When the Zombies hit - I wanna be doing Sommer...

Oops - I mean - I wanna do what Sommer will be doing. What will that be? you ask, eyes straining to see your screen, inching forward on your chair. You're wondering - does she have the answer for the Zombie Apocalypse? 

We shall see.....

Hurry! The zombies are coming! Do me!

I do understand those who can’t grasp how zombies (or other scary stuff) can mix with erotica. I guess those are the people who would be all “hurry the zombies are coming! Get the photo albums!” (Maybe not for real, but it sounded good).

Not me, I’m a visceral person. I’ve more than once said, even after just making a big hoopdie doo over my 4 year no smoking anniversary, that if I’m ever diagnosed terminal, I’m smoking my way out of this world. I will, in fact, most likely light a carton of cigarettes with a blow torch whilst drinking red wine right out of the box with a crazy straw.

So yes, if the zombies are coming, I want to get laid one more time. If there’s high stress, do me baby. If we might all die this week, I want to get down and dirty as often as I can before I possibly shuffle off this mortal coil. 

So, yes, laugh if you will, but the sex in these books are often touched with not just emotion but stress, anger, fear and urgency. Which can make for some mighty fine sex—you’ll know that if you’ve ever had that kind of sex. Especially when, as in the zombie exterminator books, you have a group of four friends who like to mix it up in the sex department.

I mean, come on, there are zombies all over…and by book three they are…mutating. So grab as much nookie as you can. You never know when your ticket’s getting punched. At least that’s how the exterminators feel. (And their inventor if you must know ;) )

So how about you? Do you want your photo albums or one more roll in the hay. Or the shower. Or the potting shed. Or the…[fill in the blank]. Comment and be entered to win your choice of the zombie exterminator books on pdf.

XOXO

Sommer

Poppy's birthday should be a big, fun, sexy deal. And it is, until the zombie exterminators find out that the creepers in their neck of the woods happen to be switching the game up a bit. They have a new nifty trick that keeps them from being readily recognizable. Something poor Poppy is unlucky enough to find out on her morning run. She goes from fantasizing about her birthday foursome with the boys, to running home to spread the bad news of mutation.

Her big day is suddenly full of machetes, a lady from the CDC and news of a new vaccine that might—or might not—work. Lucky for Poppy the boys won't let the new turn of events ruin her birthday, they still take her where she needs to go. Because all four of them know, every day could be your last. Sadly, Garrity, Cahill and Noah can't control what happens next. Things change, possibly forever, for their little group of exterminators. And over the next few days Poppy realizes a few things with perfect clarity: she loves Garrity, the thought of losing one of the boys terrifies her, and she's completely at a loss when it comes to one of her own being threatened. It seems to be the one area in which she can't pull off the bad ass persona.

What will she do, she wonders, if their perfect group of four suddenly becomes a group of three? How will she survive?

“Let me go,” I said, struggling to stand, but he wouldn’t let me.

“No. Calm down.”

“Do not tell me to calm down Christopher Garrity! You were the one who punched a fucking van!”

This time I managed to get up, but he came up with me, and he grabbed me to him even though I stiff-armed him to keep him away.

“Come here, Poppy,” he said, still sounding angry but also exasperated.

“No, let me go.”

“No,” he turned, using his bulk against me and pushed me to the side of the van where he’d just been. I’m not a tiny little ballerina, I’m about 5’9” and a good 140 pounds. I work out. I kick ass. But Garrity moved me like a paper doll and the movement of my head made some ropes strung from the roof sway.

“Let me go,” I said, heart pounding.

“No,” he leaned in and kissed me. It was not a sweet kiss. It was a rough, needy, desperate kiss that made me want him and want to punch him all at once.

I bit him.

His hands slammed my wrists up, and the fucker bit me back. A quick nip of my lower lip that made me taste a fleeting ghost of copper in my mouth.

“You’re hurting me,” I said, but it came out in a whisper instead of a yell.

Garrity gripped both of my wrists with one big hand and with is free hand, freshly sanitized and smelling of fucking cucumbers and melon of all things, stroked my exposed belly. “I know. And you like it.”

I started to balk, but he shoved his hand down past my belt buckle, past my black jeans, past my panties and found me slick and hot and swollen.

“I don’t,” I said, my face hotter than hot. I was blushing, and it was because I was lying.

Garrity curled a well-schooled finger into my cunt and thrust. His thumb, warm and broad found the engorged nub of my clit, and he pressed hard. My mouth popped open, and he took it in a much deeper kiss.

“I was scared, you twit, because I love you.”

I balked at the twit part, but he pushed another thick finger into me to join the first and in tandem they pressed that spectacularly sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside of me.

“I love you too, but we do this every da—”

I broke off because he was wrestling my belt buckle, and I shimmied my hips to help him. I needed him. I wanted to punch him, I wanted to make him put his head in my lap and stroke his hair, and above it all, I wanted him to fuck me.

“Shut up,” he said. Pushed my jeans down, still trapping my wrists in the bond of his own hand, working his own buckle one-handed.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” I snapped, but I thrust my hips toward him to contradict my ire.   

Thank you to the lovely Sommer for joining us today. If you liked what you read (and if you didn't, you're a zombie yourself), follow this link to add it to your collection.