The Zombie Librarian

She never grew tired of watching him. She was sure the strength of the current between them would have ebbed by now, but just when she thought they had settled into some kind of comfortable routine... Bam! It would hit her again out of nowhere. It was usually something simple, like a lazy half-smile or the way his hand grazed her hip when he moved past her in the kitchen. She would get wet sometimes just locking eyes with him. It confounded her.

Tonight she was especially revved up; it was Halloween and they were hosting a party at their place. She had always loved the holiday and this time of year. She felt so alive in autumn, and tonight, very sensual, as well. The sexy zombie-librarian get-up might have something to do with it. She was keenly aware of the effect her tight pencil skirt with thigh highs and low-cut blouse was having on some of the men around her, but she didn't care. The only opinion that mattered to her belonged to one Mark Twain, who was leaning casually against a door jamb a few feet away. Even with the silly white mustache and snowy-powder dusting his curly hair, he was still the most handsome man in the room. Simply looking at him made her heart start to race. As she stared at him unobserved from her corner, she silently chanted her own version of an old Yeats poem: "Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of his hair..."

As she gracefully weaved her way around tables brimming over with colorful candy and decedent desserts, she smoothly eluded a very tipsy Tinkerbell and a rather handsy George Washington, much to the latter's dismay. She could almost feel the night pulling her outside. It was an errant playmate, teasing her with the promise of cool, dark secrets and a few sweet minutes of solitude. A gentle breeze traced its fingers across her cheek and chest and flirted with the hem of her skirt as her lungs filled up with a cold, smoke-tinged crispness that she could almost taste. As she exhaled she felt him behind her, his warm hand stealing around her waist, and she leaned into him, the softness of her curves welcoming the hard planes of his body, the unyielding, comforting shelter of him. She smiled into the darkness as his lips brushed against her ear, sending ripples of pleasure throughout her entire body: "I knew I'd find you hiding out here."

"Not hiding," she grinned, "just catching my breath."

He chuckled softly, sending another wave of ripples through her. "And I'm sure that has nothing at all to do with a certain president and his inability to keep his eyes off your cleavage and hands off your ass."

"Why, Mr. Twain, if I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were jealous", she teased.

"Honest Abe? Maybe. But 'ol Georgie boy - not likely. He just needs to keep his dirty old ham-hands off my hot, undead librarian. Though I do see why he feels compelled..."

His fingertips splayed across her stomach and tightened, sending tremors throughout her belly and much, much lower. He pulled her deeper into the shadows of the porch, softly growling as his lips caressed her temple, "Do you have an idea what you do to me sometimes? What you do to me most of the time? With the lace bra and the stockings and the red lips. ...Thinking about what I wanna do to you, but I can't because we're surrounded by people...and I swear that just makes it hotter. You're killing me here."

"Really?" she asked, the picture of innocence.

Turning in his arms, she took full advantage of her four-inch heels and brought her lips closer to his. Sliding her hand up his chest to feel the steady rhythm of his heart pick up its pace, she stated matter-of-factly: "The way I see it, I'm just being a good hostess ...making sure the candy bowls are all full..." She pushed her swelling cleavage squarely into his chest.

"...ensuring everything looks good and everyone's happy, so we know all of our hard work paid off." She spread her fingers across the growing bulge in the front of his trousers and gently squeezed.

"...And last but not least," she smiled wickedly, guiding his hand past the lace garter to the dampening silk between her legs, "making sure we keep that wet bar very, very wet."

"Fuck me," he gasped raggedly in the dark, as his long fingers deftly pulled aside her panties and entered her hot, slick entrance with a gentle thrust.

She moaned softly into his mouth as his lips captured hers greedily and her fingers grasped at the lapels of his Twain costume. The sound made him even harder as he stroked deeper inside her, matching pace with their hot, sparring tongues.

She was on the precipice now, distantly aware that there was still a party going on a few feet away from them, warm candlelight spilling out of the window beside them. But as a wave of exquisite pleasure crashed down upon her, the zombie librarian only had one clear thought: this was the best damn Halloween she'd ever had.