Page 41 of Doomsdate

Everett nods quickly, his face still clouded over. “Absolutely, sure. Get some rest.” He smiles, a furtive bend to his lips he seems to have ordered there.

“Wake me up if you hear anything.”

“Got it.” His voice is too bright, too chipper. He gives me a thumbs-up, and I cringe as I trudge toward the tent.

God. How much humiliation am I going to experience with this guy?

The thrippp of the tent’s zipper divides the moment into the before, when I thought asking the last hot guy in the United States to teach me about sex was a good idea, and after, now that I know it wasn’t. I collapse onto my butt, hiding my burning cheeks behind my hands. I don’t even know Everett! It only feels like I do because I’ve seen so many sides of him in the last twenty-four hours—friendly, passionate, horrified, freaked out, sad, hurt, unsure. I’ve witnessed him on a date, in my apartment, in his home environment, draped in the past he feels too guilty to let go, and now by a campfire in the dregs of winter under the stars. We’ve even gone shopping together, for god’s sake. All these snapshots of a person that maybe you’d get in a normal relationship’s progression over weeks or months for us have been condensed into one long, wild twenty-four hours. And it’s the most I’ve known anybody, really, except for Mom and Gramps.

It doesn’t mean I know him, though. And he’s right—I don’t trust him.

With a jolt, I pat my pockets until I find the map and my car keys, then exhale. I don’t think Everett would leave me here in a frozen mountain range, but I can’t afford to be wrong about that, either. I’m about to zip the tent closed when Chicken noses inside and nestles by my sleeping bag. I settle in beside her, stroking her fur as a single, stupid tear rolls into my hairline.

I fall asleep to the glow of the heater and the sweet, rumbly sound of her purring.

Chapter Nine

Everett

Maisie disappears into the tent, and it’s like the moon has disappeared behind the clouds, made all the worse by Chicken’s abandonment, too. Even my cat thinks I’m an asshole now. The night is darker, colder, and now when the iced tree limbs grate against one another in the wind, there’s no poetry in it at all. Even the zillions of stars above feel distant and snobbish, like they’re sitting in judgment of my behavior and finding me lacking.

Who do you think you are? a particularly sparkly one snorts. She’s Buffy the goddamn Zombie Slayer, and you tell her you’ll think about it?!

“She’s really more of an Anya,” I mutter to the fire. Outsider mentality, hilariously direct, and completely hot without knowing it. Ergo, Anya.

Does that make me Xander? The thought makes me recoil.

You acted like a Xander tonight, you ungrateful bastard. She’s your gorgeous savior! You should suck each of her toes clean every night and beg for more! an even brighter one snaps, because now the planets are getting in on it. But you’ll “think about it”?

I inwardly moan. I didn’t know what to say. Yes, let’s start now? Pretty please, sit on my face?

So you did know what to say, the entire Seven Sisters constellation chirps into my brain. Idiot.

I start to reply, but it’s only one day into this apocalypse. Maybe I should reserve arguing with distant balls of gas for further into my insanity. I’m not even sure why I told her I needed to think about it. I would do anything Maisie asked me to right now.

But I won’t do that, Meat Loaf warbles into my ear.

Oh, god. Insanity is here.

A thick, jumbled pudding of feelings churns inside of me. There’s want, that one shines clearest. I want to touch Maisie again. I want to pull her onto my lap, elicit her breathy gasps with swipes of my tongue against her neck, nip the lobe of her ear until her pretty pale skin blushes for me. Plaster my hands against her ribs until I feel her heartbeat pulsing beneath my fingers, holding her firm against the column of my hard cock while it swells beneath her parted legs. Grinding against her there, I’d teach her all the ways I could make her come.

I breathe out a long, slow exhale, my cold skin prickling, and glance at my lap and the erection there that could break glass. The base layer and insulated tech pants Maisie made me change into are doing absolutely nothing to contain it. I never thought I’d want anyone again the way I want Maisie. Want is certainly not the problem.

But…shame might be. Because as much as I want to touch Maisie, to bring her pleasure, to make her ache and clench and take me in, inch by inch—my eyes roll back as I brush my palm lightly over the ridge of my erection—that same old feeling of useless, worthless, helpless roils through my insides. Is that all I’m good for? She sees me as some helpless fuckboy, one who hurt her feelings and yaps pointlessly about movies and now depends entirely on her for survival. And despite all that, she’s still willing to take the little I can offer.

But I want to deserve giving her pleasure, and I don’t. I’ve been nothing but a burden since she grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of that restaurant last night. I don’t deserve her kindness, her protection, or her charity. And I definitely don’t deserve to push into her tight little pussy and fill her to the fucking brim, and oh my god, I have to take care of this boner so I can think about this clearly.

I glance over my shoulder at the tent. It’s completely quiet, but the idea of Maisie lying there awake and hearing me jerk off is too much for my ruined ego to handle. I step lightly toward the tent, straining my ears just outside. The soft sounds of Maisie’s even breathing are barely audible. Thank god. No amount of baseball could’ve bored this hard-on away.

I return to my fireside vigil, this time, with a goal: work myself as quickly as I can manage, and as Smokey the Bear commands, leave no trace.

Good thing there’s snow on the ground.

Like a pervert in a movie theater, I drag my dick out as quietly as possible, facing away from the tent and toward the fire. I close my eyes, and there’s Maisie, kneeling before me. The fire’s heat on my stiff cock becomes her breath, her eyes curious, full lips parted and ready to taste me for the first time.

What do I do? Dream-Maisie’s gaze locks on mine, and she bites her bottom lip in. Professor?

I groan softly, driven half by brutal desire, half by absolute cringe at the basic bitch I am. Judging by the weight of my thick cock in my hand, it doesn’t find my imagination’s dialogue embarrassing, though.