One Knight Stand Read online

  One Knight Stand

  By

  Gail Roarke

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  One Knight Stand

  Copyright© 2010 Gail Roarke

  ISBN: 978-1-60088-513-6

  Cover Artist: Dan Skinner

  Editor: Melissa Darnell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Cobblestone Press, LLC

  www.cobblestone-press.com

  Dedication

  To my lovely and talented spouse, whose love and support have given me the opportunity to pursue my dream, and whose confidence in me has never wavered, even when my own confidence has.

  Broadway Street in Denver looked like a battlefield. Red and blue lights strobed across the scene, reflected on smashed windows and the wet streets. The last ambulance pulled away with a brief whoop of its siren to clear a path. Cops stood guard over empty suits of powered armor as their former occupants were loaded into police vehicles. Firefighters in heavy turnout coats coiled their hoses, the fires extinguished at last. Bystanders crowded the police barricades, gawking as always, talking and taking pictures with their phones.

  Victor caught a glimpse of himself in a storefront window. He looked a mess. His chain mail shirt was slashed, torn, partially melted in places, and full of bullet holes. It was also covered in blood—his blood. He healed almost faster than he was injured so he felt fine, but he looked like an extra for a zombie film. His face and hands were clean, though. The energy that filled him, the same energy that regenerated any injury, no matter how severe, also burned away any blood on his skin. But his clothing wasn’t so lucky.

  “Probably why I never get the post-battle interviews,” he grumbled.

  Okay, yeah, he was a newbie hero. And he wasn’t affiliated with the Guardians, who invariably got the lion’s share of the credit any time they showed up. He could see the media clustered around the Guardians, including Iron Maiden, and hanging on their every word. But still, he was doing good work, and while he wasn’t doing it for the acclaim, a little acclaim now and then would have been nice.

  A soft female voice interrupted Victor’s thoughts. “Mr. Kruger?”

  He turned to see a reporter, judging by the press pass in her packet pocket and the photographer at her side, approach him. She was more than a foot shorter than Victor, but at six foot five, he was used to looking down at most people. Slender, with delicate features, fine platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, she was dressed for success in a dark skirt and blazer over a white blouse.

  “That’s me,” he said.

  “Robin Harris, Denver Weekly News. I’d like to interview you, if you don’t mind.”

  “A little late to the party, aren’t you?”

  She looked chagrined and glanced over at the media circus surrounding the Guardians. Reporters and cameramen from all the local television stations crowded around, clamoring for attention.

  Then she turned back to Victor and shrugged with an adorable grin. “Just a little. It’s been that kind of day. No room at the table for the new gal from a small weekly. I imagine you can relate to that.”

  He snorted. “You got that right, sister.”

  “So…the interview?”

  “Sure. Shoot.” He was pleased that she wanted to interview him, and more than happy to spend time with her. She was quite attractive.

  “Great,” she said.

  It took only a minute or two for her to coordinate with her photographer. He took a series of photos of Victor, and of Victor with Robin. As he worked, Robin pulled out a small digital recorder and held it up between them.

  “We’re outside the headquarters of Ingolf & Devore with the city’s newest protector, the Black Knight—”

  Victor grinned at the reporter. “Call me Victor.”

  She smiled back. “Victor, then. Tell me, Victor, how did you happen to be here at just the right time to stop the Marauders?”

  “Just lucky, I guess. I was in the neighborhood when I saw the Guardians arrive. You don’t usually see all the Guardians in one place unless it’s big trouble, so I figured they could probably use my help. I followed them here—and the rest is history.”

  “Wow.” She sounded sincerely impressed.

  Victor’s smile grew a little more arrogant, his attention a little more overt. He didn’t think she was a good enough actress to be so convincing, in which event he thought a case of hero worship might serve him well.

  He shrugged in faux modesty. “I do what I can.”

  “And you do it very well,” Robin replied. The faint widening of her eyes told Victor she realized how she sounded. “I mean, you rescued the hostages without any customers or bank employees getting hurt.” Her eyes flicked to her left toward her photographer. Victor could see him smirking.

  “Yes, I did.” He would rather have gone head to head with the Marauders in their powered armor, but Sentinel, the Guardians’ leader, had had other ideas. Victor had been a Marine in World War II, and he knew when to shut up and do what he was told. It wasn’t about him or his taste for brawling; it was about rescuing the hostages—and he’d managed it.

  The interview went on for another couple of minutes. Victor answered the woman’s questions, giving her the responses he knew she expected. All the time, he gave her the benefit of his full attention, letting his interest show in his gaze. She really was beautiful. She hung on his every word, meeting his eyes with a bold look of her own, all but preening under his gaze.

  “Thank you, Victor,” Robin said, caressing his name. She turned to face her photographer. “That’ll do it, Steve.”

  Steve shook his head. “Jesus, Robin, could you be any more obvious about it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, nose in the air. She tossed the recorder to him. He fumbled for a moment before catching it and scowled but didn’t pursue the issue.

  Victor dismissed the man from his mind. He opened his mouth to speak just as Robin said, “I’d love to get a more in-depth interview with you, Victor.”

  Victor heard her photographer choke on a stifled laugh as he turned away. I’ll just bet you would, Victor thought. And I’ll be glad to give it to you.

  “What sort of interview?” Victor asked. The not-so-subtle emphasis of her words suggested that she was really angling for a date. She might do an interview too, probably would. But he wondered if she was really just a groupie when all was said and done. Not that there was anything wrong with that. He’d had his share of fun with groupies over the last few months.

  “Oh, you know,” she said, twirling a hand in the air, “the usual. Some background, questions about rumors, how you got into the biz—the usual.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Yes.” She’d produced a compact from her purse and was checking her makeup as she spoke. “There are always rumors—you know that. For instance,” she added, eyes flicking in his direction once, “Rumor has it you and Iron Maiden are an item.”

  Oh ho, Victor thought. “Not true.”

  “Really?” She couldn’t keep the pleasure out of her voice.

  “Really. I’m not the sort to kiss and tell, so even if we were an item, I wouldn’t discuss it. But take it from me, we are most definitely not an item.”

  Not, he thought, if you mean we’re dating, at least. He and Leah—Iron Maiden to the public—certainly had fun between the sheets on a regular basis. Bu
t there was no relationship there, no emotional commitment. Just good, clean dirty fun.

  “Oh. Well, then. See? That’s one rumor squashed already. So you’ll do it?”

  “When and where?”

  She smiled with undisguised pleasure. “Excellent!” She put away the compact and produced a business card from one pocket. “How’s eight o’clock tonight?”

  Victor took the card. “Let me check my schedule.” He pretended to think for a moment. “That would be fine. That answers one question. But what about where?”

  “It’s on the back of the card.”

  He turned the card over and saw an address and phone number written on the back. She’d come prepared. He recognized the neighborhood, an upper middle class area in the eastern part of the city.

  “Your place?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She smiled. “It belongs to friends, actually. I’m house sitting.”

  “And you’re allowed to have…guests?” He put just a hint of suggestiveness in his voice, curious as to how she’d respond.

  “My friends are adults, and so am I,” she said without the faintest whiff of embarrassment. “Having guests over is hardly unexpected.”

  “I suppose not.” He waved the card gently. “I’ll be there, Ms. Harris.”

  “Good. And please—call me Robin.”

  “Of course, Robin. Eight o’clock, then.”

  “I look forward to it. Oh—how do you feel about Indian?”

  “I’ll try anything once—”

  She cocked her head to look at him sidelong. “I’ve heard that about you. Perhaps we’ll put that to the test.”

  He grinned. “If you like. You won’t be disappointed, I promise. And as it happens, I love Indian.”

  She smiled without replying then glanced over her shoulder to where her photographer was standing with Man-Ape and Sentinel. She met Victor’s eyes again. “Well, duty calls. Until tonight.”

  He bowed his head briefly. “Until tonight.”

  She turned and walked away. He watched her go, admiring the sway of her hips and the smooth movement of her legs.

  “So you’ve got a date, I take it?”

  Victor smiled, still watching Robin. “Looks like.”

  He turned to look at Iron Maiden. She was about Robin’s height but heavier, with a curvier, more voluptuous figure mostly hidden at the moment beneath the long black coachman’s cloak she wore. He knew what she looked like beneath that cloak and mask—hell, he knew what she looked like naked and sweaty and writhing in the throes of orgasm.

  “Good for you,” Iron Maiden said, honest pleasure for his happiness evident in her voice. He didn’t know if she had other lovers, though he suspected she did. Certainly he had others, and they’d agreed from the beginning that theirs was a purely physical, sometime thing. When they met in public, they both pretended to be nothing more than acquaintances. But they never talked about their other partners, or hadn’t until now.

  “She’s cute,” Iron Maiden added.

  Victor glanced at her.

  “What?” she asked. “Just because I don’t do girls doesn’t mean I can’t recognize when they’re hot.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, she is cute. And I’ve got a date with her tonight. Wish me luck.”

  She smiled again. “Good luck.” She drifted into the air, prepared to fly away. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Iron Maiden nodded, holding him to that promise. She knew just how seriously he took his word. She gave him an insolent little salute before rocketing into the sky. He watched her vanish into the clouds. He had fond memories of making love to her for the first time high in that sky. It had been an unforgettable experience. He didn’t expect sex with Robin to be so unique—but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be great.

  * * * * *

  Dinner at Robin’s friends’ house was Indian carryout. She transferred the food to china bowls and plates, and they ate with silverware at a table covered with a fine linen cloth and decorated by an arrangement of flowers in a crystal vase and a couple of candles. The lights were dim, and soft jazz music played in the background. The food was excellent.

  Robin was looking very lovely tonight, and Victor said so. She was wearing a royal blue summer dress that flattered her coloring. It was a thin fabric that moved easily and cut to display the curves of her body without clinging. It also framed her cleavage in an eye-catching way.

  They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. She produced a bottle of wine, which she offered to him. He poured each of them a glass.

  “Here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass. “A beautiful, accomplished woman, and a damn fine reporter.” It was blatant flattery, but he had been a salesman for more than half a century. He wasn’t above a little flattery if that was required to close the deal.

  He was pleased to see that she didn’t drink when he toasted her. Too many young folk these days didn’t understand that the subject didn’t drink to herself. Victor was a thoroughly modern man in many ways, but he still had some old-fashioned habits and views. Proper etiquette was one of them.

  “So tell me,” Robin said after they’d eaten a little. “How did you become a superhero?”

  Victor told her. She expressed shock at the revelation that he was ninety years old. Everyone did. He told her about experiencing what he’d thought was a heart attack, and then blacking out—only to wake in a morgue drawer. He’d kicked and punched his way out, discovering in the process that he was young again, stronger than any human had a right to be, and that he healed like a son of a bitch.

  She asked good questions, insightful and concise. He found himself telling her more than he’d intended, more than he’d revealed to anyone but Iron Maiden since he’d leaped into the public eye as the Black Knight. Victor revised his opinion of her as a reporter upward.

  “So,” Robin asked, “How did you come up with your nom du guerre?”

  “Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Have you seen it?”

  She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid not. What’s the connection?”

  He explained, describing the John Cleese character of the Black Knight, who lost all four limbs one by one but refused to stop fighting. Victor healed, of course, but otherwise he felt very much like the Black Knight.

  “I’m often outmatched physically. But nothing my opponents can do to me keeps me down for long, and I just keep coming. Sooner or later they get tired, or make a mistake, or decide to flee. Doesn’t matter to me, really. All that matters is that I win in the end.”

  “So do you have any family?”

  He shrugged. “Some great-grandchildren. And they have families of their own....”

  “But?”

  “I wasn’t close to my kids after they left home, and even less so once my wife passed on. Truthfully? I was a bitter old man, and I can’t blame them for not having much to do with me.”

  “You’ve changed, though.” She seemed to have forgotten her meal. She had her chin propped on one fist, watching him intently.

  “And they wouldn’t know me from Adam. I don’t keep my identity secret. If they wanted to find me, it wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “Even so—”

  “Enough about me,” he interrupted. “Now, I have a question for you.”

  She gazed him attentively.

  “Shall I take you to bed?”

  She smiled and looked up at him as she sipped her wine. “You’d be a fool not to.”

  Her summer dress buttoned up the back. Victor unbuttoned it slowly, enjoying watching a little more of her pale, smooth skin appear with each button unfastened. Her bra was blue also, a lacy contraption clearly designed more to tantalize than to lift and separate. Not that she needed it.

  She was only a few years older than he looked. Her breasts were medium sized, firm and pale with light pink nipples. Her waist was narrow, though she widened out to lovely hips wrapped in another frothy lace undergarment des
igned to excite. Nothing utilitarian about it.

  She spun around and slapped his hands away as they settled on her hips to remove her panties. “My turn!” she said with a soft laugh. She wrinkled her nose when she laughed. It was adorable.

  She unbuttoned his suit jacket and helped him out of it. She dropped it on the floor at their side and began to worry at his tie until he intervened to untie it. Then she drew it out of one side of his collar.

  She unbuttoned the top of his shirt, then the second button. It revealed a little of his chest, and Robin leaned in to briefly press her lips to his skin. She repeated the gesture with each button, kneeling at the end. Her mouth covered his navel, and he felt her tongue flick into it.

  He unbuttoned his cuffs as she busied herself with his belt and fly. The shirt slid down his arms to puddle on the floor behind him. She tugged his slacks down into a heap around his ankles.

  She caressed his erect cock through his boxers, making a wordless noise of appreciation. She wrapped the silk around him and stroked him a few times. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the pleasurable sensation. An instant later, Victor felt her fingers slip through the fly to close around his bare flesh, cool and knowing.

  Robin worked his cock out of the fly of his boxers, exposing him. Her fingers slid back and forth, nearly as soft and smooth as the silk had felt. A warm exhalation caressed his sensitive glans just before her tongue stroked the underside. He groaned and opened his eyes to look down at her—just as she’d intended.

  She locked eyes with him. She wrapped one small hand around the base of his cock and leaned forward, taking the first few inches of his rigid cock into her mouth. Her lips closed around him, soft and moist. Her tongue undulated against the underside of his cock, sending thrills along his spine. As Victor stared, transfixed, Robin slowly pulled back, dragging her lips the length of his cock, exposing him to the air again.

  Then she swallowed him again, deeper this time, before pulling back. Then again and again, each time taking him a little deeper until her mouth reached her fist. She paused there, working her tongue against him without moving her head. It was a sensation unlike any he’d experienced before, a sliding caress that drove him to the brink of orgasm.