, succeeding only in spraying the exotic flowers around me with the ick.


“I told you to duck.” Victor had the gall to look sheepish.

I glared at him, taking irritated note of the pristine state of his green and white outfit, the red cape snapping behind him in the breeze. The lycra hugged his insanely hot body like a second skin, making it hard for me to stay pissed with him, which in turn only annoyed me more. A sudden gust of brisk wind blew over me, making me shiver in my goo-saturated state. Although Mount Otemanu was only 2500 feet at its summit, at this height the trade winds were uncomfortably chilly. Leave it to me to freeze in paradise.

“Just once I would like to be able to go on vacation without having to worry about being attacked by the creature of the week.” I flung a hand out toward the fallen carcass of the hideous creature that had dared interrupt our trip. “You know, like a normal freaking couple.”

Victor held out his arms and I stepped into them automatically, accustomed to his manner of offering me a lift. He raised a black eyebrow at me and glanced down at the ground receding rapidly beneath us. Okay, so he had a point. “Normal” was hardly the word for us, not when only one of us was human and the other was an all-powerful, god-like super being from outer space. And Mexico. Mustn’t forget Mexico.

The monster had attacked us while we were enjoying a dip in the unbelievably blue water surrounding the tiny spec of rock that was Bora Bora. I’d stared in disbelief at the giant, tentacled . . . thing that had risen from the depths, apparently thinking that we’d make an easy snack. I’d been on the hysterical verge of complaining that the tour agent had neglected to mention this little issue when Victor had transformed into El Magnifico before my eyes. He could have taken care of the beast with no trouble, but when it aimed one of his squid-like appendages at me, he’d whisked me off to the top of the ragged mountain top for safekeeping.

Who would have guessed that the damn thing could also fly?

Seeing that he had no choice but to fight it with me around, El Mag—my pet name for my favorite super hottie—had made short work of the creature, blasting it with his heat vision. The tentacled menace had surprised us, once again, by exploding like a worm under a magnifying glass on a sunny day.

“I’m sorry.” Victor held me close as he flew us away from the sight of the short-lived battle.

I wanted to be mad at him, not that it was his fault, of course. I would have blamed the monster, but since it was dead, Victor made a convenient target. As we rose higher over the volcano, what had seemed like a precipitously sloped jungle while I’d huddled amongst the trees, attempting not to get eaten, resolved itself into an impressive peak, shrouded in green. The volcanic rock had succumbed to the constant barrage of the elements, leaving behind a narrow, stark protrusion of rock that rose sharply from the lower sides of the tree-covered mountain. We rose higher, and even Mount Otemanu gradually faded into the scenery that was the extreme northern reach of the French Polynesian chain. The island was even more beautiful from our bird’s eye vantage, and I was almost willing to forgive Victor his trespasses for gifting me with this amazing view. Almost.

“I swear, I’m going to make you eat spinach every day for a week once we get home,” I grumbled.

A blush appeared just above the neckline of the outfit his adorable mother had made for him and spread upward to encompass his face. “I wouldn’t mind,” he murmured into my ear. I felt myself instantly get hard at the implication.

Spinach. His nemesis-with-benefits. The rules, now that we knew them, were simple. Intimate contact made Victor lose his powers, turning him into a normal, human weakling. Well, as weak as any well-built, six foot five hunk could be. The handicap had kept him from flying me to the moon—figuratively, of course—for years after he’d declared his undying love for me. We’d found a work around completely by chance when I’d tricked Victor into eating spinach, his least favorite food in the universe, right before New York City was almost leveled by belligerent aliens in a spaceship armed to the teeth. It turned out that spinach left him even weaker than making out. But once I’d convinced him to have “It’s The End of the World As We Know It” sex in the ruined shambles of my condo, we learned that post-spinach sex made him even stronger than he usually was. El Magnifico had saved the city and I’d ruined Victor for any other man. Win-win.

In fact, the reason we were in Bora Bora in the first place was to celebrate the one-year anniversary of that fortuitous discovery. And he’d had to go and ruin it by being all Mr. Super Hero while I was busy trying to get him out of his speedos for some skinny-dipping in the sun-kissed waters of the Pacific. Now, however, his misunderstanding of my intentions to torture him with the stringy, green vegetable threatened to relegate my pique to the farthest, most cobwebbed corner of my mind.

“Yeah, whatever,” I replied, mulishly trying to hold on to my crossness. As we neared the hotel, Victor called me on my bluff and started nibbling on the side of my slime-coated neck. The bastard. “Hold your horses. Let me at least take a shower first before I let you make this up to me.”

Despite what you may think, I wasn’t actually expecting sex. Although I wanted him every second of every day, we didn’t overindulge due to the risk. After all, we couldn’t always depend on having spinach on hand. Even the little peck he’d given me hadn’t left him unaffected. My stomach rose into my throat when we suddenly plummeted several dozen feet, his ability to fly disrupted by the playful kiss. I looked at him crossly, and he smiled back as though we weren’t in danger of dropping out of the sky just because he really liked giving me hickies.

We were staying at the Sofitel, which, like most of the island’s resorts, consisted of a collection of thatched-roofed huts that extended out over the water by means of connected walkways. Victor had booked the trip all by himself, and for such short notice, I was extremely impressed. Our boss, Terry Brown, the segment producer for the cable news network we worked for, had the same enthusiasm for approving time off as he would for the prospect of having his leg amputated without anesthetic. How my partner had managed to convince the blowhard to release us for an entire week, I’m not sure I really wanted to know. Then again, Terry had always liked Victor more than me.

The Sofitel was surrounded by the ubiquitous jungle that blanketed the island, so it was easy to hide as Victor brought us in for a landing. By means unknown, El Magnifico transformed back into his mild-mannered alter ego, Victor Ramirez, and after a short hike through the jungle, we were back at our assigned hut. Fortunately, our bungalow was at the far end of the row, a matter of cost and, ahem, privacy. We didn’t encounter a soul as we made our way along the walkway, which was a definite plus, considering I was still covered head to toe in exploded tentacle monster slime.

“Steve, are you really mad?”

Goddamnit. There he went with the chocolate-brown puppy eyes that never failed to make me cave to his every whim. I sighed as I slipped my shirt over my head and threw the disgusting thing out of the open window and into the waiting ocean below. “No. I’m just feeling nasty. And I’m hungry.” My shorts followed the shirt. The sandals I kept, seeing as how they had survived mostly unscathed and they were the Josef Seibels Victor had bought me for my birthday last year. Victor grinned, blinding me with the light of his TV-personality-white teeth.

“Good! Because we have reservations for dinner in a couple of hours.”

The hotel only had one restaurant, so, unless he was planning to trek to different one, he had to mean we were eating at the Latitude 16° like we had every day since we’d arrived. Still, the food was pretty good, and I’d discovered I liked ceviche more than I’d thought. But not covered in glop.

“Okay. Let me shower and we can hit the gift shop while we wait. Mama Carisa made me promise I’d bring her something nice back from our trip.” Seeing as my own parents had passed away when I was a teenager, I had fallen under the spell of Victor’s warm, loving guardians almost before I’d realized it.

Blessedly free of tainted clothing, I went into the bathroom, shutting the door only to prevent the steam from turning the living area/bedroom into a sauna, a real possibility despite the hard-working air conditioner. I’d been under the decently-pressured water for only a few minutes, singing at the top of my off-key lungs, when a shadow fell over the shower curtain. Stupid flashes of the “Psycho” theme song flitted through my head before I recognized the figure as Victor. I glanced at him—okay, ogled—as he joined me in the cramped space.

“I don’t think we’re both going to fit,” I said absently, far more interested in the sight of the water that streamed in rivulets over his olive-toned skinned. Whether by unknowable design or mysterious fate, Victor broadly resembled the Mexican immigrants he called madre and padre. His black hair quickly became plastered to his head beneath the spray, making him look like a mischievous seal as he smirked down at me. The heat of the water was nothing compared to his extraordinary body temperature, and I was very glad for the shower as it immediately whisked away the sweat I was almost certainly producing in copious amounts.

“We always fit,” he said reasonably. Besides, it was true. Whenever we did allow ourselves to indulge in the risky act of screwing like bunnies, we made it work no matter where we happened to be at the time. Why should this time be any exception? Victor reached for me, the alien radiator pulling me even closer to his “Magnifico” body, but a twinge of my rarely used conscience prompted me put up a hand between us to stop him.

“Whoa, wait a minute. Are you sure?” I stood firm as he peered down at me with an adorable blink at that ridiculous question. “I mean, what if there’s an emergency, like that squid thing?” Despite all my grumbling, I took his world-saving duties as seriously as he did. While I sincerely wanted him to fuck me into the wall, I wouldn’t enjoy it if I thought it could lead to some avoidable tragedy. Even with Victor’s support, it had taken me months to get the creepy, destructive aliens who’d tried to decimate Manhattan out of my nightmares. It was my carelessness that had led to the near tragedy, so I tended to be extra cautious these days.

Victor said nothing. He merely reached a long arm around the edge of the shower curtain and retrieved something that he soon pulled into view. In his hand was a plastic baggie half-full of what looked like dried spinach. I suddenly knew why he’d asked his mother for a food dehydrator this past Christmas. While I stared at him, he pulled out a handful and popped it into his mouth, managing just barely to keep from wincing at the taste. Victor really hated spinach, and for good reason, as it turned out.

“So, what, that’s like green Viagra, or something like that?”

“Something like that.”

I thought about it for a moment, admiring both Victor’s fortitude in eating what he’d once likened to “cigarette ashes licked out of a urinal at Penn Station” and his inventiveness. “I guess you’re sure. Well, okay then.”

It was a good thing we had two hours before dinner. After several bouts of wild sex in the shower, up against the bathroom door, on the raised, pillow-strewn platform in front of the picture window overlooking the ocean, and, at long last, the bed itself, I needed a nap. Victor, of course, super charged from the combination of spinach and amazing sex, decided to expend some energy by flying the circuit of Auckland, Port Moresby, Tokyo, Los Angeles, and the Galapagos Islands about forty times while I got some much needed rest. When he saw me standing out on our balcony as he flew overhead on his forty-first trip, he landed at my side. All he had to show for his journey was slightly tousled hair and a big, stupid grin that stretched across his gorgeous face. I blinked and resisted the urge to shield my eyes. I yawned widely, and his smile grew commiserate with my lingering exhaustion.

“Just for that, I’m going to make you pay for my gift to your mother,” I snapped. He knew I was kidding. No one loved a prolonged bout of monkey lovin’ more than me.

We made our way to the restaurant and nabbed a seat by the window. Latitude 16° featured what the tour agent had called “show cooking.” It involved lots of exaggerated gestures and tricks by the chefs, fire, and lastly, amazing food. We placed our orders, and I turned to gaze out at the darkening sky while Victor downed his fourth glass of water in as many minutes, a by-product of his enhanced metabolism. As it tends to do in the tropics, the sun was fading quickly, dipping towards the watery horizon in a blazing show of reds and oranges.

“I love you,” I whispered, knowing he would be able to hear me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him look at me over his raised glass. He lowered it and gazed at me besottedly. Smiling, I turned away from one stunning view toward an even more incredible one. He slid a hand across the table and entwined our fingers. Victor wasn’t one for PDAs, but in a more private setting such as this, he was quite the cuddly toucher.

“I love you, too, Steve,” he replied. His smile became subdued with ill-repressed emotion. “Here’s to many more years together.”

Touching my water glass to his, I felt my heart resonate to the tinkling chime as they met. Since it was dinner time, the wait staff had lit candles on each table, and his beautiful eyes shown in the flickering light. Soft lamps set into discrete recesses around the room glinted off of his midnight hair. The soft material of his Polo shirt caressed the rippling swell of his pecs as he reached out for my other hand, his thumbs drifting gently over the sensitive skin of my wrists. I hate being sappy, but honestly, this moment couldn’t have been any more perfect.

And then my fucking cell phone rang. Who in the Hell puts cell towers in paradise, I ask you?

Victor stared at me in shock as I yanked my phone from my pocket with a vicious tug. I knew who it was. There were only two people on the entire planet that had the clout to not only insist I take my cell with me on vacation to the middle of the goddamn ocean, but to actually make me answer it when it rang. And it wasn’t Mama Carisa. She’d threatened to dunk it in the toilet when she saw me packing it in my suitcase. I punched at the call accept button, trying my best to grind my teeth into powder.

“What do you want, Terry?” I growled. Victor groaned audibly and slumped until his long framed was half off of his chair.

“I want you and Ramirez to get your asses back to the States, that’s what. Senator Hickenloften got himself photographed with a prostitute down in his home state. Now he’s holed up in his house, refusing to comment on the matter. The vultures have already descended, and I’ll be damned it we miss out on the story because you two slackers wanted some R&R.”

Victor had, of course, heard everything, and his broad shoulders moved up and down in a resigned sigh as I rolled my eyes at Terry’s theatrics. “A female prostitute?” I asked. “How boring.” I moved to stop Victor as he started to call over our waiter to cancel our order, grabbing his hand before he could raise it. I hardly thought something so mundane as a senator getting caught with his pants down was worth interrupting our precious alone time. Hickenloften could have at least had the decency to have hired a barely legal boy hustler or something, for goodness sake. And he called himself a politician.

“We should go,” Victor whispered, always the loyal minion. I held up a finger.

“Terry, there’s no way we can get a flight out of here before the morning. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” I hung up and sent Victor a weary grin. “No rest for the wicked, I guess.”

“At least we had a nice . . . three days.” His expression fell when he realized that we’d only had half of the time we’d planned and that we had already prepaid for the entire week.

I chuckled. “Happy anniversary, love. Happy anniversary.”


Read more about Steve and Victor in That Which Doesn’t Kill You, part of the Men of Steel anthology.

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