Chapter 1229 Popular
Jenny had never felt so wanted, so thoroughly claimed.
Like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to something human.
Not even her late husband has driven her like this crazy.
Without a doubt, Jenny would now do anything for Ross. Anything.
During the day, while Ross was out on runs—scavenging fuel, reinforcing the outer barricades, or putting down stragglers that got too close—she kept herself busy in the women’s dorm.
The place had become her second home again, just without the bunk she used to sleep in.
She helped wherever she could: sorting ammo crates, patching gear, boiling water for the communal showers, even helping her friends do the inventory the dwindling medical supplies.
The teasing never stopped.
She’d walk in mid-morning, still flushed and walking with that telltale hitch, and the room would erupt.
"Morning, Screamer," Martinez called from her bunk, grinning like a shark. "How’s the dick appointment schedule looking today? Fully booked?"
Jenny rolled her eyes but didn’t blush anymore. She’d gotten used to it. "Jealous much?"
"Extremely," Torres shot back, tossing her a clean rag for wiping down rifles. "I heard you last night. Sounded like he was trying to rearrange your organs."
Priya snorted while she counted bandages. "The whole east wing heard. Ventilation’s a bitch. You two ever gonna invest in a gag?"
Chen, braiding her hair nearby, smirked. "Nah, let her scream. It’s better than white noise. Reminds us we’re still alive."
Jenny just laughed now—open, easy, unbothered.
The first few days she’d wanted to sink through the floor every time someone mimicked her moans or asked for "play-by-play updates."
But a week in? She owned it.
The apocalypse had stripped away shame faster than it stripped away the weak.
And the weak had gone first.
When the outbreak hit, civilization collapsed in weeks.
The soft ones—the ones who cried too long, who couldn’t pull a trigger, who froze when the dead came shambling—were culled quickest.
The survivors were the ones who adapted fast: learned to shoot, learned to run, learned to fuck like tomorrow might never come.
Because most days, it felt like it wouldn’t.
Sex wasn’t taboo anymore. It was fuel. A way to feel something other than terror.
Couples formed overnight, broke up at dawn, reformed with someone else by dusk.
Doors stayed unlocked.
Moans drifted through the halls at all hours like a fucked-up soundtrack to survival.
Nobody batted an eye. It was a miracle that Jenny held up this long without sex also and she was glad that she waited and found Ross.
Jenny had toughened up too. She learned a few things also.
She could field-strip an AR-15 in under a minute now, spot a shambler’s weak points from fifty yards, and—most importantly—take everything Ross gave her without flinching.
She craved it.
The ache between her legs had become a constant companion, a reminder she was still breathing.
Ross, meanwhile, was out there being the hero the base needed.
He led small teams beyond the wire almost every day: clearing blocked roads, raiding abandoned trucks for supplies, putting down hordes before they massed against the fence.
He came back dirty, blood-splattered, sometimes with fresh cuts or bruises, but always alive.
Always calm. Always looking for her the second he stepped through the gate.
At night, though, the hero mask dropped.
He’d shower off the day’s grime, then find her waiting—naked on his bunk or already on her knees.
He fucked her like she was the only woman left on earth. Slow and deep when he wanted to savor her.
Hard and punishing when the day had been particularly brutal.
He’d whisper things against her skin—"You’re mine," "Scream for me," "Take it all"—and she did.
Every time.
One night, after a long tiring day. Ross went at her hard.
He just stripped her slow, laid her out on the mattress, and ate her out until she was sobbing his name—then fucked her face-down, one hand clamped over her mouth so the whole base wouldn’t hear how broken and desperate she sounded.
Afterward, he held her tighter than usual. She felt his heartbeat against her back, steady but fast.
"You okay?" she whispered.
He kissed the nape of her neck. "Never been better."
She smiled into the dark. "Good. Because I’m not done with you yet."
He laughed—low, rough—and rolled her over for round two.
Outside, the world kept trying to end.
Inside, Jenny and Ross kept proving it hadn’t—not yet.
And every scream she let out was another small, defiant fuck-you to the dead things scratching at the gates.
***
While Jenny basked in her week of near-constant bliss—Ross claiming her body like it was the last refuge on earth—Bella’s world had started to feel smaller, sharper, edged with something dangerously close to resentment.
She’d always known Ross wasn’t exclusive. Hell, nobody on the base was anymore.
The dead didn’t care about monogamy, and neither did the living.
But knowing something in theory and watching it play out were two different beasts.
She’d catch glimpses: Ross laughing low in the mess hall while Jenny leaned into his side, her hand resting casually on his thigh like she owned it.
The way he’d disappear with her after patrols, not even bothering to hide the hunger in his eyes.
The fresh bruises blooming on Jenny’s neck that she didn’t cover anymore—marks Bella recognized because she’d worn the same ones a dozen times.
And the sounds. God, the sounds.
Jenny’s screams carried farther than Bella’s ever had, or maybe Bella just noticed them more now.
The women’s dorm had turned it into sport.
"Ross must have a clone," Martinez had said that morning, smirking over her coffee. "How else is he railing Jenny every damn night and still walking upright?"
Torres snorted. "Maybe he’s dosing himself with whatever experimental shit they had in the labs before everything went to hell. Infinite stamina edition."
Priya glanced at Bella—subtle, but Bella caught it. "You good, Bells? You’ve been quiet. Are you okay? What’s up?"