A Lack of Suffering

"What was your favorite then?" he asked.

Jessica paused, looked up at the ceiling as if she had to think about it. She didn't. The answer had been the same since she was thirteen years old. "The Princess Bride."

Drew gave a faux scoff, crinkling his nose. "That's a kissing movie."

"I would kiss the ever-loving shit out of Inigo Montoya," Jessica said, hands to chest.

"Who wouldn't?"

They made quick work of the pantry, taking what non-perishables looked appealing and placing them in the wheelbarrow. Finished with the kitchen, they still had a couple hours of daylight. Jessica didn't mess around, as a rule. She wanted them safely back home with at least an hour to spare, but she wanted to have a look in the bedrooms. Before Drew, she'd never ventured into the bigger homes. Too much open space. Too many hiding spaces.

"I'm going to have a look in the garage," Drew said as he wheeled the goods-laden barrow to the front door. Her rifle was slung across his back.

"Going to take a quick look upstairs," Jessica called from the foot of the staircase.

"Be careful."

"Always am."

In the third bedroom she searched, she found almost exactly what she was looking for. She held it up for inspection, pondering the long dormant feeling in the pit of her stomach. Anxiety, apprehension, excitement? A mix of all three, mingled with a heat that, though unexpected, was not at all unwelcome.

Jessica shoved her find in the satchel slung over her shoulder and hurried downstairs.

5

At first, they'd taken turns cooking the evening meal. Soon though, and with no conscious effort that she'd noticed, they'd slipped into an easy routine of preparing it together. Nothing special usually. Canned soups. Canned vegetables. Fruit, likewise. But every once in a while during their foraging, they'd score a decent package of dry noodles in a cabinet or a stash of preserves in a dank basement.

Tonight, the beginning of their second week together, Jessica was making her signature spaghetti. Well, her signature spaghetti would normally have utilized a few more exotic spices, and her sauce wouldn't have come from a can. But still, it beat the hell out of Campbell's cream of broccoli.

When she turned from the pot to grab the wooden spoon, Drew was already offering it to her. Behind his back, without even looking, as he chopped some wild squash they'd found in a backyard garden.

At the table, by dim candlelight, they talked about books. Books were a safe topic, as were movies, plays, and music. One night, after indulging in a particularly fine bottle of wine Drew acquired, their conversation ventured into childhood anecdotes. What started out as light and innocent soon left both morose. So off the table topics: anything to do with their pasts, places they'd visited before, what the future held. They sure as hell didn't talk about favorite meals. Not to be touched with a ten-foot pole: religion.

Jessica found she didn't care what they talked about. After so long on her own, she just liked hearing another voice in the cramped, dusty house. It was just an added bonus that Drew happened to have a nice one. It was gravely and throaty. Manly. When he spoke, no matter the topic, she pictured him around a campfire on a cattle trail, imparting folksy wisdom to the other cowpokes.

After a day or two of her light teasing, he'd pared his unruly beard down to a long, but tidy, scruff. He'd even let her take a pair of scissors to his wild mane. It still stuck out at a few odd angles, but she hadn't done such a bad job. When she forgot herself, forgot what awaited them in the world outside these walls, she caught herself staring at him when he wasn't looking. Staring and wondering. She wondered what he'd been like before, what his profession had been. She was pretty sure it wasn't cattle rustler. She wondered if he'd been married and what his wife looked like. She wondered if he preferred his scotch neat or on the rocks, or if he drank scotch at all. She wondered about his calloused hands, how they would feel if he slowly ran them up her bare thighs. She wondered what his lips would feel like on her neck, his whiskers chafing her skin. She wondered what it would feel like to have his weight on top of her, pressing her down into the couch. Mostly, she wondered why he had yet to make the slightest fucking move on her. Drew was a gentleman, had been at least in their past lives, but even a gentleman had needs. She didn't think he was gay, though the thought had crossed her mind more than once when he'd blatantly bypassed a gentle nudging on her part.

In her more lucid moments, Jessica admonished herself for the avenues her thoughts just couldn't seem to stop taking. Sex should be the last thing on her mind out here. But should it? Should it really? What the hell else sort of pleasure was there to be had? Survive. Survive. Survive. That had been her mantra for so many grueling months. Was that all there was ever supposed to be now? Just managing to not die? No, she needed more. She wanted more. And maybe Drew would move on tomorrow. Hell, life was hard. One or both of them might die tomorrow. She was the only surviving member of the original group she'd left Fort Worth with. And most of them hadn't lasted three weeks on the road. You had to take pleasure in the little things, right? Isn't that what they used to say? Well, looking around, she didn't see many things, not even little ones. But she saw him.

"Drew," Jessica said, her breath quickening, heat rising to her cheeks. She felt the steady, thrumming pulse of the vein in her neck. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucked it behind her ear.

He looked at her with eyes the color of the ocean. "Yeah?"

She fidgeted in her seat, mouth slightly open as if the words were more than ready to spill out on their own. Why was she so nervous? It had to be on his mind too. Just had to. But, if so, why hadn't he said anything, done anything? Maybe he didn't find her attractive. In her past life, a lot of men certainly had, but that didn't mean Drew did. But, honestly, in the crudest terms possible, so fucking what? She was a woman. He was a man. She had all the necessary parts, as did he. And being the only woman and only man around, both having certain inherent, biological needs, shouldn't they meet them for one another? What the hell did attraction have to do with anything at this point?

He was still looking at her. Not expectantly. Not anxiously. Certainly not wantonly. Just looking and politely waiting for her to continue.

"The...the squash is good," she said, inwardly flogging herself. "Very nice flavor."

Drew smiled, and she wanted to bite his lip. "Thank you. Old family secret. If you play your cards right, I'll let you in on it someday." He put his hand to the side of his mouth and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "It's salt. Mum's the word."

Somehow, she managed to smile back.

When all the thoughts spinning and stirring in her head became too chaotic to bear, she rose from the table, took her paper plate to the trash, then gave an exaggerated yawn. "I'm beat. Heading to bed."

Drew gave her just the hint of a confused look. "Night, then."

"I'll...see you in the morning."

The creak of each step up the stairs seemed to mock her.

6

Sleep, it seemed, was a pleasure that would also be denied her.

Jessica stared at the rafters above her, illuminated only by a beam of pale blue moonlight seeping in through the boarded-up window. She wanted to go back downstairs, finish saying what she'd intended to say. What had that been exactly? She didn't know, but roughly translated it would have been "for fuck's sake, Drew, jump my bones already".

Her body throbbed with need. A thin sheen of sweat coated her skin. She ran her nails up her thighs, scratching, leaving raised lines. She tried to steady her breathing, but no dice. What the hell was she, a bitch in heat? Never before in her life had she so desperately longed for the touch of a man. She'd always had a healthy sex life. Healthy, and what some would politely call adventurous. No shortage of willing partners. She'd had needs, and when the right circumstances presented themselves, she'd met them. With vigor.

She gripped her arm, dug her thumb into the tender bruise there. She was better than this. She was stronger than this. She'd survived without for months. She could hold out as long as he could. Longer. Everything had changed that horrible day in July. Life would never be the same. Wholly different needs mattered now. She had to come to grips with that once and for all.

Her thumb found the bruise's sweet spot, and a jolt of brilliant, wonderful pain radiated through her like an electric current.

Jessica got up, found her satchel, and put on the dress stashed inside. Then she went downstairs.

7

Drew was already snoring lightly on the couch. Not an unpleasant sound.

Jessica lit a candle and laid it on the coffee table next to him. Shadows danced on his face.

"Drew," she said softly, then a little more forcefully when he didn't answer.

His eyes fluttered open. He took her in with those ocean blue eyes, those kind eyes, those eyes she'd seen glaze over into something sinister only once. But once had been enough. "Yeah?"

"The squash really was very good," she said, standing over him, fidgety but less nervous now.

"That's a very pretty dress," he said, half-rising.

She placed a hand on his bare chest, pushed him back down as she straddled him. She reached between his legs, all her worries about lack of attraction immediately invalidated as she wrapped her hand around him, stroked, then guided him in. She let out an exquisite moan as he filled her, and pressed down harder to take all of him in. His hands searched beneath her dress, found her hips. They were exactly as rough and exactly as wonderful as she'd imagined. He lifted and lowered her, impaling her on himself, matching her rhythm. Jessica gyrated her hips, grinding into him. When she tried to hasten her pace, his strong hands gripped her and slowed her motions.

If she had a thought in her head besides how amazing this felt, it was that she wished she'd lit more candles. Atop him, she could barely make out Drew's features, and she wanted to see him. She wanted to lock eyes with him as she rode him. She wanted to see the look of pleasure on his face. Unable to have what she wanted, she threw her head back and rocked harder against him. Her insides screamed and moaned their pleasure. Not just her slick inner walls, but her stomach, her heart, her throat. All were afire. All felt as if they would burst. Again, she tried to speed to a gallop. Again, he eased her down to an easy trot.

Pace set, Drew's hands slid from her hips to her ass. He squeezed, taking one cheek in each hand and kneading his fingers deep into her flesh. Panting, Jessica tossed her head down, spilling her hair into his face. She braced her hands on his chest, never stopping her motions. She didn't know if she would ever stop. Before, she'd only thought she'd missed this. Before, it had been theoretical. Now, it was as if she'd been held underwater and finally let up to breath crisp, clean air. Spasms of electricity cracked through her as his hands alighted on either side of her stomach, and she was swiftly but gently rolled and lain on her back. The couch cushions were still warm from his body. He parted her legs wide and eased into her again, his hands on the arm of the couch for support as he began to thrust. Slow, purposeful, filling motions. Each time his thrust retreated, she wanted to scream. Deeper, harder. But Drew's pace was steady, even cautious. He felt unreal inside her, brushing against her clit, back and forth, back and forth. His movements were expert, but careful, as if she were a fragile glass figurine that would shatter if played with too hard. His hands found her throat, and her body tensed in anticipation. Squeeze. Please God, squeeze. For a brief moment, she just knew he would. She couldn't see his eyes, but she felt a malicious glower penetrate her all the same. His thumbs pressed into her soft throat. She swallowed against the pressure, but then it was gone, and his hands were groping her breasts. Jessica let out of wistful moan she hoped he interpreted as pleasure. Her needy hands sought out his backside. She wrenched him forward, desperate. She felt more than heard the guttural noises coming from her throat. But Drew would not be ushered. She felt the muscles of his ass tense and strain against her pressuring hands.

What was the reluctance she felt in him? What was he holding back?

Jessica stopped fighting and laid back, more than content to take what he was willing to give. She felt light in the head, as if she could float away on the cloud of sensations vying for attention within her. Her chest heaved - a rapturous, racking spasm. Drew's plunges quickened, and she gasped as his thumb found her clit. He pressed down, rotating the finger in sync with the motion of his hips. She tried to find his eyes, but it was too dark and it seemed as if he were merely looking forward, not at her. She didn't care. Not right now.

It started as a stirring in her abdomen, building, building, spreading out to every sweaty, tingling inch of her body. Her lips parted and only the sudden presence of Drew's hand over her mouth quelled the scream of ecstasy from penetrating the troubled stillness beyond their walls. She quivered and bit down on her tongue as his hand wrapped around the back of her neck, gripped her tight. His body shuddered as she felt him come, filling her with heat.

Drew collapsed on top of her. His heavy breaths warmed her chest. With a wavering hand, Jessica reached up and stroked the hair at the back of his head. He didn't speak, and she didn't need him to. He rolled to the side, taking the wonderful weight of his body from her. She missed it immediately.

When his silence grew longer, intrusive thoughts began to formulate in Jessica's head. She fought them. Not now. Later, she could second guess. Right now, she wanted only to savor. But they wouldn't be denied. Hadn't he enjoyed himself? It certainly seemed like he had. She definitely had. Had she done something wrong? Speak, asshole. Just say something. Had the restraint she felt from him actually been reluctance? Had he only been giving in to what she so obviously wanted? Had she made a huge mistake? What if he was gone when she woke up in the morning?

All her pleasure seeped from her, leaving only an uneasy wounded feeling. She let out a long sigh and began to roll away from him and off the couch. Strong arms caught her, pulled her back, pressed their bodies together. Chapped lips kissed her forehead. Then Drew's breathing tempered. His body went pleasantly still. And, wrapped in his arms, Jessica felt the pleasure pour back into her.

She fell asleep warm.

8

They'd searched three houses over the course of the morning, and come away with nothing. That was the way of things. For every ten houses searched, nine had already been ransacked and picked clean of anything resembling useful. But even though it was a small town, there were still more than enough houses to search for food and supplies. If the area remained as quiet as it had been for the last two months, she wouldn't have to move on for weeks yet.

"Batteries," Drew said, peeking his head around the corner.

"Wonderful," Jessica said. "I'll just get my portable radio, and we can listen to the Top 40 countdown tonight. I hear there's a special guest star."

"I hope it's Axel." He entered the room, clutching his find in his fist. "Found anything better, smartass?"

Jessica had been rummaging through a closet stacked with shelves. She hadn't found anything that might help them in any meaningful way, but she spied a few boxes on the tallest shelf. She extended her arms over her head and raised up on tiptoes. Her shirt scrunched up as she did, and she felt Drew's fingers on her bared arm. At first, she thought he meant to tickle her - an oddity for him - but instead he fingered the round purple bruise on her triceps.

"Ouch," he said, scrutinizing. "That's pretty fresh."

"Bumped into something yesterday," she said, mustering casual.

"Hard bump," he said and eyed the bruise for another few seconds. "One fire burns out another's burning."

"One pain is lessened by another's anguish."

Drew grabbed a pair of boxes on the high shelf.

"Thanks," Jessica said, tugging her shirt sleeve down to her elbow. She was glad she didn't have to meet his gaze. Most of their quotes were fun and flirty. This was pointed. She'd already found she couldn't keep much from him. Drew was highly intuitive and missed nothing. She was glad when he moved on to the next room. She didn't need a discussion about the bruise. The one he'd seen or any of the others.

Or did she? Did she want him to really ask about it? If he had, would she have told him? What would she say? Would she tell him that even though their newly budding sexual relationship was wonderful, was something she'd very much needed for a long time, what she really, really wanted - craved - was for him to jerk off his belt and beat her ass with it? Could she tell him that? Could she tell him she wanted to feel his hands on her throat, squeezing tighter and tighter until her breath caught and she almost passed out? When they had sex, it was passionate and hungry, but sweet, gentle. Much like everything else Drew did, it was careful, measured, unrushed. He would think her insane if she told him she wanted him to fuck her so hard she couldn't get out of bed the next morning.

She'd been using a baseball stuffed in a sock. It packed a good wallop, but didn't do much damage. Just a nice deep thud and some good exterior bruises the next day. She'd been doing it more and more lately. Always after he went to sleep. In fact, she'd been doing it for all her months on the road. But as reality slowly began to settle in, and she realized that unfulfilling self-play was the only play she was likely to have again, she'd begun to wean herself off it. Pain and pleasure had been synonymous in her mind since before she'd even begun to have sex. When she was twelve, she'd discovered the intoxicating arousal of dripping scalding wax onto her skin. Her first boyfriend had been big and stupid and quite bad at sex, but at least he'd been rough about it in his fumbling way.

Jessica had seen the need to be practical. If monks could go their whole lives in celibacy, abstaining from all pleasure, surely she could live a normal life without the pain. And so she had. Sex had been off the table anyway for the longest time. So long, she wasn't sure she'd ever feel the touch of a man again. Before Drew, it had been nine months.

But since she and Drew had started up, the cravings had returned. With gusto. Their sex really was wonderful. She loved the feel of his hands on her, the taste of his skin when she ran her tongue down his chest, the possessive way he held her afterward. All good things. But they'd been having sex for a week, and she'd faked her last three orgasms. It wasn't him. Drew was an accomplished lover. Some of the things he did with his fingers ignited synapses she didn't know she had. And his tongue was ravenously adventurous. If only his teeth were as well.

A gunshot cracked outside. Jessica went into an immediate crouch, her pistol drawn before her knee hit the floor. Drew rounded the corner with nervous eyes. They went for the window, one on either side, and peered out.

"See anything?" she asked.

"No, not..."

Another gunshot. Then four in rapid succession. Far too close for Jessica's liking.

Something moved between the houses across the street.