UNWAVERING: An Undead short story (Undead shorts Book 1) Page 3

  “Whoa,” I managed, and grabbed headboard as he set a punishing/amazing pace. I braced so I could push back and was rewarded with a groan.

  “Christ.”

  Yes.

  “You are exquisite, my own.”

  Yes. Harder.

  He tightened his grip on my hips and obliged, and I knew I’d have five little bruises on each hip when we were done. Those bruises (all the sex bruises, really) were the only ones I wished would linger.

  I dropped to my elbows, was rewarded with another deep groan, and reached back so I could stroke his balls with two fingers (my arms weren’t quite long enough for a real grab).

  “No,” he gritted out. “You. Touch yourself. I’m...close. Stroke your clit for me.”

  So bossy. Still, it was an order I was happy to follow. Stroke your clit was right up there with try on the allllll the shoes. So, obedient creature that I was, I slid my hand down between my legs and skated my fingers over and around and alongside my clit, again and again, and I didn’t have the words to describe how gdslkdgjlsg lskdg;a llksdg laskgd;alk llsdgj;;

  You’re close, too, my own, darling queen. You’re getting tight all over. It’s hhhhnnnnnnggggg

  “Less thinking,” I gasped, amazed I was able to vocalize. Everything was getting brighter—like our room was lit by rheostat and someone was turning it all the way up—while the sensations had narrowed to my fingers and Sinclair’s cock. “More fu—ah!” A sensation not unlike leaping from an airplane and falling into an orgasm blanked my brain, and even as I was trying to think/say/beg ‘don’t stop’, he wasn’t. He fucked me through it until there was nothing but white noise—no, that was Sinclair, who was usually discreet but now and again didn’t give a shit if someone heard him roaring out his orgasm.

  In the movies there’s always this tender moment between lovers who have just banged the bricks loose. They gaze into each other’s eyes or manage breathless declarations of love and/or fidelity as they shiver in each other’s arms with just the slightest sheen of sweat on their gorgeous perfect bodies.

  Since this was real life, I released my grip on the headboard and flopped prone, mumbling a breathless declaration of love and/or fidelity into my pillow. I might have drooled a little.

  Sinclair flopped down beside me and chuckled. “La petite mort is wholly inadequate.”

  “Gmmmff umph,” I replied. Also: a tiny bit more drool.

  “And we still have three hours left of our special day.”

  That motivated me to flop over until we were facing each other on our sides. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

  He’d reached out to smooth my bangs out of my way, but paused. “How could you think I would forget?”

  “Because normally you give not one shit about that stuff? Hey, I’m not complaining. It was a great day.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I finally—“

  “Happy anniversary, my own darling queen.”

  “—got my hair the exact shade of red—what?” Oh, fuck.

  In a panic, I sat up. “No,” I said, trying not to lose my shit. “No! Our anniversary is months, months away.”

  He reached out, caught my arm, pulled me in close for a snuggle. “Calm down,” he murmured into my (newly red) hair. “Your heart is hammering.”

  “Yeah, sure, it’s probably pounding away at ten beats a minute. Listen, I didn’t forget our anniversary.” For one, Tina would have never let that happen. I’d had to actively prevent her from buying a gift for him, ostensibly from me (“I only wish to lighten your burdens, Majesty.”) more than once. “I think—I think you’re a little mixed up.” Or senile. He was over a hundred years old.

  “No,” he murmured, stroking my (newly red) hair. “Not the meaningless government ritual you insisted we practice. Our first wedding, our true wedding.”

  I wriggled until my kissable hair was out of his reach. “True wedding? Dude, if you’re getting me mixed up with some floozy you hooked up with during the Great Depression...”

  “You know you’re the only floozy for me, dearest.”

  “That’s a relief.” I was too sated to give him a well-deserved pinch for turning floozy back on me. “So then, what...?”

  “The pool. The fight. The Fiends. The ignoble end of a tyrant, the start of our glorious reign.”

  I mulled over “ignoble” (and tried not to giggle at “glorious”, because he sounded like a Russian propaganda poster) and then I had it: he meant the swimming pool “wedding” that took place within days of our first meeting. How could I have forgotten?

  Serious question. How could I? I saved Sinclair’s life that night. I cured his fatal burns. We killed the bad guy and then fucked, naked and upside down, in the deep end of a random swimming pool. When we came up for the air we didn’t need, we were—hey, presto!—the new king and queen of the undead. Such were the rules of undead matrimony and monarchy.

  (Hey, it’s no weirder or inconvenient than a destination wedding.)

  “We belonged to each other from that moment.”

  I snorted. “Which was awkward, since I hated you back then.”

  “No,” he said smugly, and that time he did get a pinch. “And your hair is lovely. But you must know I wouldn’t care what color or length your follicles were.”

  “Ooh, I love your sexy follicle pillow talk.”

  “The we are well matched for that if nothing else. And we have some time left. We—oh.”

  Yeah, I heard it, too. Now that we weren’t focused on getting laid, we were a little more aware of the world around us. There were at least two sets of footsteps coming down the hall, followed (natch) by a knock on our door.

  “Betsy? It’s Mom. BabyJon caught some kind of bug, the poor thing just barfed all over his car seat.”

  Offer her a heating pad.

  Oh, very funny. It could have been worse. She could have knocked ten minutes ago and I would have had to beat her to death.

  “I wouldn’t be bothering you—“

  “Of course you should bother me, Mom,” I called, hunting for clean clothing that wasn’t shredded. “He’s my brother/son.”

  “—but Marc and Will were adamant that you would want to be notified at once. And Tina and Jessica backed them up.”

  “Because of course they did,” I muttered. “I’ll be right down.”

  Sinclair was still lolling on the bed; he looked like a Roman general, post-orgy. “’Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’”

  “Not so fast, co-monarch, your head’s uneasy, too. He’s your brother-in-law/stepson. C’mon, give me a hand.”

  “At once,” he said agreeably, because he was a modern centenarian and hip to feminism. He rolled off the bed and to his feet, then began his own search for a shirt that hadn’t been reduced to cotton confetti. “And I have been remiss. How could I have gone most of this day without telling you I love you?”

  “Because you suck? Which is literal and figurative.” Then I hit the pause button on Sarcasm Mode. “I love you, too.”

  “Because of course you do.”

  I grinned. “Because of course I do.”

  Five minutes and a quick wash later he presented his arm. “Shall we?”

  “You’re gonna escort me to a puke-covered car seat?”

  “But of course.”

  I had to shake my head at the hilarious absurdity. We were co-monarchs who routinely cheated death (or co-opted death for our own ends) when not hoarding heating pads, squabbling with our friends, and sponging up puke.

  What the hell, I took his arm. “Lead on, sir.”

  And he did.

  THE END

 

 

 
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