Page 33 of Property of Zombie

“Doesn’t matter,” I say breathlessly.

Without missing a beat, he grips my hips and pulls me toward him. “All three, then.” Zombie grabs the hem of my shirt and drags it up my torso and over my head before tossing it to the floor. He growls when he sees the lacy bra I’m wearing. “Fucking hell, you’re perfect.”

I reach behind my back to unhook the clasps, but a knock on the door causes me to freeze. Zombie grunts disapprovingly.

“You expecting someone?”

“No.”

“Stay here,” he orders before going to answer the door.

I hear the murmur of voices, but I’m unable to make out the words. When Zombie reappears in my kitchen, he’s carrying a long box that can only be one thing: flowers.

He hands me the box when I hop off the counter. I tug at the ribbon, undoing the bow that’s beautifully prepared, and then lift the lid, all while acutely aware of how intensely Zombie is watching me.

A single red rose is nestled in white tissue paper, and a small white envelope rests on top with my name scrawled in black ink. I take the envelope out of the box to open it and pull out the standard card used by florists.

Zombie must sense my unease as I read the words on the card because he moves to stand behind me and wrap his arms around my waist.

“Saturday. Seven PM. I’ll pick you up at your place,” he reads out loud. “Wear something pretty.” He levels his brown eyes on my green ones. “It’s signed ‘M.M.’. Michael Martin.”

“I guess,” I say, thrown off guard.

“Did I miss something earlier? I know I didn’t catch the entire conversation, but it sure as fuck didn’t sound like you’d just agreed to a date with him.”

His tone sets my teeth on edge. “No, I didn’t, but if I had, that would be none of your business.”

He spins me around and yanks the card from my fingers to tear it into tiny pieces. “You were mere seconds away from giving me control of your body, your pleasure. I’d say that makes it my business,” he growls, palming my breasts and squeezing. “You’re mine, Lucy.” Zombie leans down and presses a kiss to the pulse point at my throat. “All.” He licks a path to my earlobe. “Fucking.” He swirls his tongue around the shell of my ear. “Mine.”

There’s a very tiny part of me that knows I should push him away, argue against his declaration of possession, but there’s a much bigger part that’s demanding I give in and let him possess me in every way possible.

The bigger part wins.

“Yours.”