Elena came back on a Wednesday, three days after the mask hand-off.
I was in the driveway washing my car when she pulled in. Black SUV, windows tinted, looking every bit the mysterious graphic designer returning from another "conference." She stepped out in oversized sunglasses, a cropped black tank, and high-waisted jeans that hugged her hips like they were custom-made. A small duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
Our eyes met across the driveways.
She smiled—slow, private, like we shared the world's best secret.
"Miss me?" she asked, voice low enough only I could hear.
"More than I should," I admitted.
She laughed softly, then disappeared inside.
That night my parents left for a long weekend at my aunt's lake house—some family thing they'd planned months ago. They hugged me goodbye, told me not to burn the place down, and drove off just after sunset.
The house felt too quiet.
I texted Elena around nine.
Me: Parents gone till Monday. House to myself.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Elena: Dangerous information. Be careful what you wish for.
I stared at the screen, pulse already racing.
An hour later I was in the backyard, pretending to stargaze from a lounge chair, when soft music started drifting over the fence from her garden. Slow, sensual R&B. Then lights—those same solar path lights—flickered on, illuminating the flower clearing.
She knew I was watching.
Elena stepped into the glow wearing the same black string bikini from that first night. Moonlight and garden lights painted her skin gold and shadow. She moved like she was dancing for an audience of one.
One hand trailed up her stomach, between her breasts, to the tie at her neck. She tugged—slowly—until the top loosened and fell away. Full, heavy breasts spilled free, nipples already hard in the warm night air.
My breath stopped.
She didn't look toward my window. She didn't need to. She knew exactly where I was.
Her hands cupped her breasts, thumbs circling the peaks. A soft sigh carried on the breeze. Then one hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her bikini bottoms. Hips rolled in that same hypnotic rhythm I remembered. Fingers moved deliberately, visibly now. Her head fell back, hair cascading down her spine.
Purple sparks danced along her skin—faint at first, then brighter. Flowers around her feet bloomed wider, petals unfurling in real time. The air smelled like ozone and jasmine.
She brought herself to the edge slowly, teasingly, body arching as the glow intensified. When she finally came, it was with a low, throaty moan that hit me straight in the gut. The purple energy pulsed outward in a silent wave, rippling through the grass.
She stayed there a moment, breathing hard, then gathered her top without bothering to retie it. Glanced once—directly—at the dark spot where I sat in the shadows of my yard, and smiled.
Message received.
The next night I couldn't take it anymore.
Parents still gone. House empty. Moon full again.
I waited until her lights went out, then slipped into our backyard in nothing but basketball shorts. Heart hammering, I sat in the same lounge chair facing her garden, hand already inside my waistband.
I didn't hide.
I stroked myself slowly at first, eyes locked on her dark windows, imagining her watching. The warm air, the distant music still playing faintly from her speakers the night before—it all fed the fantasy. I sped up, breath ragged, picturing her fingers, her mouth, the way her body had glowed.
I was close—so close—when a soft gasp came from the other side of the fence.
Elena stood on her patio in a thin silk robe, backlit, watching me openly. The robe hung open just enough to show she wore nothing underneath.
"Don't stop on my account," she whispered across the darkness.
I didn't.
Our eyes stayed locked as I finished—hard, messy, groaning her name into the night.
She bit her lip, robe slipping off one shoulder, and disappeared inside without a word.
The following evening she invited me over.
"Bring a bottle of wine," she texted. "And stay the night if you want."
I was at her door in ten minutes.
We didn't make it past the living room.
Wine forgotten on the counter. She pushed me against the wall the second the door closed, kissing me like she'd been starving for it. Hands everywhere—mine under her sundress, finding bare skin and lace; hers tugging my shirt off, nails dragging down my back.
We stumbled to the couch. She straddled me again, dress rucked up around her waist, grinding slow and deliberate. I could feel how wet she was through the thin fabric between us. My hands gripped her ass, pulling her harder against me.
"God, Alex," she breathed against my neck. "I want you so fucking bad."
I flipped us, pinning her beneath me. Kissed down her throat, between her breasts, pushing the dress higher. She arched, fingers in my hair, guiding me lower.
We were seconds from tearing the rest of our clothes off—seconds from finally crossing the line—when her whole body went rigid.
A low, almost subsonic rumble rolled through the house. Windows vibrated. Somewhere far off, alarms started wailing.
Elena's eyes snapped open, glowing faint violet.
"No," she whispered. "Not now."
She was up in a flash, moving with that impossible speed. I barely saw her grab the duffel from under the couch before she was at the back door.
"Stay inside," she ordered, voice tight. "Lock everything."
"Elena—"
But she was already gone, a streak of black vanishing into the night.
I ran to the window.
News alerts exploded on my phone within minutes.
BREAKING: Massive entity sighted over downtown Los Angeles. Reports of fire and structural damage. Evacuations underway.
Live feeds showed it: a towering figure wreathed in white-hot flames, humanoid but wrong—skin like molten rock, wings of pure fire spreading across the sky. It hurled bolts of plasma that melted entire city blocks.
Then Thick Chick arrived.
She shot in from the east like a purple comet, slamming into the villain mid-air. The impact boomed like thunder. They grappled hundreds of feet above the city—her strength against his raw heat.
He was strong.
Stronger than anything I'd seen her fight.
Every time she landed a blow, he countered with fire that seared the air. Her catsuit began to burn away in patches—first the sleeves, then across her torso. Leather melted and disintegrated, exposing more and more skin.
The feed caught glimpses: her back bare, sides of her breasts visible, the curve of her hip as the suit burned away at the seams. Only the reinforced sections around her core and the mask held—barely.
She was nearly naked, fighting for her life in front of millions.
But she didn't stop.
She flew faster, hit harder. Purple energy flared brighter than the villain's flames. At one point he grabbed her, flames licking her skin, and she screamed—raw, furious. Then she headbutted him with the mask, drew back a glowing fist, and drove it straight through his chest.
The explosion lit up the night sky.
When the smoke cleared, she hovered there—mask still in place, body gloriously exposed except for scorched remnants clinging to her hips and thighs. Skin glistening with sweat, unmarked by burns (her powers healing her even as she fought). Breasts rising and falling with exhausted breaths.
She looked like a goddess of war and sex combined.
The villain dissolved into embers that rained harmlessly over the city.
Thick Chick lingered just long enough for the cameras to capture her silhouette—curves outlined in purple glow against the burning skyline—before she streaked away.
Two hours later, a soft knock sounded at my bedroom window.
I opened it to find her perched on the roof overhang, wrapped in a singed blanket she must have grabbed from somewhere. Mask gone. Hair wild. Skin still faintly glowing.
She looked wrecked.
And more beautiful than ever.
"Hi," she whispered, voice hoarse.
I helped her inside without a word.
She collapsed against me the second the window closed, trembling—not from cold, but from sheer exhaustion.
"I almost didn't make it back," she admitted into my shoulder.
I held her tighter.
We didn't speak for a long time.
Eventually she pulled back, eyes searching mine in the dark.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For leaving. Again."
"Don't be." I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "You saved a city tonight."
She gave a tired half-laugh. "Yeah. And lost my favorite suit."
I glanced down—the blanket had slipped, revealing the full extent of what remained: nothing but charred strips across her hips and between her legs. Her body was otherwise bare, perfect, powerful.
Desire hit me like a freight train, but I pushed it down.
"Not tonight," I said softly. "You need rest."
She nodded, eyes glassy. "Stay with me?"
We ended up in my bed—her curled against my chest, blanket discarded, skin warm against mine. I held her until her breathing evened out and the faint purple glow faded completely.
Just before she drifted off, she murmured into my neck:
"Next time… no interruptions."
I kissed her forehead.
"Next time," I promised.
Outside, the stars watched over us.
And somewhere out there, bigger threats were gathering.
But for now, she was safe.
She was mine.
And I wasn't letting go.