I leaned against the kitchen counter, letting the water run, focusing on the sound of the water hitting the stainless steel sink, anything to get my mind off the Awakened that I just killed in the front yard. I could hear my mother moving around in the shed outside, trying to find some way to dispose of it. I couldn’t think about it. Every time I fired a gun, every time I hit something, I couldn’t think about it. I was killing people, humans that had lives and families, until they got the stupid virus and had become these hungry, blue, terrifying monsters.
“Are you okay, Z?” Ash had followed behind me, and I felt my teeth start to grind.
“I’m fine, Ash,” I said tersely. “No thanks to you.”
He walked next to me and shut off the water. “Hey, I knew you had it. You’re like a little spitfire with that gun of yours.”
I shot him a scathing look over my shoulder, ignoring the heat I felt where our shoulders touched. He stepped even closer, the distance between us so small that I could feel the heat radiating off of him. I remembered the moment, at the side of the road, when he’d pressed himself on top of me, keeping me quiet while an Awakened ripped shreds out of my dad’s body before I woke up out of my stupor and shot him. My memory switched again, to when we were in the woods and the feeling of his lips on my neck and collarbone before he’d pulled away, or I had pushed him away. I felt a wave of hot lava sweep through me and felt ashamed.
“You know, shooting one of the Awakened? That was awesome. Like, freakin’ badass, Z. Every time you shoot one or take one down, it’s just the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, avoiding looking at him in the eye or getting closer than necessary to him. Sharing a bed with him at night was rough enough as it was, even if I could admit to myself that I liked it. But now, when the nightmares seemed far away, in the light of day, I wanted him away from me.
Ash didn’t seem to feel the same. He stepped in front of me, forcing me to step away from him, my back crashing into the counter. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he said, curiously. “Something I’ve wanted to do for weeks. Something I keep hoping you’ll let me do.” His hands came up to my waist, pulling me flush against him and I gasped quietly at the quick movement, my palms flat against his hard chest. “I feel like you want to, but I don’t know. I can’t seem to get a read on it.”
I didn’t answer and taking this as permission, he brought his mouth on mine. His tongue made a smooth movement of my bottom lip before sliding between them.
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to hate him, but it was the last thing I felt. It was never what I had ever felt about Ash Matthews. My hand reached up and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him closer to me. I poured everything I had been feeling in the past few months into the kiss: the fear, the grief, the panic. I felt his hands move from my waist to grip my thighs as he lifted me onto the counter.
My fingers slipped into his belt loop. I pulled him closer to me, kissing him faster and more desperate than I had ever kissed anyone. I could feel him, every bit of him against me as we kissed. I wanted him more than anything; I couldn’t get enough of him. My hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, and I started to tug it over his head before pulling him back to me. My hands were flat against his warm chest, and I wanted to rip my own shirt off. I wanted us to be bare, skin-to-skin.
Ash’s lips were on my jaw, my neck, dipping down to my collarbone and into the neckline of my shirt. I gasped as his hands lifted the shirt over my head, in one swift movement. He tossed it aside, before his fingers found their way up my waist, grazing my stomach, causing goose bumps to ripple across my body. His hands dipped underneath the fabric of my bra and cupped my breast; he pressed his lips tight against me again. I moaned, the sound loud in the echoing kitchen. My legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was moving against me, sending waves of pleasure through my body.
“Ash,” I panted, surprised at how desperate sounding his name was on my lips.
“Jesus, Zoey,” he breathed, his forehead pressed firmly against mine. “You are so goddamn beautiful.” I flushed at his words and kissed him harder.
His hands were at the button of my jeans, unsnapping them with ease. His fingers were sliding below the waistband on my pants to brush them lightly against them. A brand new feeling was shooting through my body. I heard myself moan again, my hands gripping his arms tightly, my knuckles white. His lips were back on mine, his tongue sweeping against my own, and I felt incredible; everything felt so incredible.
His hands came up to my breasts again, and I knew in a moment that my bra would be off, that more of my clothes would end up on the floor, and I registered vaguely that my mom was right outside. She could walk in any moment. I dismissed it as another wave crashed through me. My fingers fumbled, shaking, at the button to his jeans, pulling the zipper down. We were grabbing and pulling at each other, as if we could pull each other closer than we already were. Every move was desperate and hurried. I wanted to fall into him.