Just a Little Longer
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I debated posting this. Aside from hoping it doesn’t conflict too much with the Writing Dad image, it occurred to me that my oldest child is pretty Internet savvy at this point and is this something he needs to read. My oldest daughter doesn’t have any difficulty find her way around, either.
Then it occurred to me: do I really think my kids have any interest in my blog? Made it much easier to post. Still, this tiny piece could easily be classed as erotica, though I consider it a zombie story, sort of. Either way, if you’re offended or embarrassed by anything overtly sexual, you may not want to read the 156 words that follow.
She groans in my ear, fingernails still digging into my shoulders. I try to slow myself, stretch things out so she might have another orgasm, but she hooks her ankles together behind my back and pulls. Eyes closed, I kiss my way to her lips and slip a hand underneath her, fingers pressing into the smooth skin.
Some bit of awareness creeps into my hormone-soaked brain. The not-quite rhythmic knock isn’t the headboard. I increase my tempo, building quickly toward release and she gasps, holding me tighter, understanding, knowing.
A crash downstairs, wood splintering as the front door gives in. Her fingernails scrape down my back then trace back up to curl in my hair.
“Mmmm. That’s so good love, but do you think you can come before the zombies get here?”
My lips sink to her neck and I nip the smooth flesh. “Hunh. I hope so.” The shotgun’s close, but I hate being interrupted.