Page 39 of The Undead

“Don’t leave me, Maggie,” I said. It came out of me like an explosion, painful and visceral. “Stay with me. Stay my wife. I never knew how much I wanted that until now. I’ll do anything to keep you, anything at all. I love you.”

She reached down and put one hand on my cheek. I turned my head and kissed her palm, tasting my tears on her skin, and stood up. She unbuttoned my shirt with busy, anxious fingers, yanked it out of my pants, and threw it on the floor. Our skin met and melted. It seemed to take forever to get my pants off, and my underwear. I ached for her so badly I could barely walk, but fortunately the bed was close, and I just shoved the pillows and bedspread out of the way to lie down. Maggie slid into place beside me and touched my skin with trembling, suddenly urgent hands. “Oh, God, Mike, I want you, I do …”

I couldn’t answer. When her fingers brushed my erection, I lost the power of speech in a dean, hard rush of want of my own. I guided her up and all along my flesh. Her hips pressed hard against mine, and the painful pleasure made me say her name again, like a prayer. When she tried to move, I grabbed her arms and dragged her back down to kiss her again, as if I could somehow sink into her warm mouth and touch that fire I felt burning just out of reach beneath her skin.

We didn’t say anything else. Maggie straightened and did her hands around my erection, then her soft body. She came down in a hot rush as if she wanted the same thing I wanted, to somehow bury herself in me, to become me as I ached to become her.

Our loving was wordless, fierce, as urgent as the first time we’d ever joined ourselves on this bridge of flesh. Sweat and semen, tears and blood, Maggie’s nails dug deep into my hand as she shook with the force of her release and I came and came into the warm vessel of her womb. There was a feeling between us I’d never known before. I saw it reflected in her eyes as she stretched herself exhausted and trembling along my body.

From out of nowhere, the words of our minister whispered back to me as I put my arms around her and felt the sweat between our bodies cool. My aching erection was gone, but I didn’t want to pull out of her, I wanted to stay joined this closely forever.

Marriage is a sacrament, my minister had said solemnly. I’d smiled, the eternal cynic. Christ forgive me, I’d been such a fool.

I held my wife close to me and blinked back tears.

Chapter Eight

Sacrifices

“Hello? Hey, Mike? Maggie?”

My eyes snapped open wide. Maggie’s head slowly came up off my chest. Her expression was as stunned as mine felt. I had a wild urge to scream with laughter; I’d left the alarm off, I’d kicked the front door shut and obviously it hadn’t held, and we hadn’t even heard him knock.

Carl was coming down the hall.

“Christ!” Maggie gasped and struggled up away from me; we looked like a pornographic Keystone Kops skit as we tried to find our clothes and dress all in one clumsy motion. Carl was moving slowly, but it was a race to the finish; weirdly enough, Maggie and I seemed to have some understanding about not warning him off. We were both trying desperately not to laugh, a giddy adolescent hysteria that felt so wonderful I wanted to cry. I yanked my pants on. Maggie made a face—she couldn’t make do with just one piece—and zipped up her jeans. She dashed out of sight of the door and pulled her sweater on in the same motion. As Maggie yanked her sweater down over the sweat-shiny skin of her breasts, I pulled up on the zipper of my pants.

It stuck. I glanced up at Maggie, who was laughing into her cupped hands, tears shining in her eyes. She slid down the wall, covering her face with her hands, and shook helplessly with giggles.

Carl Voorhees looked in, face twisted in puzzled anger, and looked at us. There was Maggie, clothed but barefoot, laughing like a loon; there was dignified Dr. Michael Bowman, barefoot, shirtless, with his suit pants on and his johnson hanging out while he yanked at a zipper with a definite sense of humor.

Carl cleared his throat and exchanged the puzzlement for a politely bland expression.

“Um, so sorry, thought maybe you didn’t hear me. Guess I caught you—caught you—” He stopped. Maggie keeled over on her side, whooping with laughter, feet kicking wildly. I flopped back on the bed. Carl stared at both of us, cleared his throat again, and shook his head.

“I’m going to go watchWheel of Fortune.You guys come get me where you’re—ah—when you’re ready to go.” He turned and walked off, still shaking his head. I had just managed to stop laughing when I heard canned applause and theme music from the living room, and that was it for restraint.

It took a good ten minutes for Maggie to recover enough to help me with my zipper. Some of her techniques for doing this were, to say the least, inventive. Carl kept turning the volume up on the television and didn’t turn it down until we appeared in the living room, red-cheeked from oxygen deprivation and other things—but fully dressed.

Carl arched his eyebrows at us, rolled his eyes, and followed us out to the car. As he started to climb in the back seat, he hesitated and shook his head.

“Mike, listen, I’ve got to do some errands, so why don’t I follow you and leave from the restaurant? That’s easier, I think.”

“Sure it isn’t that you’re ashamed to ride with us?” Maggie laughed. Carl grinned a little, as red-cheeked as I was.

“Don’t think my heart can take it, Maggie lass, I ain’t as young as I used to be.” Call’s volume had risen again, and our neighbor three doors down looked up from locking his car door. “Just don’t try oral sex at sixty.”

“What speed do you recommend?” Maggie asked. Carl’s laughter boomed like thunder. Our neighbors were probably checking for rain. My three-doors-down buddy shook his head and waved on his way into the house. I waved back, resigned.

“Just stay out of trouble, you two, okay?” Carl begged, knowing it was useless. And loving it.

“Ha. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Maggie smiled, and took my arm. It was a good thing; I felt like an old man. My legs were still trembling from the intensity of our lovemaking, and I was not grateful to see her split from the Volvo and head for her Bronco.

“Why didn’t we take the car?” I asked doubtfully as she unlocked the cherry-red door. She shrugged and gave me a hand up into the seat. Ooof.

“You know I hate that thing. When I drive, I drive my car, not that German toy. There, you’re in, no more exertion for today.”

She ran around and opened her own door. I waited until she’d climbed in and shut it before I assumed my puppy-dog expression.

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