by Jodi Redford
Dazed and blissfully limp, she floated back to earth. Griff slipped his fingers free but continued lapping away, drawing out the aftershocks still trembling through her. Holy crimoly, the guy had some serious oral skills. Wobbling up onto her elbows, she watched him with a heavy-lidded stare, her body not entirely sated despite her bone-melting orgasm. She wouldn’t be truly satisfied until every inch of Griff’s cock was buried deep inside her. Just the thought of him taking her, being connected in that most intimate of ways, coaxed a needy whimper from her.
“Griff…please…fuck me.”
A tremor ran through the strong hands encircling her hips. Griff stopped his delicious licking and glanced at her, his expression a jumble of indecision and lust. He scooted the stool back, his arms dropping. For one heartbreaking moment she worried he was about to start in again with claims of why they shouldn’t be doing this. Instead he stripped off his polo. Her mouth instantly watered like one of Pavlov’s dogs, and she resisted the urge to check her chin for drool.
In all the years she’d known Griff she’d never seen him bare-chested. What a damn shame. The guy was gorgeous. She let her gaze rove over the acres of bronzed flesh and rippling muscles comprising his torso. His sculpted pecs and abdominals were devoid of hair. I wonder if he shaves everywhere. Biting her lip, she dropped her scrutiny to the impressive bulge in his jeans. She’d be finding out soon enough.
“Son of a bitch.” Griff’s curse managed to drag her focus back to his face. He tunneled a hand through his hair before dropping his arm with a frustrated growl. “I don’t have any condoms in the house.”
“It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”
He frowned. “You’ve never mentioned being on them before.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve also kept you in the dark about my crampy periods and not-so-fresh-feeling days. Aren’t you deprived? Now are you going to take those jeans off or do I have to rip them off you myself?”
He seemed intrigued by her suggestion but ended up shucking his shoes and jeans on his own. Quite fortuitous, since it allowed her to sit back and ogle to her heart’s content. He had a physique that’d been well earned from his routine trips to the local gym. Damn, maybe she shouldn’t have turned down his invitation to become workout buddies. Here she could have enjoyed getting an eyeful of his half-naked, sweat-glistened body all these years. Shifting her focus from his firm, muscular calves, she zeroed in on the impressive organ between his thighs. Well hell, she had her answer. The russet hedge flanking that sequoia of a cock sported a perfect trim. Amazing the number of guys who didn’t understand the appeal of good manscaping.
“You’re staring at my dick.”
“I know. I’m visualizing it inside me.”
Griff moaned before kicking his jeans aside. “Baby, you don’t need to imagine. It’s going to be all yours in five seconds.”
He pushed the stool out of the way before snuggling between her legs. She reached down and stroked his cock, catching him off guard. Ignoring his sharp inhale, she continued her thorough investigation of the rock-hard shaft gripped in her hand. Luxuriating in its satiny-steel texture, she gave it a good pump with her fist. He jerked, his cock pulsing against her fingers.
His head fell back, revealing the strained cords in his neck. He licked his lips, his breath escaping in a ragged pant. “If you keep that up, I’m never going to last long enough to make you come again.”
“Sorry. Stan just looked so happy to see me I couldn’t resist.”
His mouth twitched. “You’ve named my dick Stan?”
“What? Stan’s a great name. Honest, hardworking. A real upstanding citizen.” She waggled her brows.
“What the hell am I going to do with you?”
“Hmm, I have an idea…” She scooted forward on the counter until her pussy grazed the head of his cock. They both groaned at the slick contact. Exploring the prominent, rigid veins of his shaft, she moved toward the fat, plum-shaped cap. She teased herself with the silky gland, running it up and down her slit. On the fourth pass, Griff took over, spreading her slippery folds enough to ease just past her opening.
“I love seeing you like this. All open and wet for me.”
Griff’s words uttered in that husky low growl drove her crazy. She hooked her ankles behind his muscled ass, encouraging him closer. He took the hint and rocked his hips. His thick cock thrust deeper. Stretching her to the limits. Setting fire to her nerve endings.
Claiming her mouth in another soul-deep kiss, he plunged the final few inches, lodging to the hilt, and skimmed his thumb over her clit. She lost it. Pleasure bursting in uncontrollable waves, she grabbed onto him, her nails digging into his biceps. An electrical current zipped along her spine and throughout every cell in her body. Griff’s mouth absorbing her cries, she shuddered as the orgasm exploded within her so forcefully it felt like the entire room shook from its impact. Dimly, she became aware of the rattling of utensils in the island’s drawers.
“Holy crap, the room really is shaking.” She clung to Griff, her shriek turning into a laugh. Didn’t it just figure? She finally got to experience the most amazing sex ever with Griff and a damn earthquake was probably about to do her in.
No sooner did she have that thought and the fierce rattles stopped. Loosening her death grip on Griff, she looked up to find him frowning at the counter.
“That was weird.”
Grinning, she tweaked his nipple playfully. “You better be referring to the earthquake, not about making love to me.”
His expression softened. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over hers. “Making love to you is a dream come true. Sublime, in fact.”
Griff’s sexy hum of pleasure stoked a renewed flush of desire. She shifted on the island and noticed that his cock was still buried in her and harder than granite. Either he hadn’t come yet or he possessed the quickest recovery time in history. Regardless, there was no way she’d let that magnificent erection go to waste. Looping her arms around his neck, she nibbled his jawline. “Hmm, sublime is good. Want to go for mind-blowingly awesome next?”
Griff opened his mouth but his cell phone suddenly went off, the driving beat of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” cutting short whatever he’d been about to say. His shoulders tensed. Intuiting that she was two seconds away from losing her shot at another earth-shaking orgasm, she kissed her way down his sternum and circled the dusky areola, outlining his nipple with her tongue. Sometimes a gal just had to play dirty.
Uttering a hoarse groan, Griff eased out of her and stooped to grab the ringing phone from his pants pocket. She trailed her hand between her legs and danced a fingertip over her clit. Griff’s nostrils flared, a rough exhale gusting from his chest. “Ah hell.” Yanking the island’s middle drawer open, he tossed his cell in and slammed the drawer shut, right before slamming her onto his cock.
Griffin listened to the soft whir of the ceiling fan blades whipping the air overhead. Cuddled beside him, the woman he’d loved and craved for longer than he could remember slept soundly. He’d worn her out. Hell, he’d worn himself out, making love to Jemma like each time would be the last. Unfortunately, it was probably all too true.
Plowing his hands through his hair, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. After glancing behind him to ensure he hadn’t awakened her, he headed out to the kitchen. He padded to the island and fished his cell phone from the drawer. A tap of his finger on the display triggered the backlight. Thirty-three missed calls.
Aw fuck. He didn’t need to check the caller ID to know they were all from Clarissa.
He’d broken the cardinal rule—no sex with Jemma. There would be hell to pay.
Weariness plunging like a two-ton anchor in his chest, he turned off the cell phone and returned to the bedroom. He climbed in next to Jemma. She stirred with a sleepy sigh and curled against him. “I missed you.”
He smoothed aside a lock of her strawberry-blonde hair and kissed her forehead, his heart swelling with everything he was
forbidden to reveal. Forbidden to feel. “I was barely gone two minutes.”
“Two minutes too long.” She nuzzled his collarbone before embarking on a tantalizing journey down his chest and abdomen. By the time she reached his cock he’d been reduced to a quivering mass of tortured nerve endings. The wet warmth of her mouth engulfed his shaft, employing enough suction to make a Hoover envious. His eyes rolling back, he groaned and dropped his head to the pillow.
Hell could wait until tomorrow.
Chapter Two
“I don’t have any coffee in the house.”
Jemma cracked one eye open and gave Griff a bleary stare. “No condoms. No coffee. What kind of swinging bachelor are you?”
He leaned down and nipped the back of her neck. “The kind who has plans for you when I get back.”
She speared him with a suspicious look. “These plans better not include cleaning your bathroom. I’m not falling for that again, you sneaky bastard.”
Griff tried for an innocent look that fell way short of authentic. “What? I told you it was an emergency.”
“My cousins coming over to play poker was not an emergency.”
Chuckling, he pushed off the mattress. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in twenty. Make sure you’ve lost that T-shirt by then.”
A shiver of expectation raced through her. Who knew Griff could be so sexy and demanding? She indulged in the delicious view of his sculpted buns before they disappeared beneath the faded denim of his jeans. He shrugged into a dark gray T-shirt and traipsed from the room. Snuggling into the sheets with a blissful sigh, she closed her eyes.
Her own snore snapped her from a light doze several minutes later. Thank God Griff wasn’t around. Kind of difficult to maintain her sex-goddess vibe when she sounded like a damn foghorn.
Footsteps scrunched across the carpet and she groaned. “Oh shit, you are home.” Remembering that she hadn’t obeyed his earlier command, she wiggled her butt beneath the covers and snickered. “Guess what, I didn’t ditch your shirt. Does this mean you’re gonna spank me?”
Griff didn’t answer, but she knew he was still there. She could hear him breathing. Loudly. Either he was severely out of breath or brushing up on his obscene phone caller skills. A foul odor wafted to her nostrils, and she scrunched her nose. “Dude, that better not be the coffee because it smells like something fell in there and died.”
Rolling onto her side, she glanced toward the doorway. Her uncle Harold stood a couple of feet away, puddling dirty rainwater on the bedroom carpet.
Pretty damn freaky, since he’d been dead for the past sixteen months. She blinked. “Okay, this is officially going down as the weirdest dream ever.” Not to mention amazingly lucid. Even the rain that sluiced from Harold’s severely bad comb-over looked eerily realistic.
One mud-caked wingtip stomped forward with a wet squelch. Harold’s opaque eyes focused on her with malevolent intent, prompting her skin to prickle with the creepy-crawlies. If this was real, I’d probably be peeing myself right about now.
Deciding that it was way past time to wake her ass up, she pinched her arm—and yelped at the resulting sting. “Holy shit, I am awake.” Numb disbelief paralyzed her limbs. There could be no way in hell this was actually happening. Only it was. Dead Harold definitely wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
Her eyes widening, she stared at the corpse’s shuffling advance. A mix of fear and panic raced through her, competing with the irrational part of her brain that kept dredging up images of her uncle teaching her how to play his old Gibson guitar while they both belted out the words to Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay”. She’d sung the song in tribute at Harold’s memorial, certain he’d been watching from the afterlife with a huge grin on his face.
Only he wasn’t smiling now. If anything, his face held the scariest expression she’d ever seen. She gulped and struggled to fight off a renewed surge of terror. This was Harold. He would never hurt a fly, much less—
His pale, waxy features twisting with ugly menace, Harold lunged forward. Long, boney fingers swiped the air inches away from her head. “Graw.”
She’d seen enough zombie movies to know that loosely translated, graw meant Hmm, which of your tasty appendages should I snack on first? A pathetic excuse for a scream gurgling from her throat, she scrambled sideways, battling to escape her uncle’s windmilling arms and the imprisoning blanket. Finally free of the covers, she tumbled off the bed and ducked to a crouch near the closet. Crawling toward the corner of the mattress, she peeked past the dangling quilt. Yep, deceased relative still there and blocking the only means of exit.
Heartbeat roaring in her ears, she considered her options. Only one sounded good at the moment—getting the fuck out of there, with all her limbs still attached. Which meant she needed a weapon. Keeping low to the floor, she scanned her immediate area. On the far side of the dresser, a piece of exercise equipment caught her eye. A part of her couldn’t believe she was actually considering defending herself with a freakin’ ThighBlaster. An even bigger part wondered why the hell Griff owned a ThighBlaster. She’d have to give him major shit about that one.
Assuming she lived long enough. Of course, there wasn’t much chance of that happening if she didn’t leave her pathetic hidey hole and haul ass over to the dresser. Easier said than done when her stubborn toes were currently fused to the carpet.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Damn it, you can do this.” With Herculean effort, she pried her feet from the floor and scrambled toward the dresser. Another loud “Graw” rasped nearby—way too close—and she dove for the ThighBlaster, her flattened palms and bare knees plowing through the carpet. Her fingers wrapped around the ThighBlaster’s rubber handle at the exact moment a dark wingtip squished into view. The stench hit her full blast. Wet, moldy wool and the sick sweetness of formaldehyde.
Holding her breath, she jerked her gaze upward and locked stares with Harold. Any thought of trying to convince her uncle’s corpse that he didn’t want to make a snack out of her instantly died. The creature looming over her with murderous zeal in its eyes wouldn’t be swayed by her pleas. His hand swiped at her. She ducked, striking out with the ThighBlaster. It hit him square in the ankle, hard, and he wobbled. Seizing the opportunity, she struck again, swinging her makeshift weapon with a howl of determination. It crunched against his kneecap. Grunting, Harold clamped onto the ThighBlaster and jerked it upward. Jemma—still holding her end tight—slammed into him, her nose indenting his left breast pocket.
Oh God, dead person cooties. Shuddering, she scooted backward. Zombie Harold lashed out with the ThighBlaster, and she catapulted over the dresser’s edge to avoid getting bashed in the head. “If this is about the butt-ugly flower arrangement my parents sent to the funeral, I swear I had nothing to do with it.”
Harold made another swipe.
Sometimes there was just no reasoning with dead people.
Griffin was halfway home when Jemma’s scream pierced his consciousness. His muscles seized. Pushing through the murky haze of her panic, he tried to zero in on the source of the threat against Jemma. It came to him. Not in a mental image but a phantom scent. His stomach pitched. “Oh, fuck no.” Fear surging through his bloodstream, he stomped on the gas pedal, nearly fishtailing on the wet asphalt. His heart remained lodged in his throat for the excruciating eight minutes it took to reach home. Screeching to a halt in the driveway, he threw the Pathfinder into park and leapt from the vehicle.
The front door of the house stood wide open. He thundered into the entry and was greeted by the crash of breaking glass echoing down the hall. Adrenaline pumped to high gear, he raced toward the sound, barely registering the muddy footprints leading to his bedroom. The zombie had Jemma pinned to the wall with a ThighBlaster, of all things. With a strangled roar, Griffin hurtled over the splintered shards of mirror littering the carpet and knocked the corpse to the floor. He flattened himself against the flailing creature and slammed its head down. Angry growls rumbled from
the zombie as it chomped through the carpet fibers.
Griffin risked a quick peek in Jemma’s direction. Other than looking terrified out of her skull, she seemed to be in possession of all her body parts. “Is this the only one?”
Jemma remained frozen in place. The corpse beneath him bucked wildly, howling.
“Damn it. Jemma, are there any more?”
“N-no.” She took a step forward, her teeth chattering.
“Good, then go get me a shovel out of the garage.”
Fortunately she didn’t wait around to ask why. The second she scurried from the room, he gripped the zombie’s head in both hands and snapped its neck. Relieved he didn’t have to explain to Jemma how he managed that feat so effortlessly, he sat on the zombie’s torso. The corpse still fought for dominance but at least having no control of its neck muscles slowed it down.
Jemma sprinted back into the room a few seconds later, a spade clenched in her fist. “I couldn’t find a shovel.”
“Doesn’t matter. Bring that here.”
She did and he grabbed the handle. He gave her an apprehensive look when she didn’t back away. “Sweetheart, I doubt you want to see this.”
“W—what are you going to do?”
“Sever its head. It’s the only way to completely stop it.”
Her complexion went as white as chalk. Gulping, she turned and stumbled from the room. Griffin stood. Planting his foot in the middle of the zombie’s back, he hacked the spade through the corpse’s neck, putting a permanent end to its second lease on life. He tossed the garden tool aside and went in search of Jemma. She was perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her upper body and trembling violently. Loping to the couch, he scooped her into his arms. She leaned into him, still shaking, and he rocked her gently until the tremors quieted.
Her hand curled into his shirt, and she clutched him like he was her last link to reality. “What the hell is going on, Griff? Dead people don’t come back to life and attack their relatives for no good reason. That sort of stuff only happens in Stephen King novels or low-budget B movies. Right?”
