Honey (20 page)

“Before you, I pretty much came home to sleep and shower. Those are usually pretty safe activities—at least they used to be.”

Honey swallowed hard. “I've never been on this side before. I'm not sure how to go about making amends. A diamond tennis bracelet, dinner at Eleven Madison Park, a weekly blow job for life? What can I do? Tell me, please.”

“You can stay here with me.”

Given what had just gone down, Honey couldn't believe she'd heard him right. “Are you sure?”

Bruised and bedraggled, he still looked very much like a man who'd made up his mind. “Stay here with me. A few more days, months—or forever, it's up to you.”

He lifted her onto the chipped marble-topped vanity, the granite hard and chilly. Her dress rode upward. Marc pushed it higher and parted her thighs.

Honey glanced down, then up at him. “W-what are you doing?”

Hands on her knees, he opened her legs wider and stepped between. The gleam in his eye made her feel entirely desired and entirely safe. “You've had your alpha moment. We're doing things my way now.”

Honey answered with a wordless nod. She'd tested him—hard—and he'd passed with flying colors. Now that he'd proven she could trust him, really trust him, she could hardly wait to explore their mutual limits. Knowing Marc would never take things too far made the prospect of kneeling at his feet and fellating him feel exciting and sexy, not degrading and frightening as it had for so long now.

He leaned in and kissed her. Honey gave in. Caged by his strong arms, caught between his body and the wall mirror, she moaned into his mouth.

“This time I get to see you—all of you.” He reached between them, and began tugging at the buttons fronting her dress.

It fell open, baring the tops of her breasts. Caught up in kissing him, Honey barely registered him unhooking the front clasp of her bra. The lace cups fell away. He took her in his hands. “You're so beautiful,” he said softly, flicking his thumbs over her nipples.

Honey shivered. She glanced down. She'd always thought of herself as small-busted. Back in her escort days, she'd briefly considered augmentation. Now that she looked, really looked, she saw she wasn't only petite, but pleasingly firm and prettily shaped. Pink nipples stuck out as if begging for attention. Marc gave it, rolling her between his thumbs and forefingers. Pleasure struck her, not only in her breasts but everywhere.

He bent his head and fitted his mouth over one throbbing point. Heat hit Honey—everywhere. She gasped and arched against him, seeking to bring them closer. As amazing as his mouth felt on her breasts, she craved his kisses and touch lower. A lot lower.

Marc must be a mind reader. Taking a step back, he took hold of the hem of her dress. Gliding his palm upward toward her waist, he ferried the fabric with him. Chilly air touched the tops of Honey's stocking-clad thighs, the gooseflesh a stark contrast to the heat pooling inside her.

Looking down, he murmured, “So pretty,” and traced the top of her torn La Perla panties with a single finger.

Honey honestly thought she might splinter. Though she'd climaxed mere minutes ago, her body, all her being, was building toward another release.

Marc slid a hand between her thighs and palmed her through her panties. Musk rose up between them. Honey didn't need to look down to know that she was wet, her juices seeping through the split silk.

He stilled his stroking. “Do you trust me?”

A sob caught in her throat. “Y-yes.”

“Enough to tell me where you really went today?”

Tempted as she was to rest her head against him and confess everything so that he might help her find a fix, she couldn't, mustn't, give in. “HG Enterprises” and the fraudulent investment scheme Drew was perpetrating in her name wasn't his problem to fix. It was hers.

“I had some things to take care of. Let's leave it at that, okay?”

He eyed her. “Tell me this much—did you go to see him?'

By
him
, he meant Drew, of course. Honey studied him—the high forehead that might be called “noble” in an earlier era, the earnest eyes, and the stubborn set of his square jaw—and inwardly admitted that she could never lie to this face. Never. “I absolutely did not. I haven't set eyes on him since the night I left.” It was all true and yet so much less than honest. “Okay?”

He sent her a spare nod. “Okay … for now.”

He followed the line downward to the cleft parting her inner lips, and Honey held her breath. The intimate touch carried her to the edge of the counter and the brink of orgasm. Wetness blanketed the insides of her thighs. Her pulse skipped; her flesh frissoned.

Slipping in her slickness, he slid a finger inside her. A second followed. Rhythmic scissoring nearly sent her over the edge.

Honey lifted herself against his hand, her bottom leaving the counter. But Marc refused to be rushed. His fingers circled her clit. His dark head brushed her lower belly as he angled his mouth to her sex. Honey spread her legs. The bottoms of her feet anchored to the shelf of his broad shoulders. She leaned back on her palms and prepared to give herself up to the pleasure.

All these weeks he'd used gentleness as a weapon—and Honey finally admitted that it had worked. She was hooked—on the hot sex, the fun, easy conversations and, above all, him. He could make her laugh like nobody's business. His smile, his eyes, his touch all could melt her.

Apparently intent on torturing her, Marc scattered soft kisses inside one thigh and then the other. His deft fingers spread her. Warm breath fell upon her sensitized flesh. A tongue's point probed her slit.

“You even taste like honey,” he murmured, licking damp lips.

He fluttered his tongue until Honey was certain she would die of pleasure. Only she didn't die. She exploded. Her engorged sex rocketed, setting off a starburst of spasms. Keening sobs tore forth from her throat.

Even so, she couldn't seem to get enough. With Marc, she wasn't sure she ever would. She lifted herself against him, her body beckoning him back.

Finally the salvo faded. Breathing hard, she tugged down her dress, and then looked to Marc resting back on his heels on the floor. Sweat dampened his shirt, molding the material to his broad shoulders and tapered torso.

“You're amazing,” she said, though she suspected that wouldn't exactly come as news to him.

As much as she had always fantasized about a man putting her first, right now she didn't want chivalry. She wanted sex. With Marc.

Chest heaving, he got to his feet. Sliding an arm about her, he looked from her gaping dress into her eyes. “I meant what I said earlier. I want you to stay with me. I swear you won't be sorry.”

He might not be sorry yet but once he found out about her unawares involvement with Drew's fraud scheme, he would be. Even before being picked up by Carson and Wilkes, she was a hot mess. She wouldn't know how to go about having a healthy adult romantic relationship if Prince Charming rode up on his white horse and bit her on the fucking ass. Her only models, her stepfather and Drew, were both brutes who used fear and fists to win their way. Poor Marc; he might be brilliant, a doctor, but when it came to her he didn't have a clue what he was in for.

She laced her hand with his. “I may not be sorry, but I only hope you'll be able to say the same.”

“I will,” he said, his surety tearing at her heart—and her conscience.

Laying a hand on either side of his face, she dragged him back down to her. Their mouths met. Their tongues sparred.

Marc answered with a groan. Spreading her folds, he positioned himself over her channel. One quick, clean thrust carried him inside her. The emotions of the day made restraint seem foolish. They came hard, fast, and together, their urgent breathes and unbridled cries filling the bathroom.

*

Marc couldn't put it off any longer. A recent heart surgery patient complaining of dizziness had been brought in by his panicked wife, and he'd ordered a CBC, Complete Blood Count, to rule out markers that might indicate bleed-out from the surgery or infection. The labs should be back by now. As great as his hospital-issued tablet was for triaging vitals, patient reports were still solely accessible through the hospital's central computer system.

Fortunately it was a slow night. All but a few of the triage gurneys were empty. Hoping his luck would hold, he headed for the central staff area known informally as the Pit. As usual, it was a mess, the small central table littered with soda cans, open bags of junk food, and assorted takeout containers. A half-eaten pepperoni pizza congealed in its open cardboard delivery box. Blue-bound patient charts spilled across the surrounding countertops and took up several of the plastic and metal chairs. Three of the six computers were taken, two by staff members with whom he worked on a fairly regular basis. Fortunately they were busy typing, their backs to him. The other, a good-natured if gabby senior nurse whose name he remembered was Wilma, crammed a fistful of cheese popcorn into her mouth while filling out a requisition form. Hospitals, like most workplaces, were hotbeds for gossip. Marc had never given anyone cause to say two words about him—until now.

Keeping his head down, he gave Wilma a broad berth, tiptoeing toward the open terminal farthest away. With luck, he'd look up his results and be in and out before she or the others spotted him.

“Good Lord, what happened to you?” Wilma asked, covering orange-stained fingers over the phone receiver.

So much for luck.

Before Marc could come up with a plausible lie, one of the nursing assistants swiveled around on his seat, his jaw dropping when he saw Marc's face. “I bet it was one of those delivery dudes on the bikes. Motherfuckers will mow you down and keep pedaling.”

“No, it wasn't anybody on a bike.”

“Don't tell me you got in a fight?” Wilma persisted. “Not you, of all people.”

Not exactly sure how to take that, Marc shook his head. “No, I wasn't in a fight—though I did box in college,” he added to salvage his pride.

Their knee-jerk disbelief that he might be a badass on his off-duty time wasn't wholly flattering. It took him back to his prepubescent beanpole days when he seemed to be a magnet for every bully on the block. If it hadn't been for Tony having his back, Marc wasn't sure he would have survived to make it to college. The unexpected thought prompted a painful pang.

Wilma waived a chubby hand, several fingers stained orange from the snack. “Oh, I'm sure you can handle yourself. It's just that you've got to be the most laid-back resident on the floor.”

So much for his having no game—and no poker face. If they thought he was relaxed, there was only one explanation. He must be an ace actor. That was both the plus and minus of being both passionate and an introvert—few people ever got to glimpse the storm raging inside you.

But these past few weeks he'd let Honey see inside him, not all the way but more in-depth than any other women he'd dated. It struck him that maybe she wasn't the only one of them addicted to playacting roles rather than keeping things real. With her carefully curated vintage couture and retro hair and makeup, as well as the Audrey quotes sprinkling her speech, she was at least honest about it. Marc suddenly realized that he couldn't lay claim to the same.

Wilma's voice drew him back to the present. “Hmm, hmm, hmm. I'd lay down money it's a woman that made those marks.” A fat finger pointed toward his left cheek. “That's a scratch, and as a general rule men don't fight with their fingernails.” She turned to the other nurse. “Doctor Sandler here has woman problems.”

“I don't have … ” Mid-denial, Marc stopped himself. Woman problems summed up his situation with scary accuracy, not that he meant to admit it. “Let's just say a friend was going through a rough time the other night and leave it at that, okay?”

Seeing her and the assistant nurse trade smirks, Marc felt his face burn.

Wilma looked him up and down, her glowing gaze suggesting she was seeing him in a new light. “Hmm, hmm, hmm,” she intoned again, sucking salty fake cheese from her thumb as if giving it head. “Suit yourself, Romeo—or should I say Doctor Fifty Shades?”

*

Honey tried again, studying the paint chips fanned out over Marc's dining room table. It was no use. The various hues of pale blue blended together, no doubt because her tired eyes burned. She'd hoped the previous night's hot sex with Marc might settle her mind, but instead it only emphasized how very much stood at stake for her to lose. Marc. Ever since Carlson and company had swooped into her life, a future together no longer seemed like such a sure thing. She'd spent most of the night and early morning lying awake beside him listening to the sounds of his breathing. Thankfully he was pulling a double shift at the hospital. Hearing his phone alarm go off, she'd quickly closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep rather than face him.

She pushed the samples aside and picked up her cell phone. “Liz, it's me. Honey. I know it's late but do you maybe … have a minute?”

As a freelance graphics designer, Liz often worked late into the night. She swore she got her best work out of the way when the apartment was silent and Jonathan sleeping. “Of course. Actually you just saved me from emailing.”

“I did?” Either Liz had major telepathic powers or they were on totally different pages.

“Did you get my e-vite?” Liz asked.

Honey hesitated. “I … I didn't see it.”

That was, strictly speaking, the truth. She hadn't checked her email in days, not even from her phone. Ever since the other day when she'd texted Drew her “apology,” with agents Carlson and Wilkes looking on, she'd been walking around in a semi daze. To her dismay, he'd accepted. Far from her slipping off the FBI's hook, “Operation Moneybags” as she thought of it was going forward full steam and taking her, and her future, with it.