Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  “I am.” Dabbing a gloved finger discretely to the corners of her eyes, Honey closed her menu and looked up. “I’d like a pot of Darjeeling and—” She hesitated, glancing over to Marc. “Am I correct in assuming this is your treat?”

  “Of course, I invited you,” he answered, hating that she’d thought for a minute he might mean to make her pay for her portion.

  Her question rattled him and not only because it showed she wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was a gentleman but because of the disparity it pointed out. Since when did someone who carried a designer handbag have to worry about splitting the lunch check?

  “In that case—” Relaxing visibly, she shifted back to the server, to whom she sent a dazzling, dimpled smile. “I’d also like the BLT with English bacon and a side of … ” She paused, dipping her head to peruse the menu. “Mashed potatoes—with gravy, please. Oh, and the peas—are they the mushy kind like they eat in the UK?”

  The server lost her harried look and smiled. “That they are.”

  Honey beamed back at her. “Marvelous, then I’ll have those as well.”

  Stunned to speechlessness, Marc could only stare. Where in that size zero body did she plan to fit all that food? Afterward would she excuse herself to the bathroom and puke it all up as one of his dates from Match.com had done? God, he hoped not. As a doctor, he knew that bulimia was a disorder. As a guy who’d grown up seeing his mother scrimping to stretch the grocery money to feed the five of them, he was short on sympathy.

  The server’s gaze flickered to Marc. “And what will you be having, sir?”

  Go with the flow, Marc. For once, go with the fucking flow.

  He didn’t have a clue what “mushy peas” were—if they were anything like the parboiled “soul food” his older relatives had tried turning him onto, he was pretty sure he’d hate them. Sushi, Thai, and northern Italian were his dietary staples. But then he hadn’t come for the food. He’d come for Honey Gladwell. The prospect of getting to know her better, maybe even winning her trust sufficiently so that she’d let him help her before she got the crap beat out of her again—or worse—eclipsed his culinary preferences.

  Finding his smile, he closed his menu and handed it off. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  *

  Marc had to give Honey credit. Girlfriend could put some food away. Not only did she clean her plate, not only did she not rush to the restroom afterward, but she did yet another thing that played against type and surprised him—pleasantly. She ordered dessert.

  “I’d adore the crumble—provided Himself can be persuaded to share it with me,” she said to their server, her adlibbed Irish accent winning her yet another smile.

  She was a natural mimic. In the course of their lunch, her vaguely British accent had morphed into one that was nearly as Irish as their server’s.

  The girl divided her gaze between them. “You seem like such a nice couple,” she remarked and rather than correct her, Marc took a sip of tepid tea. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been together?”

  Marc nearly spat the mouthful of tea. Throat burning, he finished swallowing, then said, “We’re not—”

  “Officially engaged yet,” Honey slipped in smoothly, sending him an overtly adoring look. “Marc is the traditional sort. My mum’s been ill, and he insists we wait ‘til he can ask her permission proper-like.”

  “Ah, but that’s lovely,” the girl chirped, looking Marc over with approval. “But don’t mind me, standing about jabbering away. I’ll be back with your crumble in a jiff.” She turned to go.

  Feeling as if most of the oxygen had been siphoned from his lungs, Marc waited for the girl to step away before leaning over and asking, “What was that about?”

  Honey shrugged. “Just having a bit of fun is all—good craic, as they call it. You must admit it makes for a good—grand—story. That girl will likely go about wearing a smile for the next half hour.”

  Marc stared at her, equal parts charmed and disturbed. He was no psychiatrist, but he couldn’t dismiss his sense that something was … off. He’d asked Honey here with a mission in mind: to discover who she was—really was—so that he could help her. From what he’d so far seen, she was whatever and whoever the people around her wanted her to be.

  “But what you told her, it’s a lie.”

  Her gaze shuttered. She shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s more like … a fairy tale.”

  Marc opened his mouth to debate that but before he could, their dessert arrived.

  “One crumble, two spoons,” their server announced, setting the food between them and the check by Marc.

  “Oh, lovely!” Honey enthused, picking up one of the spoons and tucking in.

  Considering the Manhattan culture of calorie-counting women, the unbridled, guilt-free pleasure she took in eating, seeming to savor every mouthful, not only with her sense of taste but also with her eyes, was more than unusual. It was damned refreshing.

  She ate her half and most of his, as well as lapping up every lick of the clotted cream. When no excuse came to visit the restroom—she rolled on her red lipstick at the table in front of him—he decided she either must work out like an Olympian or be blessed with a teenage boy’s fast metabolism.

  She dropped the lipstick and tortoise shell compact back into her bag and clamped it closed. “Thank you ever so much. Lunch was lovely, but I should be going.”

  “Home, you mean?” Marc asked, feeling as though they’d just sat down though according to the clock, lunch had lasted longer than an hour.

  She hesitated, eyeing him. “I’m not sure my next engagement is any of your concern, but yes.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  She glanced away. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Does this mean the engagement’s off?” he joked, taking the opportunity to study her profile, only her small smile was about as telling as the Mona Lisa’s.

  She turned back. “I’m afraid I’m serious.”

  Shit, she was serious. Sobered, he asked, “Why is that?” Was he so wishful and rusty that he’d misread her playful flirting as “signals”?

  She toyed with the teaspoon. Eyes lowered, she answered, “You know the answer as well as I. I’m … with someone.”

  Right, the prince who hit her—God forbid she should break whatever commitment she’d made to that sick son of a bitch. Rather than say so and risk driving her away, he set aside his sarcasm and said, “And yet you’re here with me now.”

  He’d only pointed out the obvious, but the dagger look she shot him demonstrated she didn’t at all appreciate being brought to the mat on a topic that likely wasn’t only sensitive but painful. “I was here with you. Now I’m leaving.” She pushed away from the table and started up, the back of her chair ramming the empty table behind her.

  “Wait.” Half-rising, he shot out an arm, catching her gloved wrist.

  She stared down at his hand covering hers and then back over at him. Her darkening eyes dared him to hold on, to prove himself as bad a brute as the man he meant to try talking her into leaving.

  “Sorry,” he said, withdrawing immediately and slipping his offending hand out of sight beneath the table. Resuming his seat, he added, “It’s just that having a whole day off is kind of a big deal to me. I hate for the afternoon to end.” Heart hammering, he waited.

  She sat back down. Dark doe-like eyes met his. A smile trembled over her freshly painted lips. Out of the blue, Marc found himself fighting the urge to lean across the table, this time to cover that crazy sexy upside-down mouth with his.

  Lightly penciled brows lifted. “What do you usually do when you have a whole day off?”

  Was she only casually curious or was the question as leading, as flirtatious, as it sounded? There was only one way to find out. Trouble was, he had no idea where or what t
o suggest. He was really that rusty. Whatever “game” he’d once laid claim to had gone by the wayside, a casualty of medical school and then internship and now residency. Other than out for a meal, which they’d already had, where did you take a woman on a daytime “date”? A walk was casual and noncommittal, plus it would give him more time to get to know her. They could continue their quirky and fascinating if not exactly illuminating lunchtime conversation. Washington Square, Union Square, Sheridan Square and several other public parks were all nearby. Only it was fucking freezing outside and he’d bet her fancy cashmere coat didn’t come with much of a liner. He paused, willing his brain to work. Going with the flow was all well and good, but it couldn’t begin to trump old fashioned skullduggery. Honey Gladwell had managed to be a delightful lunch companion without revealing so much as an iota more about herself beyond her Hepburn obsession. He was no closer to breaching that barricade than he’d been weeks ago.

  Maybe casting their meet-up as something more, as a date, was putting too much pressure on him? If, say, they were just hanging out, what would he suggest? Better yet, where would he want to go? As a kid he’d spent every spare coin and moment he could scrape up on one pastime: the movies.

  “The IFC Theater isn’t far from here,” he heard someone, himself, say. “You seem like someone who might be into foreign films.” Marc wasn’t into foreign films, not in the least, but he suddenly felt supremely grateful to Gina, the thirty-something trauma nurse with the nasally voice who was always going on about some highbrow flick she’d seen there.

  She nibbled her lower lip, which did all kinds of crazy things to Marc’s mind—and his muscle. “I adore foreign films, only … ”

  Her voice trailed off, and he wondered if maybe, unlike him, she didn’t have the whole day off. If maybe she had a schedule to keep—and a sadistic tyrant to please. The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt again. He was supposed to be figuring out a way to help her, not endanger her.

  “Look, if you really need to … get back, I’ll understand.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “N-no, at least I don’t suppose I do. And there is a film I’ve been dying to see.”

  Marc felt his mood lighten. “Great, then come to the movies with me. I’ll buy you all the bad-for-you movie popcorn you can put away.”

  *

  The popcorn sold at the IFC concession counter wasn’t bad for you. In fact, it was organic. That Marc hadn’t known that was probably a pretty good giveaway that the foreign film theater wasn’t his regular hangout—oh well.

  Likewise, Blue is the Warmest Color, or La Vie d’Adèle, wasn’t the kind of film he would ordinarily have picked. Actually he hadn’t picked it. Honey had. Whether spooning up mushy peas for him to try at lunch or suggesting they see a lesbian coming-of-age love story, she seemed to enjoy coaxing him out of his comfort zone. Who knew, maybe she saw it as expanding his horizons. Ironic that someone he’d initially intended to make his mission had somehow managed to turn the tables on him. But they could figure out the dynamics of their emerging “relationship” later, assuming it did indeed … emerge. Right now he felt happy just to be spending more time with her.

  On the middle of a weekday, the theater was deserted except for two teenage girls in the front row. Like the film, Marc let Honey choose their seats. They settled into the center section toward the back. They’d missed the previews, not that he deemed that much of a loss. Ordinarily watching the movie trailers was a big part of how Marc unwound, but seeing as how all the films shown here were foreign, he was happy enough to save his subtitle reading for the main event.

  “So what exactly is this film about?” he whispered into Honey’s ear as the opening credits rolled.

  She turned to face him. “Love.”

  A chick flick—Marc bit back a groan. “Great, I mean it’s what makes the world go around, right?”

  “I used to think so.” She reached over, snagged a piece of popcorn, and popped it into her mouth.

  Training his tone to sound casual, he asked, “But not now?”

  He could see how being battered would sour someone, anyone, on love and romance. What he couldn’t begin to comprehend was why she didn’t just take herself out of there. She must have some means at her disposal. Everything on her back was either vintage or designer or both. Unless maybe the deal was the dude gave her a credit card to use and had the monthly statement sent to him. If that were the case, Winterthur would be able to track not only her spending habits but also, retrospectively, her whereabouts.

  Mulling over the possibilities, he focused on the film—or tried to. After the characters’ initial meeting and the ubiquitous “relationship building” scenes, things heated up quickly. The two women locked lips. The soft gazes and coquettish looks they’d been trading up to this point had left no doubt where things were headed and yet when they finally kissed it seemed to come out of the proverbial blue, striking almost as a complete, joyous surprise.

  Beside him, Honey sighed. Her snacking stopped and her breathing picked up audible pace. Her tightly laced legs relaxed. She’d taken off her gloves to eat the popcorn and now she traced a single finger across her collarbone, slowly back and forth, again and again. No doubt about it, she was turned on. So was he. He wouldn’t have thought two French lesbians going at it on-screen, the one seriously butch with blue-tinted hair, would have gotten him going but it did.

  That was bullshit. The screen actresses weren’t responsible for the boner concealed beneath the coat across his lap. Honey was. In his mind’s eye, she was the one naked and being backed onto the bed, he equally naked and coming down on top of her.

  Easing back into the seat beside him, her light perfume mingling with the buttery aroma of the theater popcorn, she was completely irresistible, utterly edible. Add to that, it was dark, movie-theater dark, and every dirty fantasy he’d had since the age of thirteen about pulling down a girl’s jeans’ zipper pretty much sparked to full-throttle life.

  Only Honey wasn’t wearing gender-neutral jeans. She had on a dress—a sexy, sophisticated dress. And black stockings. Not pantyhose, but actual stockings, the kind that required garters. Whatever else she had or didn’t have going on under there, Marc could only imagine—and badly wanted to find out. Mentally slipping down her body-cinching black dress, unsnapping those gartered hose, and peeling off those silky stockings, he sent a sideways look her way—and saw that she wasn’t watching the movie either. She was watching him.

  Through the darkness, her eyes anchored to his. She moistened her lips, that crazy upside-down mouth that always brought his mind back to kissing—and fucking. Imagining those sweet lips cinching about his cock, he felt himself further thickening.

  There was no getting around it. Marc absolutely had to kiss her. He reached for her, slipping one arm beneath her back. With his free hand, he touched her cheek. If foreign films had this kind of effect on him, he’d be better off going cold turkey—after today. For once, this once, he was completely caught up in the moment.

  She could have moved away but instead she came closer. Leaning over, he angled his face to hers. Their mouths met, matching as if drawn by magnets. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, back and forth, teasing her there until she opened. Once she did, he touched his tongue to the tip of hers, and then swirled it about. She tasted of cinnamon from the crumble and butter from the popcorn and, like some crazy Ben & Jerry’s flavor, the combination worked. And so, it seemed, did they. There was no first kiss fumbling or awkwardness, no inadvertent clinking of teeth or salivating of spit. They kissed as though they’d been doing it their whole lives, as though kissing each other was what they’d been born to do, what they’d been made for. Kissing Honey wasn’t any kind of prelude to better things but its own thrilling journey, one he was satisfied to savor, not rush.

  He settled a hand on her knee, leaving it there to give her ample opportunity to push it away. She
didn’t. Instead those gorgeous long legs of hers did something much better. They opened. Not wide, not spread eagle—she was too ladylike and subtle for that. More like a gentle easing apart as though gifting him with access to her private place was the most natural of acts.

  Her slim-fitting skirt didn’t give him much room to maneuver. Rather than raise it, he slid his hand underneath, gliding along silky stocking-sheathed thighs to where those stockings ended—and her satiny flesh began. She was wearing panties, which for some reason surprised him, and garters, which didn’t. Mired in murky darkness, still the contrast between the black banding her milky thighs was unbelievably erotic. Fuck blue hair and baggy boy clothes, neither chick on-screen had a snowball’s chance in hell of holding his attention, though their moans were definitely fueling his desire. Whatever moves he’d amassed in the last two decades of adulthood, whatever expertise he might boast, now existed solely in the service of bringing Honey pleasure. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to satisfy a woman this much, to make her moan and pant, cream and come. Maybe never.

  A slit bisected her panties’ crotch; for a second or so he indulged in the fantasy that she’d slipped on the sinfully sexy undergarment with him in mind. Not that it much mattered. He had her full attention now. The silky fabric wasn’t only damp—it was soaked through. His stroking exploration revealed she was waxed, not shaven, scoured bare and silken smooth. Musk drifted up, teasing his nostrils, whetting his palm and his appetite. He worked a finger inside her, damning the darkness that kept him from seeing every desire-drenched fold.

  Honey moaned and fitted herself against his hand, her mouth ever so slightly parted, her slim hips lifting. If someone, an usher or the theater manager, were to discover them, he most definitely had something—a lot—to lose. But it was midday in the middle of the week. Anyone who came out to the movies to watch lesbians fuck, even in the name of art, was likely inclined to make allowances. To be safe, he checked in on the teenage girls in the front row, but by now they were too busy swallowing each other’s tongue to complain about what he or anyone else might be doing.