A Valentine from Harlequin

danced them into her wetness, igniting an erotic flash of fire that surged through her core and responded to his deft manipulation. “You’re so hot, Charlotte.”
    “Not as hot as you.” His skin did seem unusually warm. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”
    “Not exactly,” he muttered.
    Somewhere, not far off, the clang of steel against wood furniture alerted them both.
    Breaths panting, Charlotte gripped John’s head and kissed him, sharing her desperation. “I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered urgently. “Your big, hard strength. Please, John. Take me.”
    They heard the bedroom doors crash inward, and John shoved down his pants. His erection sprang out, heavy against her folds. Charlotte wriggled, directing his entrance. And when the groans of the living dead echoed in the next room, she cried out at the intense pleasure of her husband’s possession of her body. Finding a frantic rhythm, they became one.
    John’s gasps stirred next to Charlotte’s ear. He clung to her, his fingers digging into her skin, his body like molten steel, their joining a culmination of strained patience and desperation.
    Everything slipped away. The threat of death, the terror of the living dead, the agony of watching others they had known fall. Lost in one another, they surrendered to the brilliance of desire and trust. Together they could defeat any horror.
    “I love you, Charlotte,” John cried out and his body shuddered against hers.
    Her core tight and twisty with imminent orgasm, Charlotte sighed, and released. Something banged on the closet door. She screamed—not out of fear, but instead with utter bliss, as orgasm captured them both.

Chapter Four
    Blissfully sated, Charlotte wanted to hold this man forever. Her husband. Her giddy smile was undefeatable. “That was amazing. I wish we could do it again.”
    Clinging to John’s panting body, Charlotte winced as the door behind her moved a bit with every growling pound from the other side.
    “Bad timing, sweetie. Sorry about this. Oh, man, you taste so good.” He laved his tongue along her cheek, and Charlotte’s skin prickled with delicious heat.
    Another vicious thumping vibrated the door against her bare skin.
    They’d had their moment.
    “What do we do now?” she whispered. “Did your research determine how to escape a pack of zombies?”
    He nuzzled his nose into her neck and kissed her, then gave a quick little bite. She smiled. Still his humor remained, even with the flesh-eating zombies beating on the other side of the door.
    But he was serious when he raised his head and looked into her eyes. “We fight,” he said.
    Her man had become…well, a man tonight. Or maybe she was finally seeing the real John Masterson, a man who rose to the challenge no matter the danger. Stuffy research coordinator? More like an adventurous hero.
    Her hero.
    Setting her down, he tugged up her dress and pulled up his pants. His shirt was somewhere on the floor. He wandered into the depths of the closet.
    “If we can get through this,” he called, “I’m going to make love to you all day, every day, in every place but the closet. Here.” He slapped a few high-heeled shoes into her hands.
    “John, I know you think it’s sexy when I wear heels, but is now really the time?”
    “Weapons,” he said. “It’s all I could find.”
    “Clever.” She fit the toes of the shoes into her hands, heels pointed out and ready to stab.
    A thick shard of wood splintered and sailed over their heads.
    “You ready for this?” he asked as they turned to face the growling horde.
    “With you at my side, I can handle anything.”
    They smiled at one another. And then the hordes tumbled through, decaying appendages clawing and gaping jaws moaning.
    John caught the first one in the eye with a heel, and shoved the creature off. Charlotte lobbed a Jimmy Choo at a growling matron in purple taffeta, which managed to take off her ear smartly. Shoes were tossed, thrown and lobbed into zombie skulls, faces and guts. They went down easily, which Charlotte was thankful for as she twisted to grab more ammunition from the shoe rack beside her.
    “This isn’t exactly my idea of wedded bliss!” she shouted as hands groped at her skirt.
    “I’ll make it up to you. I will get you to safety if it’s the last thing I do.”
    She hated hearing him put it that way. It would not be his last thing. They’d live to see tomorrow.
    “Follow me,” John directed, and