Dead Sexy

by Aleah Barley

  I needed to see my reflection. Were my pupils dilated? What about the rest of my body? I dragged at the hem of my borrowed dress, pulling the hem up over my head. “Am I sweating? What about rigor mortis?”

  If rigor mortis was beginning to set in then, I was definitely dead. I’d start losing fine motor control, and then I’d lose my mind.

  I wouldn’t remember my name, my family, or my job. In a few hours, I’d turn into a meat-seeking missile and try to stuff any old Tom, Dick, or Harry into my mouth.

  The bloodier the better.

  The dress came off over my head and drifted to the floor. I was wearing a strawberry bra and a pair of combed cotton panties in mint green. Nothing else. A few hours earlier I would have laughed at the idea of being half-naked in front of any man—let alone Tall, Dead, and Sexy—but for the moment I didn’t care.

  I checked my reflection in the shining metal door of the nearest crypt. The bite marks on my shoulder were unmistakable; dark bruises and fresh blood in the shape of a formerly human mouth.

  “It’s just a scratch,” I said. “He bit me through the dress. I’ll be fine. It has to be a real bite: penetration, saliva, the whole nine yards. Biting through a dress doesn’t count.”

  Denial was one of the five stages of grief, according to my mother’s yearly sensitivity training. My body shivered.

  Was I about to take my last breath as a living woman?

  Or, was I just reacting to the cold?

  “It’s going to be okay,” D.S. promised. His hand reached out to rest on my shoulder. “I’ll take good care of you,” he promised. “You’ll come out. Of. This. Fine—” Emotion made his speech stilted. Infirm.

  For the first time since I’d met him, the man sounded like a Biter. A zombie. A monster.

  Oh, god! Was I going to sound like that? I looked down at my body. The soft skin and familiar curves seemed suddenly foreign. I’d wandered into uncharted territory.

  “Few. Years,” D.S. said. “You. Won’t. Even. Remember.”

  Like Donny.

  “I don’t want to forget.”

  All the people I’d known. All the people I loved. Cindy. Donny. My mother. I swallowed hard. Martina Matthews-Sinclair drove me crazy. I didn’t want to live with her, but I didn’t want to forget her either. Not this way.

  I’d only just met D.S. The man made my bones melt and my panties go wet just looking at him. Would that be enough for me to remember him? Even just the way he made me feel?

  It hadn’t been a real bite. There was still a chance that I could come out of this thing alive.

  Still, I didn’t want to die a virgin.

  I kissed D.S. Hard. My lips pressed against his mouth. My fingers tugged at his button down shirt—no longer white after being splattered in blood and gore during the fight—I clawed at his skin and teased his lips with my tongue.

  I was only twenty-one years old, damn it! I needed to touch him, to feel him, to really live before I died.

  Then D.S. was kissing me back, and I forgot all about other motives.

  I wanted him hot and heavy, here on the mortuary table.

  I tore at the tiny buttons holding his shirt in place. One hand stretched out across his bare chest—no need for an undershirt when dead people don’t sweat—while the other moved down to tangle with the waistband of his jeans.

  “Damn it, Gemma.” His mouth was cool against my lips. He clung to me like a drowning man reaching out for his salvation.

  Lust and life mingled like electricity in my veins. The sensation of flying was back, urged on by his long limbs draped effortlessly across my body. One hand cupped my chin while the other dipped to cup my behind and massage my ass. His calloused fingers were rough through the thin fabric of my green panties.

  He reached between my legs and cupped my mound. Making me moan out against him. I’d never been touched like that by another person. I’d touched myself—late at night on my narrow single bed or the red draped couch in my office—bringing myself to shuddering completion while music pounded away in the background.

  This was something else entirely. It was uncontrollable. Unpredictable.

  I whimpered eagerly, desperate to draw him closer and feel him stroke me. Hard. He refused to move. Instead, I found my hips bucking wildly, trying to press myself against his fingers. “Please,” I begged. “Please, more—.”

  The hand on my neck tightened, making it hard to breathe. I sucked in a deep gust of air. It didn’t help. Not when he was cutting off my windpipe. “D.S.,” I said.

  Nothing happened.

  I started to wiggle uncontrollably. Only, this time it wasn’t from lust. Forget becoming a Biter—a slow, desperate stumble into death followed by a quick transformation into a blood thirsty monster—I was going to die now. Strangled to death by a man with the strength to break my back in a single quick move.

  “Thomas,” I managed to choke out his name. “Stop.” I slammed my hands into his chest, beating my fists against so much dead flesh. “Please, stop!”

  There was a moment’s pause, and his hand relaxed around my neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His expression was hard, stony. A dead man’s heart doesn’t beat… a dead man doesn’t need to breathe. Still, his green eyes were wide with emotion. Sorrow and regret. “I forget sometimes. Humans are so… fragile.”

  It was a terrifying thought.

  I took a deep breath, forcing air down into my gasping lungs. The gun safety people were wrong. It didn’t matter whether Biters were armed or not. They were all deadly. A bite. A snack. Or just a tight squeeze around the middle. That was all it would take to kill someone.

  D.S. was right. Humans were fragile.

  In a few hours, it wouldn’t matter. He could squeeze as tight as he wanted. I lifted my hand slowly to my neck. “I—.”

  His shirt was open. Torn open. Heat flooded my cheeks at the memory, burning even brighter as I took in his muscular chest. The man looked like he’d been carved out of rock and stone. Not marble—not with his coffee and cream complexion—but something else. Something wild. A new David rough-hewn from wild granite.

  I sucked in a deep breath. Oh, damn. This was a mistake. I reached out to run a finger across his hard chest, tugging at his small chocolate nipples and tracing a long line of black chest hair down to his pelvis.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Gemma.” He kept his hands down at his side. His body was perfectly still, but that didn’t stop his gaze from tracing my curves. Drinking in the sight of my heaving breasts and bare belly. His lips twitched into a soft smile when he saw the brightly colored panties that covered my ass.

  Mint green wasn’t exactly my favorite color, but the panties were cheerful and fun. The combed cotton was soft against my skin.

  His gaze narrowed slightly. “I’ve hurt people, Gemma.”

  “You were in the army.” I swallowed, hard. “You’re a Biter. A zombie.”

  The word tasted like ash in my mouth. My mother was right. It was mean. Cruel. Politically incorrect.

  D.S. didn’t flinch. “I remember it all sometimes, late at night. Not just the scent of wisteria. The pain. The misery. I was a bad man.” He shook his head. “I am a bad man. People who get close to me—people who trust me—they all end up dead. My wife—I had a wife. Years ago. I had a wife and son and…”

  I swallowed uneasily. Zombies might not remember much, but they still had feelings. They remembered feelings. Emotions. If something had happened to D.S.’s family… he might not be able to tell me their birthdays or favorite colors, but he could still remember the way they’d made him feel.

  A lot of people’s lives had ended when the dead rose. Some of them had come back, others had been ripped to shreds—left in pieces—others had died in car accidents or when the planes failed with undead pilots at their helms and undead air traffic control officers unable to bring them down.

  In four days the world had gone from happily ever after to death, decay, and ruin. It was nob
ody’s fault. Still, the pain of his family’s death must have been unimaginable.

  “My father died,” I said quietly. “He had a heart condition. The doctors said it was a shame it happened when it did. After the transplants stopped. Otherwise—” I swallowed hard. “He might have lived. He could have lived. If it wasn’t for the government.”

  His death had hurt so damn much. I’d cried for days. My mother was still living with the pain of losing a spouse. It was unimaginable.

  “You won’t hurt me,” I promised D.S. “Not unless you stop.”

  He kissed me again, so soft that I might have missed it except for the movement of air against my cheek. His lips fluttered softly.

  This time things were slower and less desperate. He was taking his time, touching me in all the right places. His hand was on my breast, massaging it over the top of my bra. He tugged at my nipple and bent slowly to lick at it. Once, twice. He sucked hard—making me squirm—then licked the pain away.

  My body was tingling in all the right places.

  His other hand dropped down to dip inside the waist of my panties. He stroked once, twice.

  My body arched against him as I gasped and moaned, pressing myself up on my tiptoes to draw him closer.

  He took a step forward, pushing me back against the nearest table. My hips connected with the cold metal and I shivered under the fierce air conditioning. D.S. could kiss me until I lost all sense and control. His hands could scrape my insides until I came screaming his name, but he could never keep me warm.

  His hand wrapped around my waist. He lifted me up and set my barely clothed behind on the metal table so I was sitting, facing him. My legs flexed and spread to make room for him between my knees. This new position brought me closer to him. Our faces were only an inch apart. He could kiss me without bending down, without my pushing myself up on my tiptoes.

  His kisses became deeper. Our bodies were pressed tight together. He—

  There was something hard between my legs. Hard, long, and solid. I sucked in a breath as I recognized his erection. Damn, maybe he was a real boy after all. Not just some kind of sex-crazed mannequin.

  My hand moved down to tug at the waist of his jeans. I wanted to hold it in my hands.

  To stroke it.

  To wonder.

  To finally know.

  He shifted my panties to the side and flicked his thumb against my clitoris. The move sent a jolt of heat through my body. I gasped as he slid a finger inside my tight core. Not too far. Not too hard.

  Just enough to make me cry out.

  His thumb kept moving, stroking me back and forth, building heat inside of me, making me gasp and shudder as he stroked my rhythmically. The world was suddenly brighter. I could see everything. Hear everything. Feel everything.

  D.S. was everything, and then the sensation crested and broke inside of me. I cried out loud and uncontrollable, screaming as the orgasm burnt me up from the inside. It was everything I’d ever dreamed about and more. I wanted more.

  “Please,” I whimpered. “I want you… I need you inside me, I need to feel…”

  His finger moved inside me, making me buck and moan.

  “Gemma, the things you say.”

  “I can’t die like this.” I clutched at his collar. “A virgin. Living with my mother. This can’t be the end. I need to live.”

  “And I’m just a means to an end.” His body went still. His hand dropped down lifelessly between us. “Is it me you want, Gemma? Or would any hard body do? What if I wasn’t standing here?” His teeth gleamed in the overhead lights. “Would you be moaning like this for anybody? Spreading your legs for another man? For Hick?”

  “What do you want me to say?” I swallowed, hard. “Do you want some declaration of love?” Did I love him? D.S. was smart, funny, and drop dead gorgeous. He listened to what I had to say, and had my back in a fight. I liked him. I more than liked him. Was that love? I swallowed, hard. “It’s not possible. We’ve only just met.”

  “You’re right.” He nodded slowly. “We can’t do this. Not tonight. You deserve better than this—better than me—for your first time. You deserve to be in love.”

  Not tonight. The night I was going to die. My body shivered at the thought. Maybe I was still going to die a virgin, but I couldn’t die alone. “Please,” I begged. “Don’t leave me. Promise me. You won’t leave.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  D.S. stepped back and began to straighten his shirt. His brow was furrowed. His jaw was tight. Lips that had been pressed against my mouth only a moment earlier were curved in displeasure. He nodded slowly. “I won’t leave you. Not tonight.”

  13.

  The couch in my office wasn’t quite big enough for two, but D.S. wrapped me in his arms and held me all night long. It felt safe and comfortable. Like I belonged there with him.

  The next morning dawned bright and early. My eyes flickered open, and I sucked in a deep breath. “How are you feeling?” D.S. asked his voice crackling down my spine. He was so damn close. I could feel every inch of him.

  His broad shoulders, carved with muscle, and the strength of his desire.

  His rock hard erection had been pressed against me for most of the night.

  “Like I got hit by a wrecking ball.” I stretched slowly, feeling every cut and bruise. “I feel hungry.”

  “For blood and brains?” he asked.

  “For some huevos rancheros with extra guacamole.”

  D.S. was staring at me like I’d just said the wrong thing. Did he have something against Mexican food that he’d never told me about? Was avocado secretly Biter Kryptonite?

  Biter Kryptonite.

  All the pain and rage of the night before came back in a tsunami of emotion as I remembered my date with another man, the Biter in the crowd, the fight in the alley, and coming back to the mortuary afterwards.

  Then there’d been the bite.

  I sucked in a deep breath.

  “I was bitten.” Just three little words, but they might as well have been bombs going off in the quiet of my office. I added three more. “Am I dead?”

  No, duh. I bit back a groan. Not only was I dead, I sounded like an idiot. People who got bitten died. Then they came back.

  All of them.

  “I’m dead.”

  “No,” D.S. said, and there was a sense of wonder in his voice. Like he’d looked into the void and seen something unfathomable staring back. “You’re alive. You’re so damn full of life. There have been rumors over the years. Mutterings about—” He sucked in a deep breath. “Never mind. You were right. He got you through a layer of fabric. His mouth must not have connected properly. He was missing most of his teeth anyway. It wasn’t a real bite.”

  “Of course.” My fingers drifted up to touch my collarbone, feeling the grooves of a Biter’s teeth in my skin.

  How close had I been to death?

  I swallowed hard, desperate to think about anything else.

  My office was colder than usual. The crisp air made my bare skin tingle. I padded over to the desk and opened the bottom drawer to find something to wear. The denim shorts I’d worn the previous morning were near the top of the pile. I shimmied into them quickly, then continued rummaging through my rag-tag collection of clothes.

  Over the last few days, my wardrobe had taken quite a hit.

  There wasn’t much to choose from.

  I finally found what I was looking for near the bottom of the pile; a forest green shirt with long sleeves and a boat neck collar that almost reached my collarbone.

  My arms screamed in agony as I pulled the shirt on over my head and smoothed it down across my full breasts and flat belly. It was practically sedate—compared to what I normally wear—and completely wrong for a humid Detroit summer.

  On the plus side, it covered the bite mark on my shoulder.

  Perfect.

  I was tucking the hem of the shirt into my pants when the door popped open.

  Bang. The h
eavy wood slammed against the wall.

  “Gemma Sinclair!” My mother strode in like an ancient Valkyrie, ready to go to war for dead men’s souls… a Valkyrie in a pale blue a-line dress that buttoned up the front. “Have you seen the mess in the preparation room? There’s blood everywhere. It’s a massacre—” Her eyes widened as she took in my bruised and battered body. “What the fuck happened?”

  Hearing my mother swear was like seeing the dead rise for the first time all over again.

  It was a sure sign of the apocalypse.

  My mother’s blonde hair was slicked up in a tidy French twist. A strand of pearls graced her delicate neck. Her gaze swooped up and down across my bare feet and mud splattered legs. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she noted the blood on my skin and the mess on the floor.

  Then she turned to assess D.S. Her gaze moved quickly over his broad shoulders, blood covered button down shirt and denim jeans. She took in his handsome face and his dead green eyes.

  “What exactly are you supposed to be?”

  “D.S. Thomas Conroy from the Department of Undead Americans. I’m here in Detroit looking into an issue in the local undead community.” He stood up and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the leather envelope that held his ID badge. “Your daughter’s been helping me with the investigation.”

  It was pretty impressive as far as introductions go. Martina Matthews-Sinclair couldn’t care less. Her jaw tightened into a frown. She didn’t bother looking at the offered badge. “The Department of Undead Americans.” Her breath was shallow. Her gaze flickered over his features a second time, like she’d gone hunting for hidden treasure and found toxic mold instead. Mom tapped her kitten heel against the cracked linoleum floor. “I didn’t know the government was employing Biters these days.”