Honey (13 page)

Marc didn't paw and pull and rush at her as Drew had done. Instead he undressed her as if he—they—had all the time in the world, as if she were someone important and precious and
worthy
. Once he got off the T-shirt, he undressed her button by button, sliding each seed stud through its loop, then taking hold of the zipper tab at the back of her dress and drawing it slowly down. Cool air brushed across her bare shoulders, the tops of her breasts, her torso. The dress whispered downward and then off, leaving her standing stripped down to her La Perla bra and panties.

“You're so damned beautiful,” he said, staring down at her. Lowering his head, he sprinkled soft kisses along the swell of her breasts.

“So are you,” she answered honestly. Overcome with gratitude and tenderness, she laid a hand along his cheek.

He looked up into her eyes and smiled. “I guess we both just have good taste, huh?”

Honey smiled back. “I can't speak for you, but I've finally started to develop some.”

A chuckle greeted her too-true quip. Taking her face between his two hands, he kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids, and the tip of her nose before settling his mouth atop hers. His kiss was more urgent than before but every bit as gentle. A sweet, firm tongue probed hers, and then darted away, touching its tip to the roof of her mouth. Strong white teeth nibbled at her lower lip, followed by a thumb stroking across it. Honey sighed and sagged slightly against him. Reaching around, he unclasped her bra.

“Wait, I want to see you, too.” She did. She also wanted to break free from the scenario of sex with Drew, the inevitable inequity of being stripped bare while he remained clothed.

He held his arms out from his sides, giving himself over to her. She slid both hands beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Surprised and delighted to discover he wore nothing underneath, she took a moment to savor the smooth curve of his ass before tugging the garment down. Kicking free of it, he stood naked before her. He was beautiful, even more so than she'd imagined, leanly muscled with a washboard abdomen and powerful arms. She wanted to sip at those flat nipples, nuzzle the dark nests of his pits, bury her face in the bush of his groin and inhale him, take him all in, not because she was being bullied or paid, but because she wanted to. Because this was desire and it had been entirely too long, years, since she'd felt anything close to it.

He eased her down to sit on the side of the bed and floated to the floor, landing on his knees. Caught up as she was, it amazed her that such a big, muscular man could move with such agility and grace.

Unbidden, her thoughts switched back to her last time with Drew. The sullied soles of those expensive, bespoke shoes gagging her. The sharp, thrusting cock crammed down her throat, stealing her breath, her self-respect—her soul. Not satisfied with her kneeling, he'd had her squat instead, her legs open wide with muscles straining, his two fingers rammed up her ass, impaling her in place, prepared to punish her the second she ceased sucking him. None of what he'd done to her that time had left any discernible marks, and yet he'd scarred her as surely, as permanently as if he'd taken a knife to her.

She snapped her thoughts back to the present, this moment, and the beautiful near-naked man kneeling at her feet. At his own volition. For her pleasure! Even though she never once uttered, or even hinted at the dirty little ritual that Drew put her through, he seemed to know instinctively what she wanted—needed.

To be serviced.

“Lie back and let me take care of you.”

No man had ever said that to her before, let alone come close to doing, that. Being an escort was the modern day equivalent of being a geisha, and geishas didn't receive pleasure. They gave it without conditions or complaints. Whether sucking cocks, licking balls, or tickling prostates, sex had always, always been work for her. Putting her personal preferences aside, she accommodated nearly every kink. Wall Street bred a tightly wound bunch—and when men like that gave themselves permission to let go, they didn't just unwind. They unraveled. She'd given enemas to those so desperate for release they were poised to implode and peed into the open mouths of those craving humiliation as though it was a new flavor of infused vodka. Still others she'd spanked and sodomized, flogged and “force” fed as they stood stripped down to their birthday suits or diapered as babies.

But what she'd never done before Drew was come. Once their honeymoon phase was over, he'd rarely gone down on her. In the early days he sometimes got impatient—
Babe, you're killing me. Haven't you made it yet?
Later on, he'd become petulant—
I work fucking hard all day. I don't have time for this shit. Can't you just buy a vibrator?
And of course in the last year, he'd become flat-out mean—
You have all fucking day to play with yourself.
Now get down on your knees, or else!

Regardless of his mood, the message was clear. Her body—her pussy—was for his pleasure, not hers.

But with Marc, she sensed things could be different and stay that way—good. If only she could manage to stay with him in the moment.

Honey lay back, stretching her arms above her head, dragging one of the pillows down toward her. Her vagina was the one orifice Drew hadn't in any way breached. Thankful for that, she tented her knees and let her legs fall open, waiting.

She didn't wait long.

Marc rose up on his knees, bracing his palms on either side of the mattress surrounding her. Suddenly his mouth was nowhere and everywhere—her tits, her belly, her mound. He slipped a hand beneath her. A dallying finger circled her anus. She tensed, not with pain but with … remembering.

“Stay with me,” Marc whispered. “Forget him.”

“I am. I
want
to.”

“Easy, then, let me help you. Is it okay if I help you? Is that what you still want?”

As always, with Marc the choice was hers. Honey didn't doubt that, despite how far they'd gone, one word from her—no—would see him backing away from the bed and putting on his clothes. Only she didn't want him to go away. She didn't want him to go anywhere. She wanted to be with him, to feel him inside her. She wanted him to fuck her until she forgot she'd ever known a man named Drew.

Honey bit her lip, willing herself to forget the gagging taste of shoe polish and leather and city streets. “Yes, I want it.” I want
you
.

Seemingly satisfied, he dipped his head once more. He sipped on her nipples. He stroked her ass. A teasing finger toyed with her anus, this time tracing tiny rings. He glided the finger of his other hand inside her front. A second and finally a third digit followed. It was that day at the IFC all over again, only better, so very much better. Heat pooled. The tingling built to a deeper tension. Flexing brought her bucking hard against his hand. He could have stopped there and coaxed her to coming, only he didn't. Instead, he dropped his head, brushing his unshaven cheek along her inner thigh. Spreading her wider, he blew on her clit. Hot shivers bolted through her. Her toes curled. Her pussy pulsed. Deft fingers sank inside her again, all three at once. A tongue's point probed her channel, touched the hood of her clit, swirled lavish circles around the kernel.

Honey bit her bottom lip, straining for release before he might tire and want to stop. “I'm sorry, I'm so close. This … I shouldn't take much longer.”

He pulled his head up to look at her, his expression incredulous. “Take as long as you want. I could do this all night.”

Boast though that no doubt was, he didn't seem to be suffering. Taking in his darkened eyes and wet mouth, she admitted he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“All night?”

“Okay, maybe not all night—I suspect you'd start to get pretty sore, and I do have morning rounds, so I'll have to sleep eventually—but how does the next forty-five minutes to an hour sound?”

“That sounds … ” Honey broke off. Beyond
amazing
, she wasn't sure what to say.

“You want to spend that time talking or—”

Her clit fluttered. Her skin skittered. She was about to come. Marc sucked her into his mouth—and Honey imploded. Her buttocks clenched, her clit buzzed. Waves of dizzying release rolled over her.

Marc eased himself upright. In a moment of panic, she thought he might be headed for the sofa after all. She whimpered and reached for him, wondering what she'd done to turn him off or, worse, disgust him, relaxing only when she saw that his retreating steps took him no farther than the nightstand. A drawer slid out and then back in. He returned, tearing open a gold foil condom packet. She almost stopped him to say she was on the pill, but then she thought of all the times she'd been with Drew and held her peace. Who knew how many women besides his wife he'd been with over the years? Until she got tested, they'd better play things safe.

He sheathed himself, the condom gliding over a cock that wasn't only full and thick but beautifully, exquisitely shaped. Positioning himself over her, he fitted himself against her. Impatient, Honey lifted her hips, driving him inside her. Still wet from her orgasm, her body seemed to inhale him, welcoming him into her sticky heat. She groaned. She thought she was done with coming but suddenly she wasn't so certain. Wanting to take him as deeply as he could possibly go, she lifted her legs higher, wrapping them about his torso. Marc pulled out and thrust into her again—and again. Every time he left and reentered her, she was certain it would be the last, only it wasn't. He had amazing stamina, greater control than any of her previous partners. Perspiration filmed the backs of her knees. A bead of sweat slid between her breasts. She looked up into his eyes. Male pride shone from them, but she thought she saw something more there, too. Holding his gaze, she contracted and then released her inner muscles, cinching him tightly inside, squeezing him as if with a gentle, milking fist.

The sensation sent both of them over the edge. Marc groaned. Penis pumping, he released himself into the prophylactic. Honey wrapped her arms about his big, shuddering body and held him tight. The contractions ebbed, and he relaxed against her. Neither spoke. Other than their breathing and the occasional car driving by below, the room was silent. Honey stroked his back, her fingers slipping down his sweat-slick spine to his taut butt. With each caress, gratitude flooded her. Despite all that Drew had done to her, she wasn't ruined. She could still orgasm—multiple times, in fact. Her only regret was that Marc had to wear a condom. Now that they were finally lovers, she wanted him in every way, no holds barred. Having him spray inside her, going about her day leaking his essence, were primal pleasures predicated on her test results coming back clean. If they didn't, if she was positive … She couldn't let herself think about that, not now.

Instead she coaxed him to move with her to the top of the bed, where a bounty of pillows awaited. Light filtering through the window had them turning away onto their sides. Skin to skin, they tucked up together, their bodies fitting like two happy spoons. More content than she could ever remember being, Honey closed her eyes.

And fell almost immediately asleep.

*

Later that morning, Marc propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Honey. Makeup-free and hair a glorious mass of brown and butterscotch-colored tangles, she'd never looked more beautiful. “Okay, ‘fess up. Honey Gladwell isn't your real name, is it?”

Lying against the banked pillows, she hesitated. “Why do you say that?”

They'd had amazing sex, the mind-blowing, soul-melding sort. The least she could do was to tell him her real name. “C'mon. Honey Gladwell and Holly Golightly are too similar for even a strictly action-adventure movie guy like me to miss.”

She drew a long breath and blew it out. “Hortense Gustafson.”

“Get outta here.”

“I know it's not terribly lyrical. Hortense was my grandmother's name, and as for the surname … I'm mostly Scandinavian with bits of Polish and German thrown in.” She lifted her face. “What about you?”

He got the question so rarely that he actually had to take a moment and think about it. Most people labeled him as African-American and left it at that. “My father's people were from Cuba. My great grandparents on my mom's side came from Barbados. At some point, everyone met up in Spanish Harlem and, well, here I am.”

“That makes you—”

“An Ancestry.com nightmare?” He laughed.

She swatted at his arm. “I was going to say exotic.”

“Exotic, huh? I like it. It sounds a lot more upscale than
mutt
.”

She rolled her lovely eyes, puffy no more, though a few hours' sleep was all they'd gotten. “Well, don't let it go to your head.”

“Which one?”

He grinned as she got the joke—and cut her eyes downward. Seeing the erection tenting his part of the sheet, she lifted her gaze to his and gulped. “Already?”

His short refractory period was nothing special, given his young age, but having spent the last six years with an alcoholic she probably wasn't used to quick comebacks. “Yeah, but if you're not … I mean that's cool. It's not a contest—or a race. We have time now.” The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of sex addict, especially given all she'd been through.

She hesitated, moistening her mouth. “Do we … have time, Marc?”

Not really sure what she was asking, he nodded nonetheless. “Sure we do. I mean now that you're staying here—”

Her face lit. She pushed back from the pillows and sat upright. “I'm staying? Really!?!”

Granted, he might not be the greatest of communicators, but Marc had thought that much was settled. Honey was his girl, or at least after last night he hoped she would want to be. They'd spent months growing a solid friendship, fighting the sexual tension pulling at them. Now the stars were finally aligned, the timing right. Winterthur was history, a dark cloud already relegated to Honey's past. Finally free and clear to come together, they'd made love—not some furtive fondling in a darkened movie theater, but honorably, properly,
leisurely
in his home and bed. They'd even adopted a kitten together—well, sort of.