But just because I really want to fuck her right now doesn’t mean I want to stop fucking with her. “I'm not screwing around with you. Just because I've mostly treated you humanely before doesn't mean that has to go on. Thirty seconds. What the fuck did you do?” I ask, still playing the hard-ass bastard.
She looks ready to resist, but then her shoulders slump and she explains after a long exhale—but she’s far from defeated. It turns out, she did get into the vault, and destroyed the experimental stocks. It also sounds like she went about it in a smart way, moving some of the C4 blocks to make sure all traces will be gone once they go off. And to top it all off, she now invades my space until her legs are bumping into mine as she holds my gaze and grates, “You’re welcome.” I love seeing the triumph in her eyes. She doesn’t regret it, even though she’s smart enough to know I hate that she screwed with my plan. Whatever set off that cleaning scurry, she obviously thinks it was worth it. It takes all of my self-control not to grab her face and kiss her, but that would likely destroy the image she now has of me… and maybe even tarnish her grand stand. Can’t have that, now, can we?
We keep staring at each other until she backs down, although it doesn’t look like her accepting defeat. She must be tired—and tired of my shit—and I don’t hold her back when she squeezes past me and heads toward the showers next to the changing room.
Getting out of these terribly sweat-soaked clothes, with her? Sure, sign me up for that.
There’s not a hint of seduction in her jerky motion as she undresses, doing her best to show that she’s ignoring me. That about settles the last of my doubts. My dick would have been stupid enough to follow along if she’d been inviting, but that cold shoulder treatment fits much better into her MO. She steps into the spray of water and turns around unabashedly, giving me a perfect view of first her ass, then the shapely curves of her hips and tits. The tension’s not quite gone from her body but she relaxes gradually, her face turned directly into the water, evening out her scowl just as much as the discolored splotches from before.
I undress without leaving her out of my sight, and when she moves her head out of the stream, I’m standing right in front of her, close enough that the water that splashes off her body hits mine. Her eyes need a moment to focus, and as they do, she shies back, but it looks more like simple surprise than a defensive motion. I follow, then let my hands hit the tiles left and right of her face. She could still duck and sidestep around me, but the way she keeps glaring at me, she has no intention to. There is a hint of fear in her gaze, but it looks ready to turn into excitement rather than shut her down.
“Why?” I whisper from up close, the single word way more intimate than it has a right to be.
The fear is gone in a moment, replaced by fury roaring back after a minute’s respite. “Why? You drag me through hell and back, and then you have the audacity to ask me why?” she shouts, loud enough that it hurts my ears, spittle flying from her lips. Oh, this is so much fun…
“Yes, I want to know why, and you better—” I try to say, but she cuts me off with another scream.
“Stop threatening me!” Her fists slam into my pecs, but there’s not enough force behind it to physically move me. She quiets down a little, but, if anything, that measure of control makes me want her even more. Bree resumes her rant, and I let her, quietly laughing at myself inside. “Ever since you walked into the fucking atrium, I did nothing to defy or anger you, and you keep dumping more and more shit on me! I'm done with that! You wanted my help, now you got it. Either be grateful or not, I don't give a shit, but leave me the fuck alone!” She looks ready to get physical for real, but she must either realize she’ll lose, or just fan the flames if she does.
“Because asking you for an answer yields such productive results?” I tease, hell-bent on seeing how far I can push her before she breaks.
“You'd be surprised if you tried, but I bet it hasn't even occurred to you to ask!” she accuses. I grin, which makes her punch me for real, but it’s more me playing nice that I ease up and let her duck away. She starts to pace but stops immediately, looking like a hissing cat as she rounds on me. “Plausible deniability, my ass! Nothing you did in the last fifteen hours or thirty-eight days had anything to do with me. You have no regard for my physical or emotional well-being, so at least do me the favor of being honest with me! You're just using me, like everyone else! Shit, I'm so sick of this!”
Part of me hates that she feels like this now, but there was no way around this. I do my best not to incite the well-deserved parts of her anger, but when she realizes that I’m sporting a fucking erection from hell, she pretty much becomes livid.
“And, of course, now you have a fucking hard-on. Isn't that just perfect?” she shouts, trying very hard not to remain staring at the part of my anatomy in question.
I can’t help it; that must be a shit-eating grin splitting my face, judging from how it makes my cheeks hurt. She’s so fucking cute right now, words fail me. And in typical Bree fashion, all she’s able to do is make it worse—or better, depending on the view. Definitely better from where I’m standing.
“A natural reaction I can't really control. Nothing to be upset about. You should be familiar with it by now,” I point out, ever the wise-crack.
“I'm not upset!” she screams—and punches the wall next to her, which doesn’t seem to do a thing to calm her down. “I'm not upset about your fucking hard-on,” she claims—lying. “I frankly don't give a shit about what fucked-up thing your body does or not!”
“You are aware that every time you say 'fuck,' my libido gets this extra little incentive to stay up? Among other things,” I let her know.
“I don't fucking care!” There is a pause, followed by an even more emphatic “Fuck!”
I laugh, because that’s the only thing I can do short of pinning her against that wall. “You know, of all the things that happened to you since I handed you that cup of coffee, I didn't expect you to lose it over my dick.” And because I am an asshole, I keep chuckling, because this is just too precious. She looks ready to punch me, which just makes me laugh harder. I’m glad I kept the gun in the other room, though—not that she knows how to use it.
“I am not—” she protests before her mouth snaps closed. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
“That's really helpful,” I tell her, watching her seethe.
“Why do you even—” she starts, vaguely gesturing at my genitals. “Are you really that screwed in the head that the sight of a beaten and bruised body gets you going?”
The short answer is yes, but the accusation in her words sobers me up a little. “Trust me, neither physical nor mental abuse is stimulating to me in any way. But you just did the single bravest thing in your life, on top of standing up to me. I can't help but salute you.”
“Gee, thanks,” she mutters, somewhat mollified bordering on pleased. Did I just do that? Is she really so starved of attention—no, appreciation—that she’s that easy to manipulate? Influence, I quickly correct myself, but I know that’s a lie. She seems to deflate now that the edge of her anger has dulled, defiance creeping into her voice. “Still wanna know why I did it? I did it because I had to. Sure, I could say it was the safest thing to do because this way I've made sure that nothing of the virus will remain intact whatever happens to the lab around it, but that's not the whole truth.”
“Is that even true?” I question.
“Oh, it's true, but it's not why I did it.” She licks her lips and looks away, but then her attention snaps back to me. “You were right. Every fucking thing you said about me was true. If Raleigh had offered me a piece of that cake, I would have eaten it with gusto, and not cared for more than a few days about the moral implications. That's why I did it. If there's no virus, there's no possibility that I will ever be tempted to mess around with it. Laugh at me if you wish, but that's why I did it.”
I consider that claim for a second but shake my head. “I don't think that's the truth.”
“You're not lying,” I clarify. “You might even think that's why you did it, on some level, but that's not the driving force behind your actions. Or rather, why you stopped letting everyone push you around and finally did what you wanted to do.”
She smacks her lips, mulling that over. Then she deflates further, letting her head fall back against the wall. “I’m so sick of all this shit,” she mutters, then looks back from the ceiling to me. “I’m so sick of being taken for granted. So sick of being ignored. There's no one out there in the entire fucking world who even knows who I am, who knows what I want or what motivates me, what gets to me.”
I do, I want to tell her—no, yell in her face. Considering my recent bout of paranoia, I don’t feel I have the right to, but she doesn’t know about that, and I will take those thoughts to the grave with me. But I do know, and judging from the way she stares at me, eyes a little too wide, lips slightly parted, I can tell that she knows that. It takes her a few moments to come to grips with that, but I don’t mind.
I mind even less when she comes off that wall and stalks over to me, her gaze never leaving mine. There’s no doubt in my mind about who she really is now—and she’s wearing all that raw pain like a second skin. What I can see shining from those bright eyes is the unfettered, pure essence of her—and fuck if I know why my brain comes up with shit like that right now, but it does. And there’s the need; the hunger for me, for release; to affirm that she did the right thing, for the right reasons, and she fucking deserves that life-affirming victory fuck now.
Who am I not to oblige her?
She rocks to a halt in front of me, her expression raw, animalistic. I couldn’t refuse her now even if I wanted to—and I absolutely don’t want to refuse. Something about the way her gaze screams for acceptance makes something deep inside of me resonate. She hasn’t seen me at my worst, but I’ve not been that far off—and still, she wants me.
And then she utters the most beautiful words in the universe.
“Ah, fuck this. No. Fuck me.”
Bree reaches up to pull my head down so she can kiss me, and I yield immediately. I grab her, pull her close, her skin hot against mine. She moans unabashedly, and, if it’s even possible, that makes me harder still.
I push her against the wall, likely a bit too hard, to which she responds by raking her nails down my back. Short as they are, I doubt they will do any damage, but even if she claws me bloody, I don’t care. I playfully catch her bottom lip between my teeth, only letting go so I can stare deep into her eyes. Most people are uncomfortable with prolonged eye contact, but we are miles beyond that now. She starts stroking me, which is a shame, because what I really want is to bury myself balls deep inside of her. To pay her back for teasing me, I lick and kiss my way along the side of her neck which I know drives her insane—and makes her laugh, which is such a beautiful sound since it speaks of a level of trust and relaxation that I thought we’d lost until moments ago.
Finally ready to stop teasing me, she hitches one leg up over my hip and leans back, letting me take over. But two can play this game, so I rub myself up and down, making sure that I hit all the right spots and drive her wild with anticipation—and then I stop, because I am a fucking bastard, and she deserves to suffer for locking me in that damn decontamination shower.
Ire crosses her features, although her eyes remain slitted with lust. “What? You haven’t forgotten how this works, right?”
Fuck, but I love playing with this woman. “I just realized I never even took you out to dinner first,” I point out.
She answers my grin with one of hers. “So raiding vending machines together is not your idea of—”
I decide I’m done drawing this out, silencing her with one hard, deep thrust. I feel her go up on her toes, then relax down toward me, our bodies settling against each other in a familiar way that I know I’ll never get tired of.
“Shut up,” I whisper against her lips, then keep her from answering by devouring her mouth, kissing her until we’re both out of breath, but neither of us cares.
Gone is all her bashfulness, the doubt I’ve seen crossing her face a few times when she stood naked before me in the past. Gone is the anger, transformed into the need to drive each other wild—and wild she does drive me, moaning and bucking against me, with not a care in the world except our joint need to come. She takes as much as she gives, demanding more—and I’ll never tire of giving her that, either. She’s all I care about that fucking second, everything else shoved far into the back of my mind. She’s fighting me, trying to hold out longer, but if I may say so, I’ve perfected the art of making her scream—and scream at me, too—and when I feel her climax, I’m more than happy to follow.
Bliss, for a moment. Just her, and me, and not a care in the world.
Reality, the sneaky bitch, won’t allow us more than that, so once my mind starts working again, I turn on the shower, the water hitting us both and making us squint. I know she’s about to ruin what’s left of the moment so I kiss her, long and deep and probably more gentle than she expects—and then the world as it is has us back.
I don’t want to let go—which is a first, and yes, I know what kind of an asshole that makes me. Not just now—here. I don’t want to watch her walk out of my life. But at the same time, I know that what I have to offer isn’t something I’d want to force on my worst enemy.
She exhales shakily, and I realize I’m not the only one whose mood is going through the motions. “I don't want to die,” she whispers, just as if she has read my thoughts.
“And you're not going to. Not on my watch.” And shit, I mean every single word of that.
“I was inside the hot lab for twelve minutes with a ruptured glove. And even if it was smooth sailing so far, I doubt that we'll walk out of here just so.”
It’s a valid concern, I’m sure—but that’s not the part my mind latches on to. “'We?'” I echo.
She gives me a deadpan stare that does nothing whatsoever to darken my thoughts. “Yes, we. Unless you’ve changed your mind and discard me like a rag once you're done.”
I pretend to give that some thought, which she rewards with a sharp poke into my side, making me laugh. Shit, but it feels so fucking good to laugh like that.
“Honestly, I'd rather keep you around,” I offer. “Once you're mad beyond reason you're a lot of fun, and I could use another element full of erratic randomness in my life.”
“Aw, so sweet!” she jeers, only shutting up when I kiss her again.
I know we’re not out of this yet. I know that a hell of a lot can still go wrong. But I’ve seldom felt like I have so much to gain by making it out alive, and so little to lose. And, deep down, I know that we’re going to make it, come what may.
Run!
Run!: When the world is about to end, all you can do is run! Nate's POV from the end of GF#1: Incubation and beginning of GF#2: Outbreak
Run!
One moment I’m still grinning, reveling just a little in post-orgasmic bliss. The next, my entire operation is going bottoms up, and that’s not exactly such a great feeling. Only seconds after I realize my burner phone has full reception—which it shouldn’t, thanks to the military-grade signal scramblers that we were using—Bree notices that the detonators inside the BSL-4 lab just armed themselves, which can mean only one thing: we’re busted.
“Shit” doesn’t quite cover it, but it’s what comes to mind as my brain explodes with a myriad of possible explanations. Moments later, I get the alarm notice that is synced with the remote signal to start the detonator countdown. On autopilot, I activate the thirty-minute countdown on my watch.
Then I’m moving, pulling Bree along with me when she hesitates to follow. I quickly type a demand for an update into my phone but doubt anyone will be able to answer if the shit has actually hit the fan. If it was a false alarm, I’ll know within seconds.
I do get a response, but it’s not one I want to see—a
single word, coming from Zilinsky: “Attack.”
Fuck.
A second line appears, informing me that our HQ is being overrun. Since Bree is getting antsy and I figure giving her the right answers will shut her up the quickest, I tell her exactly that. “We're about to lose control of the atrium.”
Her response is sheer incredulity, and that almost makes me laugh. “You what?”
I explain about the detonators, and then spell out what’s up next. “Evacuation.”
“Shit,” she mutters very appropriately. At least she stops dragging her feet now. When I explain that we have twenty-six minutes and ten seconds left until the building around us blows up, she follows that up with an even more emphatic, “Shit!” Eloquence, thy name is Bree. But I get it. She’s been through a lot over the past couple of hours, and she has no knowledge about explosives. It just strikes me as hilarious that now she’s close to panicking, after locking me in the decontamination shower and handling viruses that are magnitudes more lethal than C4 or thermite.
She does not respond well to my amused grin—or the M16 I try to shove at her, liberating it from one of our set-up caches in the walls. That is putting it mildly, seeing as she perfectly recoils from the weapon. Right, I forgot—not only has she no clue how to handle weapons, she likely still thinks they are the physical manifestation of everything that’s wrong with this world. I don’t have time to explain or set her straight, but the reminder that, in some ways, she’s not my ideal woman—or, not yet, at least—rankles. I can’t help a smirk and snide remark—“Then you better hope that they believe in taking prisoners”—and then, we are off, heading toward the atrium.
Annoyance runs up my spine as she halts at the first lab we pass, grabbing two white coats from inside. She quickly explains about the lab coats working well as decoys. I could expound on why exactly it’s a waste of time—like the fact that everyone storming the building right now knows my face—but instead focus on the more important part. “They’re not here to rescue you.”
Beyond Green Fields | Book 5 | Survive [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 4