Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 71: _ In Him as He is in Her

Warning: Mature Content Ahead!

Pretty Boy’s mouth crashes back onto mine and this time it’s messier. It’s Desperate. Like we’re trying to breathe through each other. Like this is the only thing that makes sense in a world gone to hell.

My fingers find their way under his shirt, over hot skin and bandages. He hisses at the contact, and I pull back slightly.

"You good?" I ask.

He nods but his eyes are now wild. "Yeah. Just—bruises."

"Want me to stop?"

"Absolutely not."

And then we’re kissing again, deeper and slower this time. His hands slide under my legs and in one smooth motion, he lifts me. I wrap around him instantly with our mouths still locked, and he carries me like I weigh nothing.

The bedroom is a few steps away. The door creaks as he kicks it open and I swear we both hold our breath, waiting.

Still, there’s no movement from the couch where the girls are concerned.

Pretty Boy closes the door softly behind us, then drops me onto what was once probably a queen-sized bed and now smells faintly of mustiness. I don’t care.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against my neck.

"Don’t."

I wonder how he’s suddenly so agile despite being wounded. I want to take it slow on him. I want to do all the work because I have all the energy and zeal.

I want to fuck him because I’m the fucking Queen.

"Come." I gesture for him to come to Mama when he begins to undo his buttons with that big flirty grin he’s plastered on his face.

He stops, arches a brow, and blurts out. "What are you doing? I’m coming for you, don’t rush it."

He’s coming for me? Oh, yes. He’ll very much be coming for me soon. However, for now, I want to ensure that happens by doing all the things that make it come into play.

I prop myself on my elbows, legs slightly spread with my chin tilted like I’m daring him to move slower. Pretty Boy meets my gaze with a glint that could spark a wildfire, then returns to undoing his buttons like he knows my request is me asserting a power dynamic he isn’t going to succumb to.

Grrrrr!

Alpha male. My typeee!

He’s doing the unbuttoning methodically now like he knows I’m watching and wants to drag it out.

One button. Two.

His skin peeks through the fabric. Fuck, it’s so tan, bruised, and battered. My mouth waters.

"You’re stalling," I tease.

"I’m savoring," he counters. "You said don’t stop, Renata. I’m just obeying your commands... slowly."

Cocky bastard.

His shirt falls away, and I sit up to trace the dark smudges along his ribs and the lines of bruising that stretch across his stomach.

He flinches slightly. It’s not from pain, but from the heat in my touch. It’s almost reverent the way I glide my fingers over him like he’s some sacred ruin, broken and beautiful and somehow still standing.

"You really shouldn’t be doing this," I murmur, half to myself.

"And yet," he grins, "here we are."

I push him gently, and he lets me. He falls back on the bed, arms out, hair a disordered mess against the pillow like he was made for this exact pose. Arrogant enough to own it and wrecked enough to be irresistible.

I climb over him, straddling his hips. He groans low in his throat. It’s the kind of sound that curls around your spine and makes promises your brain can’t process.

My hands settle on his chest. His hands settle on my thighs. The tension between us is feral now. It’s a damn live wire buzzing under my skin.

"You’re staring," he whispers, voice hoarse from arousal and I haven’t even done anything yet.

I reply with, "I’m thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very." I lean down, lips brushing his. "Thinking about how damn handsome you are. How I could live off your face alone."

"Oh?" His voice tightens with need. "Then eat."

I do.

Not delicately or romantically. I eat like I want to brand myself in his mouth. Like I want him to forget every pair of lips that came before mine and never taste another after.

He gasps as I grind down on him, my mouth devouring every noise he makes. One hand slips under his waistband, feeling the tension in his muscles.

It’s tight, coiled, and hungry.

"Fuck," he chokes out, "you’re gonna kill me."

"Not tonight."

I might eat you someday.

He rolls us suddenly, surprising me, but he pauses above me, arms shaking just slightly as he supports himself. His breath is uneven and hot against my jaw.

"We don’t have to rush," he murmurs, all gentle now. "I can take my time. I want to take my time."

"That so?"

He nods, lips brushing my collarbone. "I want you to remember this. In case I die tomorrow."

That hits something soft and aching in my chest. For an undead, there are certain people I want to keep alive:

"You’re not dying."

"You don’t know that."

"Then let me make tonight worth it."

And I do.

I kiss him like a war cry. I kiss him like a surrender, like I’m both dying and surviving in his arms. His touch is fire and reverence. It’s frantic and tender. Every bruise I map with my lips is a vow I whisper into his skin: You’re not alone. You’re not done. I’ve got you.

We move like we’re the last two people left in the world.

Maybe we are.

And if the couch creaks outside the door, or someone shifts in their sleep, or the apocalypse creeps closer by the minute, we don’t hear it.

Because in this musty bed, with breathless laughs and curses and heat pooling between us, the world has narrowed to us.

Just us.

Slowly, I break the kiss after grabbing his dick which is still obstructed by his pants. Impatiently, he tries to jerk off of me to throw the fabric off of himself but I pull him back, working my fingers through his zipper to remove the darn thing myself.

"Fiesty." He grins.

I grunt and correct. "Horny."

Once the pants are off, I grab his cock until he shifts off of me and I take the lead once again. I kiss his cock, rubbing it against my face and cheek.

Hell, it’s so soft.

I look up and he is smiling at me. I begin to lick it, to make out with it. My mouth is very dry from the salt and I feel like I have a fur tongue. I put his whole cock in my mouth and aim it toward the back of my throat—up and down? Gagging, and making some more saliva.

He moans and softly tousles my hair with his hands. He gets a little firmer but not totally hard yet, and so I had to hold it in my fist. I suck and jerk gently, but he would not get fully hard.

He’s hard enough but I want him at his hardest. Gonzalo gave me the bare minimum all those months ago, so now, I’m taking everything I want with my own hands and rewriting my own fate.

I begin to lick his balls. I put them in my mouth. My chin rests on the place where his tail meets his skin. The scales are slimy and hard at the same time. But his balls are delicious, like raw oysters.

"Renata." He says against his lips.

And so, like that is fuel, I increase my pace, licking, jerking, and swallowing him whole until he’s grabbing my hair softly and quivering under me.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call; woman power.

He’s trembling beneath me. It’s a fine tremor that starts in his thighs and ripples up through his chest, like he’s holding on by a thread. His hands are still in my hair.

They are gentle but not guiding. He’s letting me do this—letting me have him... and it hits me harder than it should.

No one’s ever let me take my time with anything. Not my past. Not my pain. Not my body. Everything’s always been snatched from me, bitten into, ripped away before I could feel the warmth.

But Pretty Boy? He gives.

And when I look up from between his legs, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, spit glistening on my chin, and he meets my eyes like I’m the second coming, I want to scream.

I want to weep. I want to tear into the mattress and howl at the moon like the beast the world made me.

Instead, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, release his poor monster, and crawl up his body like a predator at rest.

He laughs. It’s and wrecked. He grabs me by the waist. "Renata," he breathes, "you have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me."

Oh, maybe I do. But I bet he has not the slightest clue what he’s doing to me either.

After positioning my butt to settle right on top of his. I lower myself onto him without a warning. His mouth falls open. A strangled groan claws its way up his throat, and his back arches a little from the bed.

I feel everything.

The pain of the stretch. The heat. The way my body tries to memorize every inch of him like I’m afraid I’ll forget the moment he’s gone. He’s still not fully hard, and that makes it better—rawer, more real.

We’re not porn-perfect. We’re survivors. Hungry and alive and bleeding into each other.

I press my palms flat to his chest and begin to roll my hips slowly, feeling his cock turning inside of me right along.

His hands slide up to my ribcage, then down to my hips, holding me like I might evaporate.

"No one’s ever looked at me like that," I whisper, surprised at the break in my voice.

"Like what?" he murmurs.

"Like you want me," I admit. "Not just the body. Not just the moment. Me."