My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (18 page)

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she interrupted.

“I don’t unless I’m desperately wanting to get drunk,” I replied. “That night I felt the lowest I’ve ever felt. Looking back, I realize I’d already turned a corner. I’d chosen to do the right thing. I hoped God would reward me somehow. A month later, Tammy was diagnosed with cancer. Instead of being rewarded for making the right choice, God was punishing me for being tempted. That’s how it felt. Those first few weeks are nothing but a blur to me—I took a lot of time off from work under the guise of taking care of Tammy, but really I was drinking myself into a stupor. The rug had been ripped out from under me. I wasn’t a father, I wasn’t much of a husband, and I wasn’t much of a friend. I wasn’t much of a man. I was a black hole of self-loathing.”

I could hear Michelle next to me, sniffling. She was quietly crying.

“After the biopsy, we learned it was stage three. I pulled myself together. Straightened up. I knew my job was to be her husband; her sober husband. I’d be worthless to her if I was drunk every night. I knew she needed me as her friend and husband, and she needed me sober. So I quit getting drunk. I still had a drink now and then, but seldom to excess. She fought hard. The cancer went into remission for a year. We thought she’d beat it. We were planning to go on a celebration cruise and maybe get pregnant again. But the cancer came back with a vengeance. We had no happy ending to our story.”

Michelle was still holding my hand. Despite my struggle to hold myself together, I had quietly begun to cry. She wrapped her arms around me and drew me to her. I rested my head on her chest, still crying. This time it was her turn to comfort me.

“Shh, shh . . . it’s okay. You got through it. Jason would have been so proud of his dad. You’re a good man, Kevin, and I haven’t met too many men I can say that about. I’m lucky to call you my friend.”

I allowed myself the luxury of being comforted. It felt good. The memories were old, the emotions faded, but I knew the grief would never go away completely. Scars fade, but don’t disappear.

Men aren’t like women. Crying isn’t cathartic for me. It’s exhausting. I never feel better after crying, I just feel worn out with a headache. I struggled to rein in my emotions.

The creatures outside were quieter, but I could still hear them. As my tears dried and my muscles relaxed, I listened to her heartbeat and the sound of her breathing. As she stroked my hair, I drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke, we had shifted positions in the night, and at some point I had taken off my t-shirt. Now her head was resting on my chest and her arm was around me. I lay there, listening to her slow breathing. The sun had come up on an overcast day, and the room was dimly lit.

I looked around, taking in the contents of my former life. My closet still held most of my clothes. Some of my framed photos were hung on the wall. The dresser was cluttered with odds and ends—loose change, a watch I kept meaning to get repaired, wadded up receipts, a framed photo of Tammy and me smiling into the camera.

Michelle stirred, sleep slowly leaving her. I kissed the top of her head.

“Good morning,” I said, “ready to start the day?”

“Let me lie here jus’ like this for another five minutes, ‘kay? I’m so comfortable and you’re so warm . . .” She still sounded sleepy. I liked the way it felt, her head on my chest, her body snuggled against mine. I pulled her a tiny bit closer and kissed the top of her head again. I could see the curve of her breast beneath the blanket.

I could feel myself start to get hard.

She began to lightly stroke her fingers through the hair on my chest. I felt myself get harder. She looked up at me, and I bent down to kiss her. She kissed me back. Her lips parted in response to mine, and tentatively our tongues began to touch and explore.

I stroked her shoulder, squeezing it, running my hand over her back. I realized I couldn’t feel a strap. I have no idea when she took her bra off—probably when she first went to bed. I reached down and cupped her breast in my hand.

As we continued kissing, her hand continued to stroke the hair on my chest, and then she slowly moved it lower, taking her time, waiting to see how I responded. I could hear her breathing getting deeper, and I realized mine was getting deeper as well. I lifted my hand and began stroking her cheek, letting my fingers touch our kissing lips.

Somehow during the night a line had been crossed. There was an intimacy between us, and it wasn’t because of the conversation we’d had. It was as if I had let down the barriers between us, as had she.

Her hands traveled over my navel, then around to my side, then back to the center again, this time lower. I had no reservations. No fear. I was aroused, willing, and able.

She broke our kiss, put her lips next to my ear, and whispered, “Kevin, please make love to me.” Then she kissed me again. She rolled on top of me, her legs straddling mine, and reached down to grab the bottom hem of her sweatshirt. As I watched, she slowly drew it up, revealing first her tummy, then a bit higher, until I could see the swell of the underside of her breasts. I was breathing faster.

She continued her slow tease, raising her sweatshirt ever slowly higher until at last I could see her rosy pink areola, and then her hard nipples. I reached up and cupped them with both of my hands, as she finally pulled her sweatshirt over her head. She dropped the sweatshirt onto the bed and with her eyes closed allowed me to continue squeezing her breasts and lightly pinching her nipples. Her mouth was slightly open and her cheeks were flushed.

I felt her hand go to my belt buckle and begin to pull the belt loose. As she struggled momentarily with the button of my jeans, I lowered my hands from her breasts. I wanted to indulge myself in looking at her.

Her nipples jutted out from her areola, flushed deep red. Her breasts were full and large and round, womanly, and gorgeous. Her breasts could inspire paintings. Or poetry. Opening her eyes, she saw me watching her, and arched her back to push them out even further. She tilted her head back, and for the third time since I’d known her, she quietly asked, “What are you looking at, Kevin?”

“I’m looking at a beautiful woman who’s straddling me, topless, her incredibly gorgeous breasts begging for my mouth,” I said.

She smiled as she finally undid the button of my jeans and unzipped my zipper. Reaching inside my underwear, she freed me from the confines of my clothes. She stroked my hardness, her eyes closed, using my leaking fluid to lubricate my shaft. I felt like I was eighteen again, completely focused on my cock, immersed in a sexual ecstasy I hadn’t known in many years. I couldn’t help but gasp.

She rolled off me and began to undo her jeans.

“Please,” I said, “let me do that.” I reached over and unsnapped her pants, pulled down the zipper, and with both hands began to pull them down. She lifted her ass off the mattress to accommodate me. As her jeans traveled over her knees, she pulled one leg free, then the other.

I began to run my hand over her body, starting with her breasts. They were so large my open palm wouldn’t even cover them. Then I let my hand wander down her side and onto her thighs. Her panties were dark maroon and lacy. I ran my hand over her mound, enjoying the feel of her sex. As I did this, she quietly sighed. I let my fingers take a tour of her genital landscape without making any direct contact. As I continued, I could feel her getting more excited. She responded with a quiet whimper. I enjoyed the way she felt and the sounds she made.

She reached over and grasped my hardness again, and I struggled to maintain my composure. “No fair,” she whispered, “I’m practically naked and you still have your pants on . . .”

I stood up and began to take off my jeans and underwear. When I turned around, naked, she looked me and said, “Mmmm!” As I lay back down, pushing the sheets to the foot of the bed, she said, “You look good enough to eat!”

Which is exactly what she did. She focused all her attention on me, taking pleasure from giving me pleasure. I was groaning and gasping, unable to control how loud I was. Reaching down and running my fingers through her hair, I said, “Michelle, if you keep that up, I won’t be able to stop.”

I was embarrassed. She’d only been using her mouth on me for a minute, and I was about to finish.

She moaned encouragingly.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” I gasped, knowing release was imminent.

“Mmm-
hmmmm!
” she hummed.

With renewed energy she began to focus on me. Unable to stop myself, I felt the physical and sexual tension mounting. As the pressure rose, so did my moaning, and within seconds I called out in passion, my voice raspy and uneven. The orgasm was not only the most intense I could remember, but also seemed to last forever.

For a split-second, my moaning reminded me of the zombies. I pushed the thought away.

Pulling her up to me, I said, “My God! I am undone!” I closed my eyes, satiated nearly beyond belief.

But another part of me was all riled up.

I was hungry, hungry to explore her sexuality and ready to express mine. “Now it’s my turn!” I eagerly moved between her legs and began pulling off her panties. Then I lowered my face to her sex, luxuriating in the fragrance of an aroused woman I cared about. As I began to use my tongue on her, I lifted my eyes to take in her body. I could see her breasts and nipples, still hard, even more flushed than they had been a few minutes earlier. I felt like I was in heaven. For a few minutes I forgot everything and simply existed in a state of sexual bliss and satiation, using my tongue to give her pleasure.

After a few minutes she began to breathlessly plead with me, “Please . . . please . . . please don’t stop . . .”

Suddenly she cried out, arched her back, jerked and pulled my head hard against her. I kept using my tongue until I felt her twinges subside. As I lifted my head from between her legs, she began to weep great heaving sobs. When I cradled her in my arms, I felt tears fall on my shoulder. She turned and kissed me deeply, her lips salty with tears and tasting faintly of my sex.

“Geez, was I really that bad?” I joked.

She laughed through her tears, and after several minutes, with a sweet voice weary with spent passion, she quietly said, “Thank God, Kevin, I was so afraid you were gay!”

I wasn’t expecting this and laughed out loud. Hearing me laugh, she stopped crying completely and laughed along with me. We lay there, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

Still chuckling, I asked her why in the world she’d thought I might be gay.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she sniffed, “but I figured either you don’t take a hint or you weren’t attracted to me.”

“Um . . . what do you mean?”

“Well, geez Kevin, how much more obvious did I have to be? I tried my hardest to let you know I was interested. I gave you all kinds of chances to make a move on me. I flirted, I kissed you goodnight, I tried to dress sexy, I gave you compliments to let you know I was interested; hell, I even put your hand on my breast, remember? That night at my house when my heart was beating so fast?”

I reached over and cupped her breast in my hand.

“Do I remember? I’ll never forget. Your heart really
was
beating fast. I remember standing there with my hand on your breast, wanting to slide it down and squeeze . . . but I was afraid I was misreading you.”

Of course as I said this my hand slid down and squeezed.

“A single woman and a single man are standing close together in a dark room, and she puts his hand on her chest. How could that
possibly
be misunderstood?!”

“Michelle, I haven’t gone on a date with a woman, kissed a woman, felt a woman’s breast, or made love to a woman in ten years. I don’t know how to recognize and interpret romantic clues anymore. I really liked you and was attracted to you, and was willing to settle for your friendship, as long as I still got to spend time with you.”

She looked at me with tender astonishment. “That may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Of course, it was made all the more difficult and overwhelming since I’d already seen you topless and your breasts began to preoccupy my thoughts. Even more than they already were!”

She stiffened slightly in my arms. “You saw my breasts? When?!”

“Back in early October. Before the Collapse,” I said. “I was going through the house, turning off the lights and getting ready for bed. I had just turned the light off upstairs when in my peripheral vision I noticed a light go on. I looked out the window, and there you were, taking off your sweatshirt. It was completely an accident,” I said apologetically. “I wasn’t being a Peeping Tom, I swear.”

“And that’s the only time you saw me without my shirt on?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, you missed plenty of other chances. I walked around my bedroom wearing just a sexy bra or topless with the blinds open plenty of times. I wanted you to see me,” she confessed. “I noticed you glancing at my boobs a few times and I’ll admit it—I wanted to give you a free show. I was alone, bored and feeling naughty. I guess I have a little exhibitionist in me.”

“You did that on purpose? You slut!” I exclaimed with a smile, hoping she wouldn’t take offense.