Sex Machine: A Standalone Contemporary Romance

by Force,Marie

  In the bathroom, I set my drink and snack on the windowsill, light a few candles and sprinkle the new bath beads and salts Lauren got me into the steaming water. Before I turn off the lights, I kick off my cowboy boots and strip out of my dress and underwear. I catch a glimpse of my ass in the mirror and gasp at the fingertip bruises that stand out in stark contrast to my white flesh. Turning to face the mirror, I see that there are also bruises on my hips and breasts, and I shiver, remembering the way he touched me with such all-consuming hunger. Thank goodness he didn't leave bruises anywhere people could see them.

  My nipples tighten and my clit springs to life, making me groan as I wonder how it’s possible I have any gas left in my tank after last night. Sinking into the hot water is almost as orgasmic an experience as fucking Blake Dempsey was. If my poor, tortured flesh could actually sigh with pleasure, it’d be hyperventilating at how good the hot water and Epsom salts feel.

  I lay back against the pillow I bought just for the tub and reach for my glass of wine. During the shoot, I forced my mind to stay on the subject at hand, hoping I’d get rid of them sooner rather than later. We all know how that worked out. So it’s been a few hours since I did a full review of last night’s activities, and I let my mind wander back to the bar, to the way he choked on his beer after I delivered my opening line, to how he whispered gruffly in my ear to follow him home, how he insisted on feeding me before we got down to it, and the way he completely obliterated my memories of all other men in one incredible night.

  How did he manage that last part? Well, The Cock managed it. That thought makes me laugh. I have to admit I thought Lauren was exaggerating when she said she’s never seen one quite like Blake’s. Now I know she wasn’t exaggerating. If anything, her descriptions didn’t do The Cock justice. Just thinking about it makes me tingle all over. He made me feel like a newly deflowered virgin trying to take him into my protesting body. The struggle was epic and my reactions unprecedented. I’ve never come from penetration alone. It usually takes a lot more than that, but not with Blake. Not with The Cock that stroked every nerve ending I possess into an unholy orgasmic frenzy.

  Picking it all apart with the perspective I lacked in the moment, I realize it was more than his equipment that set me on fire. It was the way he paid such close attention to my every reaction, the way he touched me and stroked me and sucked on my nipples with my ultimate pleasure as his only goal.

  I return my wineglass to the windowsill and fill my hands with my breasts, running my thumbs gently over sore nipples that immediately respond by getting even harder. I draw in a sharp deep breath at the connection between my nipples and clit. I’m amazed that thinking about last night has me fully aroused once again.

  My legs move restlessly, sending water sloshing toward the sides of the tall tub.

  Closing my eyes, I relive it, from those first minutes in the bar to sneaking out this morning and everything in between. As if it’s happening all over again, I can almost feel the press of his huge cock against my opening, stretching me to my absolute limit as he works his way inside.

  I bite my lip and send a hand down to tend to my tingling clit. Oh, that feels good, even if I’m still so sore and tender. I take it easy as I rub slow, soft circles around the tight knot of nerves while continuing to tweak my nipple. It usually takes much more than this to get myself off, but remembering the things he did, the places he touched me with his fingers, tongue and cock, has me on the verge of exploding in no time at all.

  Was I really bent over in half on his bed, my ass in the air while he tongued me there? Thinking about what we must’ve looked like in that position, I inhale a shuddering breath as the memories of how it felt and how much I loved it send me careening into an intense orgasm. Water spills over the sides of the tub, but I can’t bring myself to care as it goes on and on, as if I haven’t come more in the last twenty-four hours than I have at any one time ever.

  Afterward, I slide deeper into the water, completely relaxed and depleted. I could go to bed now and sleep until tomorrow morning, but I can’t do that. I can’t disappoint Julie, who would be crushed if I missed her thirtieth birthday party. With my own three-oh right around the corner, I can’t do that to her. Besides, Blake will be there, and I’m on fire with curiosity about whether it’ll be different between us after last night.

  Though I know I shouldn’t be excited to see him again, that’s what gets me out of the tub twenty minutes later. It’s what has me spending extra time on my hair and makeup and dressing with careful thought in the same frilly, feminine dress he liked so much the last time we were at Matt and Julie’s. Because I’m a Texas girl through and through, I put on my red cowboy boots to complete the outfit and grab a denim jacket in case Matt has the AC on the frost setting, as usual.

  I look good. I feel better than I did before the bath. I feel ready to see him again.

  I wasn’t ready to see him again. I feel like I’m wearing a neon sign on my head that says Blake fucked my lights out last night. I’m sure everyone must know, when no one does, except Lauren, and she wouldn’t tell anyone. Well, Blake knows, too, and more than once, I feel his intense blue eyes trained on me as if he’s seeing me naked right there in the midst of our friends.

  I never should’ve propositioned him the way I did, but I can’t seem to regret the stupendous sex I had with him. If only I didn’t actually have to see him today, but I’d forgotten about Julie’s birthday when I decided last night was the night after weeks of trying to work up the nerve to put Lauren’s plan into motion.

  Thus one of the three times a year I run into Blake had to happen the day after we had the wildest, dirtiest sex of my life. Judging from the smug, satisfied expression on his face, he knows I’m uncomfortable, and he’s enjoying my discomfort.

  I got exactly what I wanted from him, so I suppose a little embarrassment is the least of what I should expect in the aftermath. I can handle it, or so I tell myself.

  “What’s up with you tonight, Honey?” Julie asks when she comes over to me with Lauren and Scarlett in tow. Julie was well and truly surprised by the party and has been glowing with excitement ever since her arrival a short time ago. I’m happy to see her that way after months of profound depression following a miscarriage last Christmas.

  “Nothing’s up with me other than your big three-oh.”

  “You seem distracted. Is everything all right at the studio?”

  “Everything is great, except for the mom-zillas that interfere every step of the way.”

  “I’m never going to be like that,” Julie says.

  “I’m beginning to think there’s something in the placenta that turns perfectly rational women into lunatics after they procreate.”

  The girls laugh at that.

  “You might be on to something there,” Scarlett says. Being my next-door neighbor in town, she hears most of my horror stories soon after they take place.

  “Speaking of placenta,” Julie says tentatively, taking a look around to make sure no one else can hear her. “I’m pregnant.” She says it softly, as if saying it out loud might somehow jinx her.

  Knowing how badly she and Matt want to have children, my eyes immediately fill with happy tears. “That’s the best news ever.” I hug her, and when I pull back from her, I see tears in her eyes, too.

  “I’ve been dying to tell you guys,” she says as Lauren and Scarlett hug her, “but Matt and I wanted to wait until we were past the three-month mark before we told anyone this time.”

  “We won’t say anything,” I assure her.

  “Mum’s the word,” Lauren says, “or should it be Mom’s the word in this case?”

  She giggles and wipes away a stray tear. “Either way, I appreciate your discretion. We’re only telling our immediate families and closest friends. I think Matt is telling Blake now.”

  I can’t not look, even though my better judgment is telling me not to make eye contact. Of course I don’t listen to my better judgment—remember the I
want you to fuck me thing from last night? The second I give in to the overwhelming need to look at him, he glances my way, and our gazes connect across the crowded room. And then he starts coming toward me, edging his way through one group after another until he’s standing right in front of me.

  As if they recognize the man who made them sing last night, my girl parts go crazy, dancing around trying to get his attention.

  “You okay?” he asks in a low intimate tone that has the girls singing hallelujah.

  “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem… I don’t know… Rattled or something.”

  I absolutely hate that he could tell that from across a crowded room.

  “Not at all,” I say breezily. “Why would I be?”

  Rather than answer, he only stares at me. His blue-eyed gaze is so intense, I feel like he’s seeing right through me and my fake breeziness.

  The stare-fest ends when Matt calls for more ice.

  “I’ll get it.” I head for the freezer in the garage and am piling bags of ice on the garage floor when Blake appears next to me.

  Without making eye contact—and thank goodness for that—he says, “Leave your back door unlocked tonight.” He picks up the bags of ice, hoists them to his shoulder and goes back inside while I stand with my mouth hanging open. Only the icy air from the freezer swirling in my face keeps me from overheating.

  Did he really just say that? One-and-done Blake Dempsey wants round two? Well, isn’t this an unprecedented development…

  I have no idea why I told Honey to leave her door open for me. Okay, that’s not entirely true. It’s because she seemed rattled, and I’m worried about her. Yeah, you heard me right. I’m actually concerned that something we did last night isn’t sitting well with her, and I need to know for sure. Thus my highly unusual request that she leave her door unlocked.

  Ugh, what am I doing? I don’t get involved. I don’t “worry” about my sexual partners after we do the deed. I never make promises I can’t keep, and I never, ever, ever do entanglements with women.

  I have no plans to change my rules with Honey. It’s just that underneath her sassy I want you to fuck me exterior, she’s fragile. And oh my goodness, she’d hate me for thinking that. Honey would never want anyone to think of her as fragile, but I know her well enough to know the cocky attitude she brought into that bar last night is not the real Honey Carmichael. Not even kinda.

  No, the real Honey has been trying to overcome her difficult beginnings her entire life by overcompensating with too many men, always searching for that elusive “something” she’s never had. I once heard some guys in town speculate that she has a “daddy complex,” whatever that is. I promptly shut that down and told them I’d better never hear them talk trash or anything else about her again. I nearly came to blows with one guy who didn’t like me telling him what to do. Whatever. No one was going to talk that way about Honey in front of me and get away with it.

  The reminder of that incident in the context of what happened last night makes me feel out of sorts and off my game. Of course I’m protective of her. I pinched her on the playground. That’s how long I’ve known her. I’d do the same thing for Lauren or Julie or Scarlett or any of the other girls we grew up with.

  A pang in the usually numb center of my chest makes a liar out of me. If I’m being entirely honest, Honey is different from the others. She’s always been different, from the time I was pinching her until last night, when I finally got the chance to touch her the way I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember… She’s been different.

  Way back when, and we’re talking sixth and seventh grade here, I thought Honey might turn out to be my girlfriend, but that didn’t happen. Then Jordan moved to town the summer between eighth and ninth grade, and I never looked at or thought about another girl in the years I was with her. We had plans. Lots and lots of plans. I stopped making plans after I lost her. What was the point? Life will fuck with you no matter what you have planned, so why bother?

  At least I’m aware of the fact that I’m a fucked-up mess of a man who appears to function well on the outside. My successful contracting business is proof of my ability to fake it till I make it. I do everything I can for the men who work for me, for my parents, who still live in town, for my siblings, who are all married with kids, for Jordan’s parents and for the friends I’ve managed to hang on to in the twelve years since my heart stopped beating normally.

  But on the inside, where I live with myself and my regrets and memories so painful I can’t bear to revisit them, I’m a disaster. A no-good, broken-down mess, and I own that. It’s why I don’t let women get too close to me. It’s why I don’t get involved. I refuse to risk more than I can afford to lose. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s just not worth the agony when it all goes wrong. And it always goes wrong.

  How else to explain why smart, beautiful, happy, always upbeat Jordan is lying in a hole in the ground while so many horrible people are allowed to roam this earth? In the beginning, the only way I could cope with the loss was to frequently drink my way to full-on blackout. I quickly learned that I still had to wake up the next day and confront the loss while feeling like total hell. I stopped that before my parents and siblings made good on their threat to hold an intervention and then cart me off to rehab. Now I’m a one-or-two-maybe-three-on-Saturdays beer drinker who rarely overindulges anymore.

  No matter what I do, the unrelenting pain never lets me forget. I see Jordan’s death as my cross to bear. She died. I lived. The pain is the least of what I owe her.

  During the first few unbearable years, everyone in my life urged me to move on. They told me it’s what she’d want, and I knew they were right. I’ve always known that’s what she’d want for me, but I’ve never been able to actually do it. After five years, my friends and family blessedly stopped trying to fix me up with their single friends and colleagues and sisters “who’d be perfect for me.”

  I’m sure they were all nice girls, but I refuse to inflict myself or my demons on anyone. It simply wouldn’t be fair. So there I was, going along with my life, such as it is, when Honey Carmichael came strolling into my favorite bar and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse even if I knew at the time that I probably should.

  I’ve had a lot of meaningless, get-my-rocks-off-and-move-on sex since I finally got past that first awful time with someone else. I’m well aware of my reputation around town as a “machine” in the sack, and the women I’ve been with always comment about the size of my equipment. Whatever.

  Without fail, they always come back for more.

  I always say no. One and done. That’s how I roll. So what in the ever-loving fuck am I doing telling Honey to leave her door unlocked?

  Tipping the bottle back, I take a long drink of beer as I watch her across the room, laughing and talking with Julie and Lauren and Scarlett and other women we’ve known all our lives. Why can’t I stop looking at her? Why do I have to notice that her lips are still swollen from last night and there’s a hint of razor burn—my razor burn—on her neck from the middle of the night, when my beard started to come back? Why does knowing I left my mark on her in more ways than one give me such a perverse thrill?

  Why do I care that she’s rattled?

  “Having a good time?”

  I look up at Matt, my best friend since first grade and the man who single-handedly saved my life in every possible way after Jordan died by not leaving my side for two whole months. “A great time. You done good. Julie seems thrilled.”

  “It’s nice to see her smile again.”

  I was one of the very few people who knew they were pregnant again after the heartbreaking miscarriage last winter. See what I mean? Life always fucks you up the ass no matter how happy you might be. Their miscarriage is a classic example. What did they do to deserve that devastating blow? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This sort of thing is why I believe it’s easier not to get involved than to risk that kind of pain.

 
“It sure is,” I reply, hiding my inner turmoil from him with the expertise I’ve perfected over the years.

  “Why you staring at Honey?”

  Oh shit. “What? I’m not staring at her.”

  “Um, yeah, you are, and I heard a little rumor that you left the bar with her last night. Any truth to that?”

  I can lie to some people—and I’m not ashamed to say I lie shamelessly when it suits my best interests of staying free and clear of anything that can cause me additional grief—but I’ve never been able to lie to Matt. “Maybe. She came by. We hung out. Nothing to get wound up about.”

  “You and Honey Carmichael ‘hung out,’ and that’s nothing to get wound up about?” He snorts with laughter and takes a drink from his beer. “Whatever you say, man.”

  His comment strikes a note of panic deep inside me, in a place I keep walled off with concrete and barbed wire. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Have I mentioned that my best friend often makes me want to throat-punch him? And did I mention that he’s one of the two foremen at work who keep my business running smoothly? So punching him isn’t an option unless I want to compound my aggravation. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. Otherwise, fuck off.”

  The bastard laughs again, takes another sip of beer and then looks me dead in the eye. “Don’t do to her what you usually do, Blake. She means too much to all of us, and you know as well as I do she’s not as tough and ballsy as she’d like us to believe. You hurt her, you hurt us.”

  Fucking hell… “I’m not doing anything with her.” Well, if you don’t count fucking like rabbits, but that’s over now. We did it. It was done. As in past tense. Nothing to worry about.

  But there’s an ache in my chest that won’t go away since I woke up alone this morning after one of the best nights I’ve had since Jordan died. I took some Tums earlier, hoping that would help, but it didn’t make a dent. Maybe I should go to urgent care to see if something is up with my heart. I rub a hand over my chest.