Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  “What makes you think I’m seeing someone?”

  It was, admittedly, an undeniably feeble attempt to fend her off until he could figure out what answer to give. Maternal radar might not have much of any scientific evidence to support it, but Marc would swear his mother possessed a sixth sense so far as he and his elder brother, Anthony, were concerned.

  She shot him The Look, the face that said, if not in so many words: Boy, why are you messing with me? It was an expression he’d seen countless times over the years. As always, being on the receiving end of it made him feel as if he was physically shrinking. Suddenly he was thirteen again, taken to the mat—and the principal’s office—for cutting school to spend the spring day skateboarding with, according to his mother, his “shiftless, no account” friends. The principal had been circumspect, his mother less so. She’d made him toe the line—a hard one at that. Since he liked being outdoors so much, he could spend the next month of weekends helping with cleanup and plantings in nearby Fort Tryon Park. The skateboard, which he’d paid for with his own money, was promptly donated to their church’s thrift shop. In its place, she’d given him a gift-wrapped stack of secondhand books, classic greats of American literature: Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, and Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. “You can take these to the park, sit yourself down on a bench, and read,” she’d said, ruffling his hair.

  Her steady stare brought him back to the present. “You’re freshly shaven even though it’s your day off, you look more at peace than I’ve seen you in years, and unless I’m mistaken, those are cat hairs on the front of your sweater—and I know for a fact you don’t care for cats.”

  So maybe she didn’t have extrasensory perception—maybe she was more of a mentalist. Surrendering, Marc set down his fork on the side of his plate. “What would you like to know?”

  Done eating, she steepled her hands as if at prayer. “Why don’t you start by telling me her name?” she suggested, expression softening now that she’d won her way.

  A simple, straightforward question, easy to answer, or at least it should be. But with Honey, everything was the opposite of simple, complicated as hell, down to her name. Hortense Gustafson or Honey Gladwell—really, who was she?

  “She goes by Honey.”

  Raised eyebrows met the admission. “Honey? It sounds like a name for a strip—”

  “But her given name is Hortense.” He grabbed for his iced tea glass and took a deep drink to ease his dry mouth.

  Her eyebrows lowered and her eyes warmed. “That’s a fine name. She should use it. You don’t hear of all that many Hortenses these days. Her people must be very traditional.”

  Marc nearly spat out the sip of tea he’d just stared to swallow. “Traditional” in his mother’s “book” counted as the highest praise. If she so much as suspected that Honey’s “people” weren’t blood relations but friends who were former adult entertainers, she’d “turn up her toes,” as his Aunt Edna was fond of saying. Other than her mention of a mother, apparently still in Omaha, Honey hadn’t spoken of any family. Her “FATEs,” as she called them, sounded more like close-knit siblings than support group members. Marc was still waiting for an invitation to meet them. Maybe he expected too much too soon. She’d been at his place not quite a week. Still, he couldn’t stop wishing she’d take the proverbial plunge and let him all the way in.

  “You two serious?”

  Again Marc hesitated. “Honestly, Ma, I’m not sure. I know I am.”

  Her mother gave an injured sniff. “She must know how fortunate she is to find you. Why, look at you: handsome, good-hearted, and God-fearing—at least you’d better still be—not to mention whip smart—a doctor! If she’s looking for someone better, he ain’t out there.”

  “It’s not that … She uh … recently ended a long-term relationship.”

  He sensed rather than saw her shoulders stiffen. “She divorced?”

  Marc hid a smile. Until recently, Honey had been the longtime mistress of a married man, but to his best knowledge she’d never tied the knot. “No, Ma, she’s single, never married.”

  She relaxed visibly, her shoulders descending to their more or less normal position. “Well, that’s a relief.” She hesitated, turning a teaspoon over before adding, “What does she do for a profession?’

  “She’s a photographer,” he answered without thinking.

  Shit, he’d just lied to his mother. He hadn’t meant to. Up to now, he’d prided himself on never having lied to his mother. Sure, there were things he hadn’t told her, things that would have been inappropriate to relay and were none of her business now that he was an adult. But those were sins of omission, if even sins at all. Outright lying to the woman who’d borne and raised him was a big breach in his book. But the answer had slid out as if his brain was on autopilot and now it was too late to take it back. Thing was, his answer might not be true—it wasn’t—but it felt true. With her keen eye for detail, for artistic composition, Honey was a photographer. She just hadn’t owned it yet.

  Evidently his answer pleased her. Her tentative smile spread into a broad one. “So when are you going to bring her around so I can meet her?”

  It was yet another totally predictable, totally reasonable question for which he had no good answer, not even a good guess. “Honestly, I can’t say right now. We’re taking things slow.”

  That was the truth—mostly. He and Honey were taking things slow, in every way but in bed. The sex was mind-blowing; Honey an exquisite, mesmerizing lover. But even in the midst of grooving on all the good loving he was getting, he couldn’t shake the sense that she was always acting out a role, playing some fictional part. Just once he’d like to take her in his arms, and to his bed, and know that it was the real her he was making love with, not some glamorized imposter.

  “Let’s … give it a while.”

  “All right, I won’t push—for now. But know my door, and heart, are always open.”

  “I do know that, Ma—and thanks.”

  “Speaking of open hearts, I’m going to visit Anthony this week. Why not come with me? It’s been … a while.”

  A while—two years and four months, not that Marc was keeping track. Anthony, his once adored big brother now doing prison time for possession with intent to distribute a Class A drug—crack—was a sore subject between them. As always, she bided her time before bringing him up—though she did usually wait to cut the pie first. His ongoing rift with Tony must be weighing on her mind.

  “I don’t think so but … tell him I said hi,” he added, a pretty big concession since he hadn’t so much as written since the conviction.

  “Why not tell him yourself?”

  “Because I have better things to do than spend my day off riding Metro North to go see someone I have absolutely nothing to say to.”

  The pained look she sent him was like a knife twisting in his gut, but Marc held firm. His mother’s wasn’t the only heart Tony had trampled on. Growing up, Marc had worshipped his big, athletic older brother, had wanted to be absolutely like him.

  Not so now.

  “Then maybe you could try listening instead.”

  Hungry no longer, Marc pushed his plate aside. “What, and turn the other cheek so he can slap that one, too?”

  It was bad enough Tony had been dealing crack—on school property, no less! That he’d done so on behalf of one of Upper Manhattan’s worst gangs made his actions not only reprehensible but unforgivable, to Marc at least. It was the same gang that had terrorized them as children, whose members had knocked down their Aunt Edna, stolen her grocery money, and left her passed out with a cut on her forehead so deep it had required stitches and an overnight hospital stay. The same gang that had blighted their multi-block area not for years but decades, shaking down local shopkeepers and terrorizing everyone in their radius, the elderl
y especially. They’d even taken credit for the torture and killing of several pets in retaliation against residents who’d filed complaints with the police. That Tony had allied himself with such scum of the earth—how could Marc possibly push past that and be brothers with him again?

  “You’re going to have to forgive him someday, if not for his sake, then yours. This anger you carry around inside you, it’s not good for your body—or your soul.”

  She was right. Seething silence wasn’t good for him. Maybe he would find a way to forgive Tony someday—but that day was most definitely not now.

  He pushed back his chair and got up. “I have to get back. Hort … Honey’s waiting.”

  She rose up beside him. “That girl’s really gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?”

  Were it anyone else asking, Marc would have been vehement in his denial. He’d only known Honey for few months, a hiccup of time, and yet he was reasonably certain he was in love with her. That he couldn’t tell how deeply her feelings ran held him back from saying so. Was he only a better alternative to Drew, or was he something, somebody, more? Somebody she might see herself making a life with?

  But in this case, the person posing the question that wasn’t really a question was also the one who’d diapered and disciplined him; who’d seen him through schoolyard bullying, an epic bout of chicken pox, and the hot hormonal mess of puberty; who despite working multiple jobs to make ends meet had somehow found a way to make it to nearly every spelling bee, school pageant, and science fair he’d ever participated in. Whether he was riding high or sinking low fast, his mother was always there to support him, dispensing wise words and warm smiles and huge hugs when he needed them most. And though she might not exactly have paranormal powers, her barometer for detecting bullshit was absolutely faultless.

  Turning back, Marc knew better than to mince words. “Yes, Ma, she sure has.”

  Chapter Seven

  “For me the only things of interests are those linked to the heart.”—Audrey Hepburn

  Marc came home from his mother’s to find Honey waiting. Only instead of the fabric swatches and paint chips he’d anticipated, she greeted him with candles, champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries—and her nearly naked self.

  Draped across two chairs, she was topless except for a men’s silk tie. Shoulders back, legs crossed, and gaze sultry, she greeted him with a slow, sexy scarlet smile. “Like it?” she asked, lifting the tie’s tail and giving it a twirl. “I got it for you.”

  On the threshold of the candle-lit dining room, Marc stopped in his tracks, his mouth sucked dry of any saliva, his heart rate ratcheting. Along with the tie, she wore a black thong, black garter belt, black stockings, and black fuck-me pumps. Her hair was pinned high in the front but left loose in the back, waves cascading over one slender shoulder.

  Like it? He’d never seen anyone more stunningly sexy in the whole of his life.

  Moistening his mouth, he crossed into the room and moved toward her. Play it cool, Sandler, he counseled himself, feeling anything but. Fact was he’d never felt hotter—or hornier—in all of his life, and not only because a beautiful topless woman, Honey, presented herself for his pleasure.

  Finding his voice, he finally managed to answer, “I’m not really a tie guy … but it certainly looks good on you.”

  “It’s Hermès,” she informed him, turning the tie so that it hung over her back, giving him an unobstructed view of those beautiful, rose-tipped breasts, breasts that he now knew fitted perfectly in his palms.

  Mark swallowed—hard. No doubt about it, this girl was definitely getting under his skin. “Expensive?” he said, thinking not only of the tie.

  “Very.” Perfect half moon brows lifted. She inhaled and exhaled exquisitely slowly, no doubt knowing what the rise and fall of her diaphragm did to her breasts—and him. “I popped into their store on Madison today.”

  Jesus, when he handed her his credit card that morning, he had in mind a trip to Home Depot for housewares and maybe a toiletries run at Duane Reade, not a retail therapy excursion to fancy European fashion designers. “Just like that, huh?”

  She nodded. “I had a gift card I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  In the midst of his horniness and hard-on, Marc stiffened. “Look, I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want you buying me stuff with … his money.”

  A tiny frown appeared between her eyes. “The gift card was sent to me by a … previous employer. They send all the girls … employees, past and present, one every Christmas.”

  What kind of company sent that caliber of gift card to its former employees? “That’s certainly … hospitable,” he said, making a mental note to revisit the issue of finances, and previous “employers,” later when he wasn’t the only one with his clothes on.

  For now, he checked out the prettily set table. A bottle of Veuve Clicqot had been opened and placed in a bucket of ice, two full fluted glasses at the ready, along with a pretty glass dish displaying the chocolate-covered strawberries.

  Following his gaze, her smile widened. “I know you already ate, but I thought we could have … dessert together.”

  “Are we celebrating something specific?” he fished, wondering what occasion he might have forgotten. Valentine’s Day had already passed. So had her birthday. His didn’t come around for another several months, leaving …

  “It’s our one week anniversary.”

  Right, shit, their one week anniversary—and Marc had spent most of it having dinner with his mother. And now he’d come home empty handed without so much as a bouquet of bodega flowers. Obviously he had some serious brushing up to do in the boyfriend department.

  But if Honey was pissed at him, she hid it well. “But there’s more.”

  Taking in the scene, Marc didn’t know how much more he could take. In just one week, he’d gone from living like a workaholic monk to coming home each night and indulging in hot, sweaty sex with a drop-dead gorgeous, relentlessly sexy woman who, he was increasingly sure, was the love of his life. And now that same woman sat with bare breasts and black stockings waiting on him to find his game and make his move. What more could he possibly want—let alone handle?

  Judging from Honey’s cat-that-swallowed-the-canary expression, he was about to find out. “I got my test results back today, and I’m perfectly healthy, totally clean.”

  Doctor though he was, she’d been more worried about it than he; still he was elated. There was nothing like a lab report to provide close to foolproof peace of mind. “Baby, that’s great! I’m so happy.”

  “Me, too. And you know what it means?”

  He did, or at least he was pretty sure he did. Still, not wanting to come off as crass, he held his tongue, waiting on her to supply The Answer.

  “No more condoms!”

  Marc grinned. No more condoms suddenly seemed like the three most beautiful words in the English language. “What are we waiting for?” He crossed to the table to pick her up—and carry her into the bedroom.

  She stretched out a slender arm, staying him in mid-step. “Not so fast. We have time now, remember? Take a seat and have some champagne.” She gestured to the remaining chair.

  Once things had happened for them, they’d moved very quickly. She was right to expect a little romancing, and she’d already gone to a lot of trouble to set the scene. The least he could do was show up to the party.

  Marc sat, his cock so noticeably hard he almost felt as if he did indeed have a third leg.

  “Better,” she said, her voice coming out almost as a purr.

  Given that he was more or less on eye level with her breasts, and had a bird’s eye view of the shadowed space between her slightly parted legs, a vigorous nod sufficed as his answer.

  He picked up one of the champagne flutes and passed it to her, then took the remaining one for himself. “To the hands-down best wee
k of my life,” he said and meant it, saluting her with his glass.

  She took a sip of the sparkling wine and set the glass aside. “The tie isn’t the only thing I have for you.”

  Marc might not always be Mr. Smooth, but he had a pretty good idea of where this was going. “Oh, well, then I guess you’ll have to show me.”

  “I will. It’s more of a … performance art piece.”

  Marc grabbed his glass and downed half of it in one greedy, thirsting swallow. “I love performance art.”

  “So do I, though I’m more of an … exhibitionist than an audience member.”

  He swiped a hand across his brow. Jesus, when had it gotten so stuffy in here?

  She took one of the strawberries from the dish and slowly dragged the peak of the fruit across her lips. “Hmm,” she moaned, taking a tiny nibble.

  Watching her, Marc felt his mouth drain dry. He was tempted to pour more champagne, but the “show” Honey was putting on deserved his full attention.

  Candlelight flickered over her, accentuating the smooth porcelain perfection of her skin, not only her face but also her entire body. The slender hand holding the strawberry lowered to her right breast. Holding his gaze, she circled the fruit around her right nipple, again and again, leaving a faint chocolate stain. Watching her repeat the motion with her other breast, Marc felt his groin tighten and his heart rate ratchet to the roof.

  Watching her, he got why suits such as Winterthur had paid top dollar for the privilege of passing a few hours between her legs—because she was worth it, so worth it. Gone was the frightened woman-child who needed someone to take care of her. In her place was a dark goddess, a sex goddess, capable of bringing mere mortals such as him to their knees with the lifting of one perfectly plucked and penciled brow. She wasn’t only beautiful. She was a force of nature, impossibly, crazily charismatic, irresistibly desirable.

  Tossing the strawberry into the glass of champagne, she looked over at him and asked, “Are you liking your present so far?”