The Last Man on Earth
©2012 Raminar Dixon
This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work is property of Raminar Dixon, please do not reproduce illegally.
An excerpt from the book:
Colton’s hands went everywhere, kneading the supple flesh of my buttocks and squeezing the soft mounds of my breasts. To aid him, I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it to across the back of the sofa. My bra didn’t stand in the way much longer, and after he unbuttoned his shirt hastily, he worked his gentle fingers under the clasp and freed my breasts. Instantly, his mouth came down, sucking at my nipples delicately while cupping them in both hands.
His body was just as hard as I’d imagined. Each muscle stood out in a sort of carved definition, inflexible under my fingers but smooth to the touch. I grazed my hands across the light hairs on his chest while his mouth was busy suckling at my neck again and found myself mounting him, with my legs spread, grinding ourselves together and working ourselves up to a fever pitch.
“I want you,” he murmured, and stroked back the short strands of my hair. He stared deeply into my eyes and saw the truth; the feeling was mutual.
About a year ago, everything changed. Some virulent superbug was going around, infecting everyone and spreading panic. Millions of people got sick and as far as I know, none survived. The people we’d put in charge of things up in D.C. must have been doing their own share of panicking, because the next thing I knew, the night sky was illuminated by the trailing afterburners of F-16 fighter jets and intercontinental ballistic missiles.