And I know it's been mere days, but I loved him the moment he burst from the earth.
“I love you too.”
Then he's climbing up my body and positioning himself where his face just was, pressing the first hard centimeter of himself inside my resistant flesh.
I can feel mentally ready all I want, but the reality is different.
His hands gently hold my face, forcing our eye contact. With a deep breath, he pulls off the Band-Aid of my virginity and spears me deep, rocking into my body in one long push.
“Ow,” I hiss, trying to look away.
“Don't, Deegan.” Mitchell's face is fierce. “I can't do this if I'm not sure.”
Oh.
“You're not hurting me.” I touch his face, trying to reassure him.
His brow quirks.
“Not really, it burns like a bitch, though.” I capture my bottom lip between my teeth and nod.
He pulls back, and my body sighs, grabbing at him on the way out.
Then he's back in again.
I'm so glad Mitchell kissed me down below just as passionately as he did above. Now I know he was preparing me so it would hurt less, which makes me love him more.
Mitchell slides his hand between us, pressing and moving that tiny button of flesh that his mouth was just on.
Glorious nerve endings light off, and when he thrusts the next time, I tentatively meet him with my hips. Mitchell groans, cupping my rear with his big hands and bringing us together the next time he rocks into me.
“Make me pregnant, Mitchell,” I breathe against his face.
With a final thrust, he holds us together as I feel him pour himself into me—all of him.
We're frozen in that moment.
Worldless.
Breathless.
Thoughtless.
When Mitchell separates from me, it's just our bodies.
Our hands are linked tightly, and he tucks me in against his body. “I'm yours,” he whispers as my drowsy mind berates me for my decisions. How fast we came together. How effortlessly.
My parents would kill me.
Pax would kill Mitchell.
Tenderly, he brushes away fine hairs that have come undone from Sophie's artful braids.
“I'll wake you up before people know you're gone.”
“Okay,” I say in a sleepy voice.
He pulls an old clean sheet over me, but I'm warm enough with him by my side.
I turn my head, perched on his bare bicep. “Wait—how will you know when people are awake?”
His grin is sheepish, and a little secretive. “Brain activity.” He pauses as I process that. “Sleeping brains are quiet.”
He kisses me on my temple, but I stay awake for a little bit, thinking about loving a zombie, and the tradeoffs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Pax
What the actual fuck?
I look around at the others, and my eyes land on Sophie last. Could this Tate guy actually be telling the truth?
Can he tell if any of our women are pregnant?
My eyes narrow on Dee.
Are you kidding? Did you do fucking Mitch, I scream in her head.
Dee covers her ears.
Shut up, Pax. I'm emancipated. I can do whatever I want.
Holy hell.
Clearly, I seethe in disgust.
Mom and Dad look at us. Dad's not a dull tool in the drawer, as Gramps would say, and right now, between our expressions, I don't think he needs a blueprint to figure out our telepathy session.
“Deegan,” Dad begins, but she says before he can finish, “Dad, this isn't the time.”
Dad's lips thin into a flat, angry line.
It's a good thing olʼ Mitch isn't here, or Dad might feel compelled to loose all the dead wild animals from a nearby zoo—or better yet—eff that, let's just raise another prehistoric.
That'd do his ass up just fine.
“You're leaking, Pax,” Dee says in a hurt voice.
Shit.
I give her the look she deserves for screwing that zombie right underneath our noses.
“What if you're pregnant, Dee?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
Uncle John, Jonesy, and Gramps turn their heads to look at Dee.
“Hey, my man, I think it's sick as shit that sissy is doing the undead too.” Jonesy's eyeballs roll to the ceiling as though he's a deep thinker.
Dad groans, and Mom puts her head in her hands as Dee's face turns tomato red.
“But this”—he waves a palm around the loosely assembled females in the room—“is the least of our worries. We got your family in here, and my house is... I don't know what.” He hoists his finger into the air. “And Soph might be carrying a bun in the oven.”
Gramps slaps his forehead.
Sophie dips her chin, and Tiff says, “Oh my God, but you're consistent, Jones.”
“Yup,” he agrees easily, not missing a beat. “Anyways, I'm thinking our boy Drextel needs to get to a pretty good point here before all the men trip over their own tongues.”
“I like that, Jones,” Gramps says, nodding.
Jonesy turns to Gramps. “See? Once in a while, I impart wisdom.”
“I would never go that far,” Uncle John remarks.
“Put a lid on it, Terran,” Jonesy replies.
Tate raises a hand. “Any woman who can become pregnant in this era is damn lucky, and falls under about one hundred and two parameters of protection protocol.” He looks at the women, giving Kim a lingering glance, which causes high color to fan over her cheekbones. “I don't see any girls here. I see all viable women. And there are some pregnant ones.”
Everyone begins talking at once. Loudly.
Tate ignores the noise and starts pulling tags out of a satchel-type thing I didn’t notice before.
At first glance, the hard cards look like Grampsʼs holographic that gets him out of all kinds of trouble: like for smoking, having a huge lawn, and a bunch of other shit. Now that pulse has amped up to integrated disc communication, the tags look outdated. Scrolling across the front of each rectangle-sized stiff card are flashing words:
Certified pregnancy.
The animated letters move across the slim small surface like a river of words, stopping for a couple of seconds when the full two-word phrase shows then spitting up another wave of words in quick, repetitive succession.
It's eye-catching.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” Mom says.
I know just how she feels.
Tate's sharp eyes go to her. “Little early for that.”
Mom's eyes bug, and I turn, carefully folding my arms. “Are you shitting me?”
They couldn't have.
My eyes skate to Tara.
She drops her gaze from me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Tate smirks.
He's got us. All of us.
What a shitstorm.
*
Kim is the only woman without a lanyard around her neck.
The only non-pregnant female.
“I apologize, but the disc tech on this hasn't been worked out yet. So few women are pregnant, there's insufficient demand to warrant the transition these oldie but goodies into disc form.”
“Oh, I think I can live without the lovely pulse tattoo under the skin of my forehead announcing to God and country I'm knocked up,” Tiff says in a droll voice.
I snort. Disc tech is not very subtle.
John wraps an arm around her narrow shoulders and kisses the top of her head.
Despite Tiff's crass words, I can tell she's happy. Tiff covers Uncle John's hand with her own.
Nobody's said a word to Dee.
Gramps walks over to her, takes a look at the scattered laser words hanging from her neck, and pats her shoulder.
“It's all right, Deedie. Uncle Clyde will be blown away by the news, but I think he might get over it. After all, this new little tyke will be his relative.”
Dee hangs her head. “I love him. No m
atter what you all say, Mitchell is the man for me.”
Well he certainly was last night, I add in my head.
She lifts her chin and glares at me.
And you didn't do Tara? Her silent sarcasm sears me.
Can't meet her stare. Because Tara's wearing a lanyard too. Courtesy of me.
I didn't mean for things to go sideways. But Tara seemed like she needed my Organic skills last night.
Just not the kind I usually deliver.
I wince when all the attention that was on Dee shifts to yours truly.
*
One night prior
I make my way down the hall. Gonna check on that big horn dog zombie of Deegan's, make sure he's not putting the moves on her.
But when I approach the tiny room that Gramps converted from a closet to a small bedroom, I don't see him.
Where the hell is he? Because I know for a damn fact that where Dee is, that lumbering fucker will be.
Pegging my hands on my hips, I lift one hand and rap lightly on the door. Maybe Dee's in there sleeping, and Mitch wandered off in search of brains or something. My lips twist with the thought.
Stilling, I hear a soft noise from behind the closed door. I turn the handle and shove my face in.
Tara is sitting up in bed, looking all hair-tousled sexy. I get wood before my next breath. Great timing, as per fucking usual.
“Hey,” she says softly, brushing her pale hair out of her eyes.
I swallow and hear my throat click. “Hey.”
“You can come in. Deegan's not here.”
I enter and softly shut the door behind me. “Where'd she go?”
“Snuck out with my brother, I guess.” Her smile is sort of dazed.
I turn to go after them. Fucking knew it.
“Wait, Pax...”
I rotate back around to face Tara, and she's sitting up on that bottom bunk in just a bra and a sheet covering to her waist.
One slim arm encircles the post that supports the upper bedframe, and one leg dangles off the bed.
“Don't go after her.” Tara bites her bottom lip. “She'd be mortified.”
I hit my chest. “Like I care? Dee's my little sister, and she's not going off with Mitch.” I spit his name from my mouth.
Tara slowly nods. “I get it. I do. But she's a woman in this time, right?”
Shit. “Yes.” I nod reluctantly.
“Well, they were talking about shifting age limits and restrictions, before, ya know... before I left where I was.”
“How old are you?” I ask abruptly.
Tara meets my eyes. “Old enough.”
“No, really.”
“Eighteen and a half.”
I let out a heavy breath. “Okay.”
“Why does that matter?”
Heat rises toward my face, along with my dick. I don't know why I'm having so much trouble.
I've had sex before. Sure, it wasn't normal sex, but it was real.
It's just—I realize I want to have it pretty bad with Tara. Mitch's sister. Who's just been through a big sex assault trauma with some dude from her time—her earth.
And she's Mitch's sister.
That little factoid bears repeating.
Massaging my dry throat, I mainly try to shove down an ass ton of emotions I don't want to examine.
“Just let her go. To be a woman. Seems like Deegan's got everyone always looking at her. Faulting her.”
That's kind of cutting too close to the truth.
“I don't bite,” Tara says, patting the bed beside her.
But I do, my mind whispers. I'm trying to be good here, and she's making it so damn hard.
Shit.
I stalk over there and sit down, hanging my head slightly forward so I don't bash it on the bunk above me.
“Tight space,” I mutter, lightly touching the framework of the wood above my head.
Tara stands, and the sheet drops.
Holy. Crow.
Gorgeous female curves meet my starved eyes, and I blink—the regular kind.
I try to focus on the fact that we've escaped some horrid shit in the last day.
That I'm in Grampsʼs house.
That Dee is running around with King Zombie while I go perv-mode with Ms. Gorgeous here.
Tara pivots and struts to the door. She latches it dramatically then faces me again.
There's nothing the two scraps of fabric can do to cover up all that I want to see.
I close my eyes, and the whisper of her bare feet across Grampsʼs blue shag carpeting is loud.
Her soft touch is like a butterfly landing on my shoulder. Heat runs from the small skin contact, and I sigh.
“I won't break,” Tara says, and she's so close, I jump.
My eyelids flip open, and I stare up at her.
Now both hands have a hold of my shoulders, and her perfect tits are dead center at my nose.
My breaths shorten.
“I'm not an asshole,” I say like a drowning victim.
“Are you trying to convince yourself—or me?”
Tara's deep-blue eyes are like wells of black in the darkness of a moon too new to cast sufficient light.
I blink, and that fuzzy darkness scatters.
Right now, I can see Tara's pores.
Multiverses surround us. World after world, cut like paper-thin slivers of vertical moving films, play around our bodies in distracting full-color array.
They are not visible to Tara.
But I wanted to see her. All of her. In fine detail. So I blinked.
“It's not that you're not gorgeous,” I say, still trying.
Her eyes attempt to search mine in the near-darkness of the tiny room. “I'm not going back, am I?”
My exhale is hushed in the quiet of the space.
“No.” My single word comes out in a whisper.
“I can have babies,” she says.
I look at her, really look at her. “I'm not great father material, Tara. I know you're looking at me as a kinda hero or something, but I'm young—and I have a crappy temper. And scary talents.” I sweep my longish hair back from my face.
“I don't care,” she says after a few seconds pound between us.
“Why would you want a kid with me?”
“You're a rough guy. But I think you're rough on purpose. Like it's this wall you've built up because you had to.”
Scary accurate.
“And you were this prodigy talent. You and Deegan. And she can't physically defend herself.”
“That we know of,” I say with a big fat yet tacked on to the end.
Our eyes lock. “Her zap ability is pretty defensive.”
I nod. But it's a wildcard too—as evidenced when hands and pricks disappear.
I shiver.
Tara tightens her grip on my bare shoulders, and I tent the sweatpants I'm wearing in an embarrassingly obvious way.
“I've had sex before,” Tara admits, her eyes dipping to check me out.
Great. “Me too.”
She sits on my knee, and I automatically put my arm around her to keep her balance.
As she settles, Tara's knee brushes my erection, and I suck in a breath through my teeth.
Her lips tilt up at the corners. “Sorry.” Tara doesn't sound like she means it.
I give her a look.
Tara grins at whatever she sees in my expression. “Tell me who with,” she says, drawing small circles around my nipple with her fingertip.
My eyebrows pop high. “Do we really talk about ex-partners?” I ask, trying like hell to ignore the way her touch feels on my chest.
Tara lifts a shoulder. “Total transparency. I have nothing to lose.”
I take a deep breath then let it out slowly. I can come clean. I miss Emily.
“Well, my gram—Dad's mom—was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years ago.”
“They don't have a cure this far in the future?” she asks softly.
I shake my head. “Not on this
earth. Not for that type of cancer.” I tuck Tara's head in against my shoulder and adjust our combined weight, subtly trying to move my aching hard-on out of the way.
Though it's fading with the subject matter.
“So Emily was dying and being treated in the same care facility as Gram.” I let the silence cocoon us. Feels like we're the only ones in the world. “We were both virgins. And when I was waiting through all that useless chemo bullshit they were doing on Gram, I'd aimlessly wander around the hospital corridors, and one day, I walked past an open door, and there was this girl sitting on a windowsill.”
An image of Emily, her dark hair a shadow floating down her back, surfaces. “She had her hair then,” I say absently, the memory still painful.
Tara is quiet.
“She knew Gram, Ali—loved her. Loved her different than me, but she still did.”
This is harder than I thought it would be.
I take a deep breath, fortifying myself. “Anyway, at first, we'd just talk...”
I let the seconds draw out before speaking again, more quietly. “Then it became more. After a while, I couldn't separate going to see Gram and the excitement of seeing Emily. I felt so fucking guilty about it all.”
I'm glad Tara can't see my face.
“We didn't just pounce on each other out of rabid curiosity. Emily didn't care that I was a Body or AftD, and she sure as shit didn't know about blinking. She liked me.” I touch my chest only millimeters from Tara's face resting against my pec, where I can see the minute rise and fall of her chest as she breathes against me. “Emily liked the man, not what I was. Who I was.”
A couple of minutes drag by while I think about laying it out there to a virtual stranger. A girl that I liked at first sight.
Not love. But sometimes the line between like, love and care is awfully damned blurred.
“I like the man too,” is all she finally says after a couple of long minutes of nothing but the sound of our breathing.
“Yeah?” I ask, putting a hand over her head, and I feel her nod underneath my fingers.
Then Tara's turning in my arms and pushing me down on the bed, straddling me.
Tara kisses me from above, her silky hair tickling my face. I wrap my arms around her until she moves to take off my pants.
I let it happen.
And all the things that happen after that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Death Incarnate Page 14
