Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗
- Author: A.M. Geever
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“Don’t you dare close your eyes, Miranda. Watch me fuck you.”
She whimpered and moaned. Her lust-flushed face glowed with a fine sheen of sweat. Her treacherous body moved in time with his, an inexorable tension building within her. She watched his reflection wrap her hair around his hand like reins as he rode his frenzied passion.
She bucked against him as she came again. He let go of her hair, covering her mouth to stifle her cries. He lowered his head, caught her bare shoulder between his teeth to muffle the strangled cry of his own release. He pressed deep inside her one last time before his jaw relaxed. The angry red marks of his teeth were stark against her pale skin.
Miranda sprawled over the sink while he pulled away and fastened his jeans. There were even toys here, next to the spigot. But they had not been there a moment ago; she was sure of it. How could she have missed them? Miranda pushed herself up, disoriented and confused. This room, the toys, what she had just done. Everything felt wrong.
She started to turn away, but Mario pinned her against the sink. He pushed the shirt barely clinging to her left shoulder aside. His hands slid around her. One caressed her breast, the other rested on the tiny swell of her stomach just below her belly button.
“Do you still think there’s no ‘this’?” he panted in her ear.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she whispered, waves of humiliation threatening to drown her. “You can never change what you did.”
She locked eyes with him in the mirror, her visage still clouded with lust and her heart overflowing with shame. Long auburn locks draped over her breast below the shoulder he had bitten. The still erect nipple peeked out from the silken strands. A defiant gleam filled her stormy eyes. Her lips curled in a sneer at odds with her flushed, pink face.
“I hate you.”
He only smiled in answer, then turned her around and raised his hand to her chin. He tipped her mouth to his. Unlike before, this kiss was soft, even tender. He gently explored her mouth and she responded, arousal beginning to stir once more.
Ashamed, Miranda tried to pull away, but he caught her face in his hands and stroked her cheek with his thumb.
He said, “I know you believe that, Miri, but I still want you. I still need you. And you still need me, no matter how much you deny it. We’ll never be finished with each other.”
He stepped back, then stooped to retrieve his discarded shirt and left without a backward glance.
Miranda began to cry, then sob. She doubled over, tears splattering on her knees, and realized she was going to be sick. She stumbled on the cargo pants still stuck on her boot, barely making it to the toilet in time. When she quit retching, she sunk back and rested her sweaty forehead on the cold toilet basin. Part of her wished Mario would come back.
What if I get pregnant? What the fuck is wrong with me?
It took a few minutes before she felt she could stand up without getting sick again. She went to the sink and rinsed her mouth and face. Mario’s words echoed through her mind as she began to untwist and refasten her disheveled clothes. She had managed to avoid him for so long, for almost five years, and now this. She felt like an addict, like a junkie who had blown years of sobriety for a fix.
I’m losing my mind… He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. How could he when he knows I despise him?
But even as the thought formed, she knew it for a lie. Her hatred was intense but had never been as total as she claimed, as she knew it should be. Beneath it, something else, something unspeakably shameful, refused to die. She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
He chose the dark side with such ease.
That was what stung.
Still.
“What is wrong with you?” she shouted, unleashing her fury at her reflection. “Why did you do this?”
Miranda shut her eyes, unable to stand the sight of herself, and crumpled to the floor.
“What the hell have I done?”
Miranda woke with a start, heart hammering in her chest. Her cheeks were sticky with tears. Delilah yipped in alarm as she fumbled in the darkness, almost knocking over a lamp before switching it on. She was in her bed. That meant she was at home. She pulled at the collar of her t-shirt. Relief that there were no teeth marks flooded through her. It had been a dream. A horrible dream, but nothing more.
The sexual afterglow of her dream state encounter hummed beneath the subsiding panic. She had read once that the human body is unable to distinguish the sensory input of dreams from waking life, which is why they seem so real. Her body’s current state of panicked arousal seemed a powerful affirmation. Miranda had not had a dream about being with Mario in a very long time.
He was cruel in her dreams…controlling her, owning her, proving her wrong. The waking world had never been like that. She groaned as she lay back against the pillow.
What was I thinking, going to their house when I knew he would be there?
He had reappeared as they were leaving, timing it so he caught her alone. Connor and Emily were already out the door helping a very drunk Karen, who weaved crazily while insisting she did not need their help. Miranda was almost at the door when he called to her.
“Miranda, wait.”
She turned to find Mario standing in the foyer near the table at the foot of the curved staircase. He looked awkward and out of place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a far cry from his usual Lord of the Manor airs. The idea of engaging in another verbal sparring match depressed her.
“I don’t have the energy for this. Coming here was a mistake.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I want— I need to tell you. I’m sorry about earlier, what I said.”
She was taken aback, not sure she had heard him correctly. He came closer but stopped well short of her.
“I uh, I got… He’s in love with you.”
“Connor?” She spoke without thinking. If she had taken the time to think, she would not have spoken at all.
“Yeah, Connor,” Mario replied bitterly, looking away. “He’s in love with you and I…lost my temper, when you brought up Sonalto. But mostly—” He stopped and raised his eyes to hers. He looked desperate. “Mostly I was jealous.”
What did he expect her to say to that? And why tell her this, why apologize, why now? She searched his face, confused, like he had popped out of thin air in front of her. But it wasn’t Mario Santorello, Petty Despot, standing in front of her. It was Mario, the man she had loved before he ruined everything.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
A sad half-smile crossed his face. “Seeing you today, seeing him… I miss you so much, Miri.”
Mario’s voice trailed off. He had closed the distance between them while he spoke. She could smell the sweet tang of bourbon on his breath. Tentatively, he raised his hand and touched her cheek, feather-light.
“I miss us,” he whispered.
The unreality of the conversation made Miranda feel light-headed. She felt like she had on that fateful night. It was as if the two of them existed in a bubble out of time from the rest of the world.
“I miss us too.”
The words were out of her mouth before she realized it. Her Mario stood before her, and he still loved her. She could see it in his stormy eyes.
She had bolted for the door.
Miranda began to relax, and Delilah snuggled back down into her nest of blankets. I wish I could settle as easy as you, little dog. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool and the distance between the bed and the dresser seemed greater than usual. She had taken a Percocet earlier, crushing the pill so that when it kicked in, it felt like being hit by a freight train. A freight train washed down with a glass of red wine in the hope of falling into a dreamless sleep. She looked down at her arms, crisscrossed with new cuts.
She stood up but felt wobbly, so sat back down. I’m still high as a kite, she realized with a giggle. If this was a zombie movie, this is where I’d buy the farm. That made her laugh out loud, being a farmer and all. She stood again, prepared for the wobbles this time, and walked over to the dresser. The top drawer held her underthings as well as a wooden box made of cherry. She ran her
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