Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  God, yes!

  Marc settled for a mute nod. Riveted, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He didn’t want to take his eyes off her. Even with a pretty solid expectation of what was probably coming next, he found himself holding back his breath, on the edge of his seat.

  Her long, stocking-clad legs parted. Inch by inch, she revealed a little more, and then a little more of herself. Feeling as though he were peeking through a portal to a sexy surreal reality, Marc leaned closer. Musk rose up to meet him. Though it was too dim for him to see, the peaty scent told him she must be not only damp. She must be drenched.

  She widened her legs, stretching the tight wisp of covering black lace to what must be its limit. The split crotch spread open. Rose-pink nether lips revealed their glory. A budding clit seemed to beg for his tongue’s attention.

  Honey reached down. Holding his gaze, she parted the delicate folds, holding herself open as if for his inspection. “Do you like it? Is it all right?”

  All right? It was beautiful, fucking beautiful, and so was she.

  “Shall I show you more pink?”

  Marc’s mouth was so dry he could scarcely speak. Gathering what saliva he could, he managed to answer. “Yes, show me more.”

  She did, opening herself even wider for him, so wide he wondered that it didn’t hurt. But then she was very wet and obviously very relaxed, entirely comfortable with her sexuality and her body. Milky moisture leaked from her channel. Mark yearned to bury his face between her legs and lap it up.

  “Touching myself here feels so good, I don’t want to wait any longer. Would it be all right with you if I play with my pussy a little?”

  A little or a lot, either way Marc was on board. “G-go for it.”

  She did, sliding not one, not two, but three fingers inside. Making a mini fist of her hand, she worked them in deep. Suddenly she shuddered, her body thrown back against the chair, her head knocking against the wood though she didn’t seem to mind or even notice. But then she wasn’t putting on any show now, Marc was sure of it. Her reaction, her pleasure, was one hundred percent real.

  Just as he was sure he couldn’t hold off much—any—longer. His cock was so brick hard he couldn’t say how he was going to get his zipper down without breaking it. His balls felt full to bursting. He shot up from the table, overturning his half finished champagne and sending it soaking into the cloth. Thinking it was a good thing they hadn’t begun to redecorate yet, he didn’t spare the precious time to right it. Instead he rounded the table to Honey. Her hand fell away, revealing cream-coated fingers, the same damp digits that she curved about his neck when he lifted her. Happy to have her mark him, he carried her over to the kitchen counter and set her down atop. Burying his face in her breasts, he tongued the chocolate from her nipples. But Marc had always preferred savory to sweet. Honey’s pussy was the best he’d ever fucked or tasted. He lifted her right hand and slid her fragrant fingers into his mouth.

  Honey’s eyes widened, as did her legs. Stepping between them, he rolled his zipper down. His cock sprang free, so hot and hard it seemed to sear him. Sliding one hand beneath her as cushion, he used the other to guide himself to her. He pushed hard, loosing himself in pink lips and black lace, sticky wetness and musky heat. Unsheathed, his every sensation seemed amplified. He pulled out and entered her again—and again—each thrust carrying him that much closer to the Promised Land. And Honey as well. She leaned back, braced her weight on her palms, and banded her legs about him. The angle felt amazing; the knowledge that he would come inside her making it seem almost as if this were their first time. Torn, Marc couldn’t wait to climax, and yet he also wanted to stretch out this moment to last forever.

  But he was a mortal man made of flesh and blood, and watching her turn herself on had taken its toll. He couldn’t hold out forever, or even much longer. As if reading his mind, Honey bucked against him, fast and hard. At the same time, her inner muscles wrapped around him, squeezing and releasing until he couldn’t say where his body ended and hers began.

  Not that it mattered. Just as their mouths had matched from their very first kiss, their bodies moved in perfect unison. Marc thrust hard and came, spraying his seed inside her, waves of pleasure breaking over him. Honey followed. Falling back onto her hands, she let out a scream. Even in the midst of orgasming, she couldn’t seem to get enough. She pushed up with her pelvis, covering him to the hilt, her gyrating hips demanding nothing less than all of him. Marc gave it. Even after he’d spent himself, he stayed inside her, running his hands up and down her back, pressing kisses into the sweet curve of her neck and shoulder.

  “Happy anniversary, baby,” he said, laying his lips along her ear.

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Eyes closed, she snuggled against him, her arm loosely wrapped around his waist, her legs framing his.

  More content than he could ever remember being, Marc lifted her off the counter and set her on her feet. “There’ll be lots more anniversaries to come, I promise. For now, let’s go to bed.”

  *

  Sitting in Liz’s living room, her hands laced about a teacup, Honey sent her gaze on a circuit of her FATE group circle: Liz, Brian, Peter, and Sarah. Her attention lingered on the latter, formerly known as the international adult film sensation, Sugar. Now a bestselling author, devoted wife, and mom to Baby Christopher, the curvy, casually dressed blonde with the shining green eyes and soft smile scarcely resembled the stressed-out porn star who’d been on the lam from the press—and a stalker—less than two years ago. Seeing how Sarah had transformed since settling down with Cole was enough to turn even the most committed cynic into a believer in the power of true love.

  And then there was the evidence of her own reflection greeting her in the mirror each morning. She might have left her pricey skincare products and cosmetics back at Forty-One Park, along with nearly everything else she owned, but the good loving she was getting from Marc seemed to more than make up for it. She glowed. She only hoped that, like Sarah’s, her Happily Ever After in the making could withstand the test of time—and truth.

  Knowing it was her turn to speak, she cleared her throat, mouth dry despite the tea she’d sipped steadily since her arrival. “Darlings, I’d like to start by sharing some really good—actually amazing—news. I’ve … met someone, someone wonderful.”

  Cheers, whistles, and high fives rolled through the room.

  Sarah shot upright. “Where, how, who?”

  “Anybody we would know?” Liz asked.

  “Does this mean you broke it off with you know who … Jerk Face?” Peter piped up.

  Struggling to stay afloat amidst all the enthusiasm, Honey grounded herself with a deep breath before answering, “Yes and yes. You don’t know him but you know of him. Remember the snoopy doctor I mentioned last winter? Well, I’ve been … seeing him for months now.”

  “Months!”

  “But only as friends until … ”

  “Until?” Brian prompted, mouth full of Oreo cookie, his fifth so far from the tray. With his beanpole body, he could afford the calories.

  “Until I walked out on Jerk Face,” Honey ended, relieved to get that much at least off her chest.

  “Does this mean you’ll stop having so many accidents now?” The question, matter-of-fact and yet eerily on the mark, came from Jonathan, Liz’s precocious nearly nine-year-old. He must have snuck in a while ago, so quietly no one had noticed—until now.

  The room fell silent. Talk about from the mouths of babes! Throat knotting, Honey forced herself to meet the boy’s too-knowing eyes. “Yes, sweetheart, it does.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Good, then I’m glad.”

  Liz frowned. “Jonathan, what have I told you about this being ‘adult time’?”

  He scraped the toe of one sneaker across the carpet. “Either I go to Mrs. Ritter’s or to my room.”

  Liz nodded. “Right, and un
fortunately Mrs. Ritter is in Seattle visiting her daughter, which leaves—”

  “My room. Okay, okay, I’m going.” Pulling a face, he turned to go and despite her discomfort, Honey hid a smile. When Honey first joined FATE, Jonathan hadn’t yet turned seven. He was a little boy. At times like this, he seemed more of a miniature man. It was amazing the difference a year or two made to a child’s development. She hoped one day to experience that progression more fully with her own child—hers and Marc’s.

  But as lovely as things were with them, any plans involving a picket-fenced cottage—or more likely, a Brooklyn brownstone—were entirely premature, albeit delicious to think about. They were still learning one another. Despite having been friends for several months, and now lovers, she knew little about Marc beyond the present. Other than his mother and “Aunt Edna,” both of whom he obviously adored and respected, he rarely referenced his family. From the old photo album she’d found tucked away in a drawer, she knew he had two sisters, one married with a child, and an older brother whom Honey got the impression was a bit of a black sheep. At one point, he simply stopped appearing in family photos. Had he moved away or, worse, died? The brother was, for whatever reason, a sore subject. When she’d brought him up to Marc, his gaze shuttered and his sexy mouth flattened into a firm line. Honey’s desire for secrecy about her own past kept her from probing. Whatever else she was or had been, she was no hypocrite.

  Liz’s voice brought her back from her reverie. “And no PlayStation until you finish your homework.”

  Jonathan’s head shot up, shaggy bangs flinging free of his face. “Mom!”

  Tone even, Liz said, “You know the rules.”

  “I hate rules.”

  Honey knew just how he felt. All her life she’d despised being told what to do. Ironic that she’d spent her eight years in New York living at the beck and call of others—men. Only recently had she acknowledged how her blurred boundaries had gotten her into trouble as well as kept her there, first as a paid escort and later as Drew’s mistress. Both positions had begun with the promise of easy money and a luxurious lifestyle. Likewise, both had proven the adage that “all that glitters is not gold.” There was no “gold” in being someone’s paid sex companion, just emptiness and loneliness and, ultimately, isolation and fear. Thank God she’d gotten out in time—and had somewhere and someone safe to go to. Marc. Still, she sometimes caught herself wishing they’d met under “normal” circumstances—and more equal footing. Being the damsel in distress to his knight in shining armor had its upside, of course, but she worried he would always see her as someone in need of saving. She had so much yet to prove, not only to him but also to herself. Especially herself.

  Trudging footfalls ferried Jonathan from their vicinity. The adults fell silent, collectively waiting for his bedroom door to close. They’d been meeting at Liz’s for so long that they all knew her Soho two-bedroom almost as well as she did—the latch on the kitchen cabinet that the super kept promising to replace but never did; the toilet handle that had to be jiggled or else the tank would continue to run; the heat that for some mysterious reason never seemed to make it to a certain corner of the main room. In so many ways, Liz’s felt more like “home” than Honey’s Park Avenue apartment ever had. And as happy as she was at Marc’s, as excited as she was to decorate, as many times as he swore she didn’t need to ask his permission about a single detail but could do exactly as she liked, it still felt like “his” place rather than one they’d picked out and shared together. She suspected it always would.

  Hearing the confirming click, Honey corralled her courage. “Now that I’ve shared my good news, I have something else to share: a confession.”

  Predictably that got everyone’s attention. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you. In point, I haven’t been terribly forthcoming at all.”

  “About what?” Brian asked. Liz shot him a look and Sarah nudged him with her elbow. “What?” he demanded, darting a clueless look between them.

  Rather than reply, Liz turned back to Honey. “Whatever you’ve done, we’re here to help you work through it.”

  “Faith, Acceptance, Trust, and Enlightenment, that’s what we’re all about, remember?” Sarah added gently. “You certainly gave all those things to me when I needed them most.”

  “To all of us,” Peter added. “So give us a chance to give them back to you.”

  Honey sighed. “But I’ve broken our cardinal ground rule, one of the few we have. And once I tell you, I’m afraid you may have a difficult time continuing to accept me as one of you.”

  They couldn’t know it, but their unconditional compassion only made her feel more of a heel than she already did. Unlike her mother, stepfather, or Drew, unlike her previous “friends” and clients in the escort trade, the FATEs only ever saw the best in her. The only other person about whom she could say the same was Marc. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel like the most fascinating, most alluring woman in any room, be it crowded or only the two of them. When, if, she found the courage to come clean with him, could she honestly expect him to feel the same about the person she truly was: a high school dropout who’d whored herself, not once but innumerable times? She supposed that she should look upon this FATE session as a practice run for the total honesty she ultimately owed him.

  “What’s that?” Brian asked, reaching for cookie number six.

  She braced herself with a deep breath. “I’ve lied.”

  Peter sent her a look as if to say, is that all? “Honey, sweetie, we’ve all lied. Adult entertainment comes down to the art of illusion, and illusion is all about creating lies and making our clients believe them.”

  She shook her head. Everyone’s niceness really did make confessing that much harder. “Thanks, but what I mean to say is that I’ve been dishonest—currently—with all of you.”

  Brian’s eyes bugged. “About?”

  Suddenly overwhelmed, she was hardly certain where to start. “Everything. I’m a total phony, an unforgiveable fraud. I’m not really a stylist. I never have been.” Back in Omaha, her mother had worked off and on as a beautician for various “beauty shops,” and Honey had hung around enough to pick up on the basics needed to pass herself off.

  “What kind of … work do you do?” Peter asked, sounding half afraid to hear her answer.

  Honey hesitated. “Until a little over a week ago, I hadn’t left the life, not really. Yes, I’d left the escort agency—that much was true. But I only left because one of my clients offered to set me up—as his mistress.”

  “The one you brought as your date to Peter’s wedding?” Sarah asked.

  Peter looked predictably appalled. “Jerk Face?”

  Honey nodded. “One and the same—Drew Winterthur. For more than six years, he paid for my rent, clothes, food, all of it.”

  Liz’s gaze sharpened. “Am I hearing past tense?”

  Throat thickening, Honey nodded. “Things got pretty … intense, and I left.”

  Normally laid-back, Peter looked like he wanted to punch someone. “How intense?”

  Honey drew a deep breath. “He has a … problem with alcohol—and major anger issues.”

  Sober for several years, Peter eyed her. “You mean he’s an alcoholic?”

  From being in the group together, Honey knew that Peter’s one sticking point was that, when it came to substance abuse, he had zero tolerance for beating about the bush. He called the situation as he saw it, and he expected the same raw, no holds barred realness from his friends.

  This time Honey didn’t pause. “Yes, he is. When we first … got together, he drank, but no more than any of the other men I … dated. Gradually it progressed to the point where he doesn’t ever want to stop. And he gets angry, really angry.”

  Voice gentle, Liz said, “Last winter, you didn’t fall down the service stairs, did you?”

  “No, I didn
’t. He … he threw me down.”

  “Oh, Honey!”

  The four of them left their seats and closed in on her, not in condemnation but support. Liz stroked her back, reminding Honey of how good a mother’s soothing touch could feel. Peter squeezed her hand, his kind blue eyes never leaving her face. Even Brian threw an awkward arm about her, a gesture so sweet and uncharacteristically demonstrative that Honey schooled herself not to mind the crumbs.

  It wasn’t until Sarah passed her the box of Kleenex that she acknowledged the wetness on her cheeks for what it was: tears. Anticipating their as-yet unspoken questions, she grabbed several tissues and blew her nose.

  Tucking the used wad away in her pocket, she said, “I know, I know. How could I let things go so far? Why didn’t I walk out at the first sign? I’ve asked myself those very same questions and there’s no good answer other than I lacked courage. I screwed up.”

  “Hon, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Peter said, patting the back of her hand.

  “He’s right,” Sarah said. “We’re all human. We all see what we want and ignore the rest until something wakes us up—and usually it’s not pretty. Believe me, I know a thing or two thousand about overlooking red flags. Failing to see what was right under my nose almost got me killed the summer before last.”

  “I’ve found that the best thing is to acknowledge the mistake, forgive yourself and anyone else involved, and focus on moving on,” Liz added. “A big aspect of coming back from cancer is learning to release things in the past you can’t change. Once you do that, it’s a lot easier to be more present in the moment.”

  Honey nodded. It all sounded like great advice and yet … “It’s just that it came about so … gradually. At first the … abuse was all verbal—mean-spirited remarks, put-downs in private and sometimes public. Later, we’d argue, and he’d backhand me to keep me in line or pin my arms to prove he could. It was degrading, there’d be maybe a bruise or two, but before last February, he’d never done anything to seriously injure me. I suppose I was only fooling myself, but honestly I never thought things would escalate to that point.”