Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗

Miranda wandered the house. She was not sure how much time had passed since she fled the dinner table, but she needed a bathroom. Every time she thought she found one, it turned out to be a room she did not recognize. She knew Emily’s house better than this. Why was she so lost? She finally found a bathroom she had never seen before. It was huge, with fixtures that were undersized and mismatched. The geometry of the room felt wrong, but there was nothing she could identify to support the feeling. It just did.

She rifled through the medicine cabinet, then the linen closet, then the drawers under the sink. As she gripped the handle on the last drawer, she realized what she was doing.

I’m looking for a razor.

She froze, outstretched arm trembling. The scars on the insides of her forearms and biceps itched and throbbed. She knew everyone thought it was terrible. She knew herself that it meant something was wrong with her, that something was broken. What no one else understood was that it wasn’t about the sharp bite of metal into her skin or the fiery pain or the blood that welled up in the razor’s wake and trickled around the curve of her arm. It let the pain, the fear, every bad thing seep out. She didn’t know why or how, but it helped. Sometimes it was the only thing that did.

She couldn’t go back to the others with her forearms in bandages, not after the scene she had just made. She could not handle more disapproval. She stepped away from the sink on shaky legs, turned to leave, and realized she really did need to pee.

She sat on the toilet, replaying the disaster again. She ought to try acting like an adult and return to the so-called celebration. Storming off like a child was pathetic. She had instigated the antagonistic exchange; Karen was right about that. It didn’t excuse Mario’s behavior, but it didn’t make hers any better.

She headed for the door, resolving to keep her mouth shut, play nice, and drink heavily, then tripped so badly she almost fell. As she righted herself, she saw that her foot had caught on a toy dump truck, its scuffed metal attesting to years of use. Where had it come from, she wondered, as she realized the entire bathroom was littered with toys. Rubber duckies and wind-up swimming otters were near the tub. There were Tinkertoys, stuffed animals, children’s books, wooden blocks, and a step-up stool painted in bright primary colors by the sink. They were everywhere.

How did I not see them?

She grasped the doorknob but met resistance when she tried to turn it. Someone was turning it from the other side. She let go and stepped back. The door opened. Mario stood before her.

“You look lovely today, Miranda. I forgot to tell you earlier.”

She glared at him. “I don’t have time for this, Mario. Get out of my way.”

Instead, he pushed the door shut and walked toward her. Miranda backed up, stumbling on yet another toy she had not seen a moment ago before bumping into the long marble counter of the oversized sink.

“Playing hard to get these days, Miri? It suits you.”

He stopped in front of her, an inch between them. Miranda tried to sidle past, nonplussed at the invasion of her personal space. He closed the tiny distance, pressing his hips against hers.

A traitorous flame of desire rippled through her body. Her pounding heart filled her ears with white noise.

“Don’t.”

He leaned closer, forcing her back over the sink. Her head pressed against the mirror and still he leaned into her, gripping behind her shoulders. His chest crushed against her breasts.

“I think Connor is in love with you,” Mario whispered in her ear. She arched her neck toward his warm breath even as she cringed at his words.

“Leave him out of this.”

“You told me in no uncertain terms that there is no ‘this’ anymore.”

His hands traveled to the small of her back. She barely stopped herself from pushing her pelvis against his.

“Mario,” she pleaded, breathless. She looked into his eyes, deep and fathomless, for the first time.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop.”

He undid the top three buttons of her shirt, then the clasp at the front of her bra. Her breasts spilled out from the sheer, nearly translucent fabric. He cupped them gently in his hands before pinching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers so hard tears sprang to her eyes.

The room slipped out of focus. She could hear the children shouting nearby as they played. She thought she could hear Emily laugh and the low murmur of Connor’s voice. But they weren’t at this end of the house.

Mario latched on to her nipple, teasing with his teeth and tongue. Her breath hissed out as a jolt of raw need raced through her body. His strong hands felt blazing where they held her waist. Had she worn this top and almost see-through bra hoping this might happen? She couldn’t remember if he had bothered to lock the door.

He unzipped her cargo pants, shoving them down past her knees. She heard the rip of fabric as he tore her panties and pushed them aside.

An urgent voice in her head shouted: Get out of here! But the voice seemed far away, and Mario was so near. His hand traveled down, stopping just short of exploring the folds of her sex. He looked into Miranda’s eyes, a dare in his own.

“Just tell me to stop.”

She tried to say it. She tried to say stop, go away, leave me alone, but deep down, she was not sure she wanted to. His fingers continued their caresses and she trembled, on fire where he touched her. A delicious heat snaked up from her center along her spine, leaving sensuous ripples in their wake.

All I have to do is tell him to stop, she thought, frantic. Just push him away and walk out that door. She thought of Connor, of Emily. The toys of Mario’s children cluttered the room. His eyes held hers like a magnet.

“Don’t stop.”

She pushed against his hand as his fingers slid inside her. When his thumb made lazy circles around her clit, she groaned with pleasure.

“Fighting it only makes this better, Miri. You’re so wet. You never could lie.”

His tongue crashed between her lips to claim them. His kiss was possessive, lips scorching and burning along her jaw as he made his way up to her ear.

She pulled him back to her mouth. Aching need consumed her. Her hands burrowed under his shirt, over the muscles of his stomach and chest. He helped her pull the shirt over his head, then pushed her back and dropped to his knees. One pant leg stuck on her combat boot, he pulled it down and inside out. He ran his hands halfway up the inside of her thighs and pushed just enough that her ass crested the edge of the sink. She settled her boot-clad feet on his shoulders, too turned on to care how heavy and awkward they were. His hands slid down the inside of her thighs. When he reached her knees, he spread them wide, putting her on brazen display.

Jesus Christ, what am I doing?

Heat radiated from his parted lips, but he made no move to touch her. Desire and frustration rolled off her in waves.

“Mario, go down on me, please. Please.”

He moved fractionally closer and blew on her swollen flesh. Goose bumps prickled up her abdomen and breasts. When he nuzzled her inner thigh, she began to cry from frustration.

Stop this, you idiot! Stop! Get away!

She writhed, trying to move closer so he could not resist.

“Please, Mario, please. I’m begging you.”

Her heart filled with self-loathing for being unable to stop herself, for the pathetic, uneven voice that helped him humiliate her. She hated what he’d done, hated what he represented. And she was begging for his touch like a beaten-down dog. Her body felt like it would dissolve into a million quivering pieces.

He pulled away and looked up at her, hunger and triumph in his dark eyes, like he knew this would happen. Like it was inevitable.

“You’re mine,” he said. “You always will be.”

Miranda’s entire existence narrowed to the intersection of her blazing flesh and Mario’s mouth. She sunk into the lush pleasure rushing through her. Mario no longer blocked the door—he had not even bothered to close it! Connor could walk by at any moment and what would he see? The man they were supposed to destroy nestled between her legs while she trembled like a teenager about to have her first orgasm.

Oh my God, what would he think of me?

The thought of discovery—of such humiliating disgrace—pushed her over the precipice. She teetered for a stretched-out moment of exquisite agony before exploding in Mario’s mouth. He held her tightly against him as she rode the waves of her climax, biting her lip to muffle her cries. Just when she thought it might never stop, her whole body released, catching her in a lazy downward drift that left her trembling and panting on the edge of the sink.

Mario turned her so brusquely she squeaked in surprise. She heard a metal zzzzzzzzpt before he pushed her over