He grabs a pillow and shoves it over his face, hoping the lack of oxygen will calm down his crotch.
It doesn’t.
Cold shower. That’s it. He flings the covers off himself and rushes into the bathroom to run ice-cold water. Jumps in without hesitation, shivering and cursing under the spray as his cock bobs in the frozen tundra.
It would be warmer in here if she were with him….
Shit. Fuck. No. Stop thinking about her, he begs himself, but it’s no use.
Maybe just once won’t matter, he reasons. He can get her out of his system by embracing…whatever the hell is going on, and then it’ll be over. He hasn’t come in forever, not since before he met her. He’s all backed up, and it’s fucking with his brain. That’s the only logical conclusion.
It has nothing to do with her. It can’t.
Only takes a dozen strokes, combined with the mental image of Addison saying that gun has a lot ofthrust, to have him spilling all over his hand.
He leans his forehead against the tile, wanting to cry.
This is bad. This is very bad. He thought of her when he came, which made it impossible to pretend it wasn’t about her. Not only that, but instead of fixing the problem, it may have made it worse since she’s still in his head.
He’s starting to scare himself. Doesn’t know how to handle all these new feelings he’s never experienced, and fears his affliction could be permanent.
She is his only friend. She’ll never want him like this, and even if by some miracle she could, he would never be enough for anyone. Especially not her.
Wyatt gets out of the shower, dries off, and puts his clothes back on, only to narrowly avoid running smack into her in the hall.
“Hey.” Why did he say that? One word feels like a confession of all his sins.
She smiles, pointing to the bathroom he just left. “Hey. You know where I’m going…”
He nods, the two of them stuck in a weird pause in the middle of the hall.
She ducks her head, looking up at him through long lashes. “Okay, goodnight…”
“Yeah. Okay. ‘Night.”
She disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door, and he beelines to his room again, running through that brief interaction a dozen times and regretting what few words he said, certain she saw what he did written all over his face.
He can’t slip again. She can never know.
Chapter 11
On the list of things Addison expected to see, a herd of rotters rolling down an embankment isn’t one of them.
The tried-and-true alarm clock method swung the odds in their favor again. The shrill sound lures the dead from the library’s halls, down a hill, and into the fenced area of an auto shop. They need to find more clocks or kitchen timers, she thinks, watching their only one get trampled by an angry runner.
The three of them tuck behind a bush, as the scene plays out like a horror movie. They still have to race down and trap their catches before they escape again. It’s a dangerous game, but they need those books if she has any hope of delivering this baby, should something go wrong.
Emma stays behind, hiding in the overgrowth after the last rotter imprisons itself while Addison and Wyatt shove the fence closed. It takes two of them while the chain-link rattles and rotten teeth snap by her head. A cage full of targets to practice with is an extra perk she and Emma sorely need.
She calls her daughter to join them, handing her a longer knife. “Through the eyeball, remember?”
Addison’s not sure if she’ll ever get used to the sight of her child stabbing someone in the face. That’s their reality now, whether she likes it or not. Her blade gets stuck a few times, but the fence offers safety to make mistakes. Between the three of them, they make quick work of the trapped herd.
They’re left covered in gore, having to shed layers down to tank tops to get rid of it. She tucks her blood-soaked shirt into her bag along with Emma’s.
What she isn’t ready for is a completely shirtless Wyatt. Not that she hasn’t seen him that way before. She got up close and personal while he was sick, though her attention had been on keeping his fever down. Now, all she can see is dirt-flecked skin over flexing muscles. She is mesmerized. This vision reminds her of the cold shower she had to take a few days ago after failing to think of anything but him all night. That had been a surprise, considering she never used to fantasize about her husband.
Not being able to choose your own suitor meant that couples rarely had physical attraction from the start back home. In some cases, it grew with time. She used to hope that it would for her, too, yet every tingle that shoots down between her legs right now is uncharted territory.
