Anyway, my new zombie apocalypse/romance, Ashley Drake, Zombie Hunter (Book One: A Plague on All Houses) has been released as an eBook and I thought I’d share an excerpt. Warning: Not for the faint of heart!
“Mmmm, baby, you smell so good.”
I giggled as Matt nuzzled against me. He did this thing where he pretended to be a dog and sniffed up and down my neck and shoulders. It tickled and he sounded like a Saint Bernard with asthma. Disgusting and cute at the same time.
Pushing him away, I ignored Matt’s pout, pulling my sweater back down and jeans back up, just in case there were any passerby’s wandering the woods behind campus after dark. Not too likely, especially when the weather was chilly and overcast, plus the grove of redwoods where we’d spread our blanket was pretty much private, but you never know who might be attracted to the light from Matt’s battery-powered lantern.
“Pass the champagne, ‘kay?”
Matt sulked a little, but filled one of the little flutes (glass, not plastic) he’d brought with some Italian bubbly. “It’s Prosecco, not champagne, Ash. It’s only champagne—”
“—if it comes from Champagne,” I finished for him. “I know, I know.” It’s what I get for dating a wine snob-in-training. I usually don’t complain ’cause it means I get to taste some wicked good stuff when most people my age are still working their way through White Zins of the World.
Matt decided he’d sulked long enough (I swear, he had a timer for his mood swings) and smiled at me. “Like the picnic, Ash?”
I nodded. How could I not? I mean, how many college guys took the time to pack full-on picnics? We’re not talking a bucket of KFC and a six-pack. Nope, roast chicken, bread, brie, and bubbly. Bread knife, cutting board, and cloth napkins.
Yeah, Matt had ulterior motives (he was a college boy, after all), but I’d rather be seduced with sparkling wine than Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I took another sip and used my other hand to hide a delicate little belch that bubbled out of nowhere. Bubbly burp, I thought, and started giggling.
Whoa, tipsy much? I probably should have had more of the chicken and bread before diving straight into the alcohol. I’m a cheap date. So sue me.
Matt didn’t mind. “What’s so funny?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. Good thing ’cause I couldn’t stop giggling now that I’d started. Matt started nuzzling my neck again, making low growling noises that vibrated pleasantly against the sensitive skin, both tickling me and turning me on. One thing led to another and we were soon happily in Stage One of making out (i.e. hands groping under clothing, bra pushed up but still fastened, no actual disrobing, lots of hip and groin action).
So at first I thought it was Matt when I heard a weird, low, moaning sound. I mean, yes, he was moaning things like “Oh, baby, you turn me on,” and “I swear, you make me hard.” But this noise was weird enough to finally break through my lust and alcohol haze.
I stopped in mid-kiss. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Matt continued stroking my hips, insinuating his hand between my thighs, stroking me through the denim. I squirmed with pleasure even as my ears strained to pick up that moaning noise again.
Nothing except the cracking of ancient redwood branches.
Giving a mental shrug, I turned my attention back to Matt, specifically the bulge beneath his jeans. I teased him, rubbing one hand along the outline of his erection while nibbling gently on his neck in a way I knew he liked. His free hand caressed my breasts, first one, and then the other, thumb softly flicking against the nipples, a move guaranteed to drive me wild. We were both moaning with desire at this point, all panting eagerness to take things to the next level … when suddenly his hand squeezed my left breast way too hard.
“Ow! That hurt, you jerk!” I smacked him on the shoulder, hard.
“Huh?” Matt lifted his mouth from my earlobe. “What the hell did you do that for?”
The hand squeezed again, nails digging in this time. A rattling moan sounded close to my ear. The ear not next to Matt’s mouth. I smelled something rank.
“What the fuck? Get off me!” I shoved Matt off of me and rolled away from the moaning. The hand on my breast stayed there, accompanied by a nasty tearing noise, like the sound of a drumstick being ripped off a whole chicken. I looked down and gasped in grossed-out disbelief because the light of the lantern showed a groddy rotted hand clutching my 34-C, ragged nails digging into the flesh. Even worse, said hand was attached to an equally gross arm … and nothing else.
“Jeez, babe, what is your damage?” Matt sat up, offended.
I didn’t have time to soothe his wounded male ego. I was too busy dislodging what looked like a cheap Halloween prop from my boob. It didn’t take much effort; the thing seemed to have lost all of its oomph. I lifted the lantern and found out why.
The top half of what was once a young woman squirmed on the mossy ground next to our blanket. Her torso trailed off into strings of intestines and other bits of unidentifiable ickiness. Chunks of flesh were missing from her face and neck. Two spooky, milky-white eyes stared at me above a bloody hole, chewed gristle sticking out where her nose used to be. Her mouth opened and closed hungrily as she used her remaining arm to pull herself onto the blanket towards me.
This was seriously effed up right here. I’d just been felt up by what looked to be a zombie and a female one at that. I choked back a definitely hysterical laugh as I wondered if this counted as a lesbian encounter.