Page 7 of My Apocalypse Cowboy
The second one is faster, or maybe I'm slower. It gets close enough that I can smell the rot, see the milky eyes. I stumble backward, pitchfork tangled in the first zombie's ribcage, and go down hard.
Joseph's rifle cracks once, twice. When the ringing in my ears clears, both remaining zombies are down and Joseph is standing over me.
"You okay?" His voice is rough.
"Yeah. I think so." I let him help me up, hyperaware of his hands on my arms, checking for bites or scratches with professional thoroughness. "Are they all dead?"
"Dead-er." He releases me, stepping back. "That was stupid."
"Excuse me?"
"Running toward zombies instead of away from them. That was stupid."
"I was helping!"
"You were panicking."
"I was not panicking. I was fighting."
"You were about to get yourself killed."
"But I didn't!"
"Because I saved your ass!"
"I don't need you to save my ass!"
"Could have fooled me!"
We're standing toe to toe now, both breathing hard, adrenaline and anger crackling between us like electricity. His eyes are storm-dark, jaw clenched, and I can see the pulse jumping in his throat.
Part of me knows I should be scared. I barely know this man, and he's bigger and stronger and clearly used to making life-or-death decisions on his own. But the bigger part of me is furiousthat he thinks I can't handle myself, that he sees me as just another helpless refugee who needs protecting.
I've been taking care of myself for three years. I didn't survive this long by hiding behind other people.
"You don't get to be reckless with your life," he says, voice low and intense. "Not here. Not on my watch."
"My life, my choice."
"Not anymore."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Instead of answering, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's desperate, fierce, like he's trying to convince himself I'm really alive. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I melt into him without a single coherent thought.
Instead of pushing him away, I fist my hands in his shirt and kiss him back just as desperately. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I moan against his mouth.
The sound seems to break something in him. He backs me against the barn wall, his body caging me in, one hand braced beside my head. The other slides down my side, deliberate and possessive.
His mouth crashes down on mine again, hungrier this time. His hand finds the hem of my shirt, slides underneath to palm my ribs, and I arch into the touch without thinking.
"Fuck," he growls against my neck. "You're so soft."
His beard scrapes against my throat as he kisses his way down, and I shiver. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra and I gasp.
His hand moves higher, cupping me properly. Even through the fabric, his touch burns. His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss deeper, take more.
