By Isabelle Drake
Each Sunday, I’m offering up a part of my serialized erotic zombie horror story, Servant of the Undead. If you missed last week’s Part : “Do it” please start there.
Part 2: “Do it Now.”
“Give me hand?” she said, her voice rough, probably from climbing up the side of the building. One of her hands started to slide, and she used her elbow to brace herself in the frame. “Please?” Snow and wind blew in, slickening the sill and her elbow started to slide. “Hurry.”
Hayden glanced down the hall, but he was surrounded by dim silence. That security guard was probably combing the stacks, looking for anyone else desperate enough to be at the library in the middle of a snowstorm. Or, more likely, trying to find the scary monster section. The coast was clear, so he pulled a chair over and stepped on to the seat.
He reached up. “Give me your hand.”
Clouds of snow blew in, blinding Hayden, but he reached up, grabbing for the girl. His hands connected with something wet and cold, an arm maybe, and he curled his fingers around icy flesh.
“I think I have you,” he said, trying to look up but getting a face full of snow.
“Pull me in.”
Hayden yanked until he heard a yelp.
“Okay, stop. I can climb down from here.”
“You sure?” he asked, still holding on.
“Yes. Get out of the way.”
Hayden squared himself. “I’m not sure I care for your tone.”
The girl’s voice came again, the hesitation completely gone. “Get out of the way or I’m going to land on you.”
“Suit yourself,” Hayden said, stepping off the chair.
Between gusts of wind and snow, a body appeared. Somehow, she’d managed to turn herself around in the window, spinning so her legs, covered in tattered black fishnets, came down first. Booted feet landed on top of the copier. A tiny, midnight blue skirt barely covered her ass. Her torso was wrapped in some kind of red sweater that left parts of her skin exposed. Once she was fully out of the window and standing on the copier, she reached up on tiptoe, closed the window and turned around.
Hayden looked up her skirt and caught a glimpse of skin. The fishnets were real stockings. That meant her thighs were bare. What if she wasn’t wearing panties? Her pussy would be—
“Do you always have such an attitude when someone asks for help?” She put her hands on her hips, her long fingers flashing white in the fingerless gloves, and looked down at him. Her arched back made her breasts look huge.
Instead of waiting for an answer, she dropped down to sit on the copier then hopped down to the floor. Correction. Her breasts were huge. Porn worthy, for sure.
Shit. His hard dick had conjured her up.
She lifted her hands to smack snow from her hair, her breasts shaking from the movement. Maybe the sweater would give way on its own? A scent drifted through the air and settled in the back of his mouth, on his teeth—bitter, like the smell of blood.
“You’re not very friendly. Is there anyone else here?” she asked, running her hands across her arms and legs, spreading snow onto the floor and flicking some on to him.
Obviously, he hadn’t conjured her up, because if he had she wouldn’t be looking for anyone else besides him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be using that tone. And that smell—he wouldn’t have added that, couldn’t have imagined a scent so insidious, one that filled his mouth, making him salivate and gage at the same time.
“It’s a bit snowy out there.” He swallowed, clearing his throat. “I think the flurries might be keeping people at home.” If she noticed his sarcasm, she didn’t respond. She didn’t seem to notice his rude staring, either, so he kept on. If she wasn’t going to bother being polite he wasn’t either.
Her nipples were peaked tight, rubbing against the red fabric. The scent faded. Either that or he stopped caring. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked, staring at the red material wrapped around her torso. It wasn’t really a sweater; it looked more like a strip of fabric spun around her like a giant ace bandage.
She finally got the last of the snow off, but her clothes were soaked and clinging. Even so, she wasn’t shivering. Didn’t even look cold. Or concerned about the oddness of climbing in through a library window in the middle of a storm. Hayden backed up and she came closer, then brushed past him and marched halfway down the hall, her skirt brushing against her thighs. Hayden started wondering about panties again. She definitely seemed like the kind of girl who would go without. When she reached the end of the hall, she looked from side to side, then strutted back, coming straight for him.
“You’re right about the storm, and it’s empty on the streets, too. That’s why I came in here,” she said, her voice switching to an awkward sweetness when she continued. “You are the only person around.”
“There’s a security guard.”
Her lip curled. “Doesn’t sound like a good idea. Not the kind of man I’m looking for.” She moved forward, swaying so that the hem of her skirt came up, showing the tops of her stockings.
Obviously, this girl was trouble with a capital T, and Hayden had spent his whole life avoiding trouble, playing it safe and getting things done. He backed up, reaching for the stack of books he’d left on top of the copier. Never mind the copies. He tucked the books under his arm and marched back the way he’d come. He didn’t even take one last look at her gorgeous round breasts, pouty lips, or fishnet-covered legs. No need, really. He wouldn’t be forgetting any of the details any time soon.
“Wait!” she called after him, and he heard the thud of her boots as she took off.
The even rhythm followed him all the way to the table where he’d left his things. He set the books down and started putting his papers into folders. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Until then follow Lady Smut, we’re always here to inform, entertain, and keep you up to date.
Isabelle Drake writes erotica, erotic romance, urban fantasy, and young adult thrillers. Best Friends Never, her newest release is the first in the Cherry Grove dark YA series.