Reawakening (12 page)

She thought about suggesting a rousing game of Bedroom Antics. She thought about saying—
there’s this game, right. Everybody used to play it, and I heard it’s really fantastic. Basically, one person says they love some other people.

Then the other people say it back.

But instead she said nothing, and followed them up to bed, and laid down, and dreamt, again. Only this time, this time there were no pretexts at all. Nothing holding her down. No magical oils that cured zombie.

They were all just in a big tangle on the bed and when Blake pressed his wet, open mouth over hers, she felt Jamie’s hand slide over her arm. She’d reached up for something—to grasp that curling pleasure, to find something to anchor her body—and he just found her hand and linked their fingers.

Not like before, when one had fucked her. Then the other. Totally separate and sort of abstract—not like any concrete idea of a ménage in which three people really, really liked each other.

When three people really, really liked each other, they held on to one another and linked fingers and didn’t think about turns. She didn’t think about turns in the dream of tangled limbs and two sets of mouths on the same place, only minutes apart.

Oh God. God, it was good. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t like the time before, where glitzy people did this sort of sophisticated thing all the time. It felt, instead, like holding on to as much as you possibly could before everything awful dragged you under.

And when Blake kissed her mouth and Jamie kissed the place between her legs, heat rolled through her body like a tidal wave and up, up out of her mouth.

Of course, it was even more embarrassing this time. Because not only had she moaned aloud in her sleep, but she’d somehow gotten a fistful of Jamie’s t-shirt and kind of…yanked on it.

And naturally, he was awake for the whole show. She’d never seen him look so awake in all her days, as though maybe he suspected a completely different intent to the shirt-yanking. Like she’d decided he was a zombie in her sleep then tried to murder him with his own clothes.

She wondered how long it would be before he realized it was the other thing. After all, her face felt like an inferno. Her nipples were still hard. In the middle of it, she’d curled her toes—and they weren’t uncurling any time soon.

None of which seemed like a zombie fighting sort of stance. For a start, a person couldn’t effectively run on curled toes. That was just a fact.

“June? You kinda have hold of me.”

That was fair of him. In truth, she was getting close to choking him with his collar.

“Oh,” she said. It was all she could manage. Every effort was going toward letting his t-shirt free, but her body just wasn’t obeying. It wanted to hold on, tightly.

But then he said, “Easy, baby,” and some of that feeling sort of cycled down. How sweet it was to be told
easy baby
, by anyone. About anything. Just so sweet and good, while he worked on soothing the tight clasp of her hand open.

And when he’d finally worked himself free, he didn’t stay that way. He replaced the t-shirt with the firm link of his fingers—like in the dream.

She held on tight.

“That better?” he asked, and it was that—such a silly question—that made something sting behind her eyes.

Yeah. Yeah. Holding someone’s hand was better.

“You’re shaking, again.”

It wasn’t a question but she felt as though he kind of wanted an answer anyway. Sadly, she couldn’t give one.

“Is it a…zombie apocalypse kind of shaking? Or a different kind of shaking?”

Thank God he was fumbling toward the words, anyway. Thank God, thank God.

“Blake told me that…”

Oh, he was definitely fumbling, all right. Almost there.

“So you know, if you wanted to I could…”

What went after could? Jesus, what went after could? She felt pretty sure it wasn’t
kill the zombies in the nightmare I’m sure you’ve just had
.

It was the other thing. The other thing.

“I mean…do you know what I’m talking about here, or am I just doodling around out on this limb on my own?”

Someone had stuffed dry earth into her mouth. No words would come. She had to just communicate with him through the medium of desperate, frantic nodding and some truly epic hand squeezing.

He was going to lose a finger, any second.

“Well, all right. All right.”

Dear God that could mean anything.
All right.
It sounded like
now I’m gonna fuck you
, but oh there were so many gradients in between. Handjobs and mouths on things and oh, oh—sixty-nines!

Lord in heaven, how she wanted to sixty-nine his ass off.

So it was something of a disappointment, when
all right
turned out to mean
let’s make out. A bit. Not a real lot, or anything
.

He knew. He knew what the trembling meant and the shouting in her sleep and the flush all over her face and neck and just how horny she was, how unendurably horny, and this was all she got? A hot, wet, tongue kiss?

Somehow that was even worse than the teasing promise of her dreams. It teetered on the brink of dirty but wouldn’t go over.

She had to push it over. Nothing else for it, really. He wasn’t going to take it there on his own—either because of Blake on the other side of her with his back turned, or because he wanted to be cautious. Go slow. She’d been a lesbian five minutes ago, for Christ’s sake!

So she had to just do it. Just push his hand down her body. Of course, she felt bad about it—there he was, being all nice and lacing their fingers together and all of that stuff. And here she was, using that hand holding to cajole him into touching her.

Though he didn’t exactly put up a lot of resistance. In fact, once she got him to somewhere around her belly, he let go of her hand all on his own. He moved further down, then down some more, all slow as syrup but twice as nice. She could feel her thighs trembling before he’d even gotten to the good stuff.

Then he got to the good stuff and she forgot how to function, briefly. Any semblance of competent kissing went by the wayside. Her lips kind of opened and closed, but that was about the most of it.

He had a hand between her legs. Actually between her legs. Like in the dream with Blake only so much more solid and heated and oddly tentative at the same time.

Blissful. Just utterly blissful. She’d pressed her own hand between her legs before while here. Once, in the shower. She’d even dared to press the heel of her palm to her sex while in the bed with them…but it just wasn’t the same. Relieving the ache yourself and having some other human being actually offer you some contact—it wasn’t the same.

She made a noise into his mouth. Couldn’t help it. And when he rubbed that hand over her—just ever so lightly—she couldn’t help urging her body against that minute contact, either.

Like scratching an itch, only the itch had become a plague on her soul and the scratch was in no way deep enough. It wasn’t even an embarrassment that when he rubbed harder she could feel her own excessive wetness, dampening the material. No, God no. How could it be, when her vocal chords were making little mewling animal noises, and her back had kind of bowed off the bed, and she was apparently clutching at him, really clutching?

She didn’t dare open her eyes, just in case he looked appalled. He didn’t seem appalled—or at least, not in a way she could tell through the medium of his kisses, which were getting hotter and wetter by the moment—but who knew, really?

Maybe he revealed his disgust through more tongue and a lot of sighing. Maybe he let it show by rubbing in heavier, bolder strokes between her legs, while his arm slid around and underneath her shoulders so he could hold her tighter to him.

Yeah, those were probably signs of disgust. Plus, after a moment of this agonizing rubbing, he did pull away. He pulled away and murmured all hoarse and good in her ear—
easy baby, easy
. As though she was going nuts and needed to be calmed, which in truth she knew she was.

She couldn’t let go of the back of his shirt. It had rooted itself to her palm, or she had rooted herself to it. Her sex felt like a miniature heart between her legs, and all she could think was—
please, please just put your hand inside. Just touch my bare pussy. Just touch my clit, just once, God please
.

Which seemed like a ridiculous and pathetic prayer to make. She’d begged for so many other things, so many more important things—why was this one so vital, now? Because it seemed so. When he touched her, and one finger almost slid into the groove between, it felt more vital than breathing or eating or sleeping.

She was going to come, and he’d barely done anything at all, really. She wasn’t even sure if there’d been any actual contact against her clit, or her nipples, or a whole variety of other erogenous zones that were going begging.

But she was definitely going to come, anyway. She said some things into his hair that were not words, then he pressed the heel of his palm right down over everything until intense pleasure tried to shove its way through her body. Even worse—when she twisted against him, she could feel the hot, hard brand of his obvious erection pressing heavily into her thigh.

And that was just…too much. He was turned on. Actually and really turned on—and he wasn’t even trying to hide it, particularly. For a brief moment, she wasn’t even sure if he was keeping still—it could have been that he was rutting up against her. Just a little. Nothing too obvious or crude, of course. Just enough to make her moan his name.

Which didn’t seem like a good or sane thing to do. Especially when Blake suddenly moved around somewhere behind her, and neither she nor Jamie moved one inch. No jumping apart occurred. In truth she felt they were a little past jumping apart, and right into
if you move away, I’ll kill you
.

Surely Blake would understand that? Right? Was his hand on her left breast a sign that he understood that?

Probably not, if the sudden size of her eyes was anything to go by.

Of course, she tried to keep them small. She attempted to minimize her shock by not moving a whole lot, and pressing her face into the turn of Jamie’s throat. But it was kind of difficult with Jamie’s hand between her legs and Blake’s hand on her left breast.

Not even kind of, really. Just
absolutely
difficult. She wanted to turn and look at him—to see what he was doing, maybe, or understand his intentions more—but that seemed absolutely difficult, too.

And besides—she knew without looking what he was doing. He’d turned over onto his other side so that he could see everything. And once that was done, he’d put a nice, friendly hand on her boob.

Oh, and he was jerking off. She could pretty much tell that he was jerking off.

What more was there to say, really? Except for lots of things that sounded like the garbled pleasure-stuffed noises of the deranged. And though she tried with all of her might to
not
be deranged, it was just impossible with two men on either side of her, obviously turned on but not trying to push their luck, touching her in a really pleasant, almost-like-a-handshake sort of way.

Only, you know. In a way that was also designed to achieve her maximum possible pleasure.

She felt almost bad about it, after a moment. Like she should offer them handshakes in return. And she would have done, she really would have done if Jamie hadn’t chosen that moment to finally, finally reach her clit through what must have been acres of material, and Blake hadn’t thumbed her nipple in this really soft, almost absent-minded sort of way.

At which point she could only hang on as great rolls of pleasure made their way through her body.

She tried not to be too embarrassing about it. But it was hard, when her body had kind of forgotten what an orgasm felt like. Her body did the equivalent of someone saying
what the fuck was that?
It jerked, and shuddered, and wouldn’t let up on all of the sparks of shivering sensation and the little aching aftershocks.

Though she couldn’t feel too bad about losing control of herself. Not when Blake was, apparently, a total loudmouth in bed. He moaned and gasped and made appallingly rude little guttural noises until she couldn’t think straight about anything at all. Wasn’t this the guy who had trouble saying
please pass the peas,
usually?

Jesus. Jesus. How on earth was he going to communicate with her after this? How was Jamie?

In fact, how on earth were any of them going to say anything to each other ever again?

Chapter Six

They’d done it. They’d actually done something. And though she kept trying to wake up and realize it was all a dream, reality wasn’t having any of it. Never mind that dreams never came true. Reality didn’t give a shit about that.

It just wanted her to accept that she’d had two guys fondle her in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

But boy, was it ever hard going. For a start, they didn’t seem to want to say too much about it. Like it wasn’t that big a deal. So they’d all masturbated together like horny maniacs. So what? People did worse things every day.