III

The closet was huge, stocked with every brand of shoe in the universe. Classic Tina.

Charlotte kissed John's bruised eyelid softly, the blood dried now, and then whispered, "So they're as smart as us?"

"Yes, but they are ruled by their hunger. Consuming flesh makes them stupid, and…"

"Less durable?"

"The older ones, for sure."

She let out a tiny, fearful moan.

"I've got you," John said as he tugged down the torn sleeve of her gown and pulled her closer. "Mmm, you smell good. Your skin, your neck." He kissed her there, laving his tongue along it in a delirious wave of sensation that set her nipples to tight buds. "Your brains."

"Please, not now with the humor," she muttered.

"Right." He paused, turning serious. "Mrs. Masterson…I need you. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, I can. As inappropriate as the timing should be, it seems right."

"Mmm…I've wanted you for months, but the desire I feel tonight? It's a craving. Let me make love to you, wife."

Bending over her petite frame, he kissed the top of her breast and dashed his tongue over her nipple. She arched her back, silently begging him for more. He tore aside her dress and kissed the other breast. The urgency of the moment heightened every touch and sensation. Adrenaline raced through her veins, making her drunk with desire and want.

Beneath Charlotte's roaming hands, John's muscles flexed and hardened, and she responded in kind. She gripped his erection through his dress pants, and he hissed at her breast then nipped her none too softly.

"Do you know how many times you've accidentally brushed over my cock when we've been making out and I've wanted to tear away your clothes and have my way with you?"

"I'm yours now, love. Let's make up for all those times—"

He kissed her to silence. Many a night she'd lain in bed imagining her lover's hands on her. It was real now. And nothing was more real than the two of them, skin against skin, urgently seeking satisfaction when around them the world was being consumed.

"End-of-the-world sex?" she asked as he lifted her against the door and she wrapped her legs around his hips.

"Wish it didn't have to be this way." Gliding his burning hands between her thighs, his fingers found her folds and he danced them into her wetness, igniting an erotic flash of fire that surged through her core and responded to his deft manipulation. "You're so hot, Charlotte."

"Not as hot as you." His skin did seem unusually warm. "I hope you're not coming down with something."

"Not exactly," he muttered.

Somewhere, not far off, the clang of steel against wood furniture alerted them both.

Breath panting, Charlotte gripped John's head and kissed him, sharing her desperation. "I want to feel you inside me," she whispered urgently. "Your big, hard strength. Please, John. Take me."

They heard the bedroom doors crash inward, and John shoved down his pants. His erection sprang out, heavy against her folds. Charlotte wriggled, directing his entrance. And while the groans of the living dead echoed in the next room, she cried out at the intense pleasure of her husband's possession of her body. Finding a frantic rhythm, they became one.

John's gasps stirred next to Charlotte's ear. He clung to her, his fingers digging into her skin, his body like molten steel, their joining a culmination of strained patience and desperation.

Everything slipped away. The threat of death, the terror of the living dead, the agony of watching others they had known fall. Lost in one another, they surrendered to the brilliance of desire and trust. Together they could defeat any horror.

"I love you, Charlotte," John cried out, and his body shuddered against hers.

Her core tight and twisty with imminent orgasm, Charlotte sighed and released. Something banged on the closet door. She screamed—not out of fear, but instead with utter bliss as orgasm captured them both.