Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  Her eyes shot arrows at him. “And if I don’t feel like talking?”

  “Honey, please, work with me here. We’re trying to be a couple.”

  “Perhaps we’re trying too hard.”

  First she didn’t feel ready to live with him, and now this. What was going on with her? “You don’t mean that.”

  “So are you going to start telling me how I should feel about things, too?”

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “I need some air.” She pivoted away and grabbed her bag as if to go.

  “Hold up, I’ll go with you.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather be alone.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock at night. It’s not safe.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, but thanks for your concern.”

  Thanks for your concern—seriously? He caught up with her at the door. “I can’t let you leave like this.”

  She whirled on him. “What are you, my keeper now?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then stop acting like it.”

  He placed himself in front of her. To get to the door, she’d have to go through him—and he wasn’t budging. “Look, you’ve had a hell of a day. What you faced in that apartment would be pretty traumatic for anyone. If you’ll just try to relax, have some tea, and get a good night’s sleep, everything will look brighter in the morning.”

  She let out a raw laugh. “I promise you, nothing will look brighter tomorrow. Now step aside.”

  “I won’t. I care about you too much to let you leave in a mental state where you might get hurt. Do you even know where you’re going?”

  “I hear Paris is always a good idea.”

  Paris is always a good idea—yet another Audrey quote, this one from Sabrina. Marc had had enough.

  “Damn it, Honey, this is real life—yours and mine—not some old movie we’re re-enacting. So skip the script and speak to me like a real person. Be real with me, baby. It’s all I’ve ever asked from you.”

  “What makes you so certain I’m not? I have a perfectly good airline voucher gathering dust and only another few months to use it. From everything I’ve read and heard about Paris, mistresses are an accepted part of the culture, almost a tradition. No one gives it a second thought, not even the wives. Who knows, maybe I’ll marry some terribly rich old Parisian man who’ll dote on me. Only promise you’ll take care of Cat.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Who’s being funny? I’m being practical. I’d take him with me, of course, but with the quarantine laws it wouldn’t be fair. I’d say I was only loaning him to you, but I really can’t say when I’ll be back—or if I’m coming back—so it’s probably best to make it a permanent adoption.”

  Drew stared at her aghast. “You’re going to up and leave? Throw everything away? What about us?”

  She had the gall to shrug.

  “Damn it, Honey, I’m in love with you.”

  Silence greeted the declaration.

  “Did you hear what I just said? I love you.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Tough beans.”

  He grabbed hold of her shoulders. “Honey, please.”

  “You can either let me leave or knock me down—those are your choices.”

  “I would never be violent with you.”

  “Never—that’s a very long time. Here, let me get the ball rolling.” She hauled back—and slapped him.

  Cheek stinging, Marc stared at her. “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Not a thing. I feel great. Now it’s your turn. C’mon, you know you want to.”

  “Maybe I do, a little bit, but then I want a lot of things—four weeks of vacation, funding for a new trauma center, oh yeah, and world peace. But if I can live without those things, I guess I can forgo the pleasure of blackening your eye.” Just the thought made his stomach sick.

  “Great, then don’t wait up.”

  “Okay, you’re angry, I get that. You have every right, but you can’t keep carrying it around. You’ve got to get rid of it. Give me your best shot. All that anger, take it out on me.”

  Honey didn’t need to be told twice. She sent her slender hand singing across his jaw, the strike a blur of slender fingers tipped in pink-painted nails. A real slap this time. The sting made his eyes water—and his cock thicken.

  The adrenalin rush reminded him of his first tracheotomy performed as a lowly intern. The patient was a construction worker with bad airway burns from inhaling scalding steam from a burst pipe. He was on oxygen when the paramedics brought him in; Marc had scarcely had time to touch him when he began gasping beneath the oxygen mask. Protocol had dictated he page his attending, but he knew for a fact that Denison, the doc pulling night duty, was getting up close and personal with the pretty new nurse in the break room and had left word that anyone who interrupted him was putting his or her ass on the line, and yet … Four to six minutes without oxygen was all it took for permanent brain damage to occur. Already they must be nearly two minutes in; any longer and you were looking at coma or death. After those first few fraught seconds, Marc was resolved. Fuck protocol, fuck Denison, and fuck the possible malpractice suit his going rogue might well bring down on both Denison, under whose license he was practicing until he passed his boards, and the hospital. His every instinct had screamed to snap up that scalpel and go for it—and he had. The patient was obese with poor neck landmarks; he found the inferior border of Cricoid cartilage mostly by feel—and luck. Once he had it, he made the cut, a centimeter horizontal incision. Seconds later he recalled that vertical, not horizontal, was the latest recommended approach, and likely he’d gone too far down—fuck! But it was too late to turn back. The clock was literally ticking—whatever he did, right or wrong, it was up to him to see it through, find a way to make it work. There hadn’t been time to reach for a kit; instead he used his fingers to pinch open the slit. He inserted the tube with shaking hands, bent over and breathed into it, two sharp, quick breaths. Pause five seconds, then give one breath every five seconds—wash, rinse, and repeat. The surreal several seconds of standing back and waiting to see if it had worked, the sweet rush of relief and gladness—joy—when the newly made stoma started sucking down air. Afterward Denison had bawled him out pretty badly, insisting it was a botch job worthy of a rookie paramedic. On the positive side, he’d avoided severing any vocal chords. The patient would sport a wicked scar for the rest of his days, but his brain and future were intact. He’d live as a fully functional adult, not as a vegetable nourished through tubes. Despite all the flak he’d fielded, he’d left the hospital that night feeling good about himself, even a little bit proud.

  “Proud of yourself?” he finally asked Honey.

  Breathing hard, she managed a nod. “I’ve always … always wondered how it must feel to get angry and … not have to hide it, to be … the one who does the hitting.”

  “So how does it feel?’

  Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks flushed. If he didn’t know her, he’d think she was on something. But he did know her and the rush she was experiencing was due to skyrocketing adrenalin. “I’m not … sure yet. Powerful, I guess. Free.”

  In staging the devastation at the apartment for her to find, Drew had once again hurt her and, once again, he’d gotten away with it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t around to be slapped or told off. But Marc was. What Honey needed most right now was to get the built-up, buried rage out of her. For that, she needed a surrogate. She needed … him.

  “You’re pissed off about your stuff being trashed, so use it. Use me.” He grabbed her and tugged them both down to the hardwood floor, bringing her on top of him. “Hit me, fuck me, whatever you want. I’m here for you. I can take it.”

  She reared back, shifting so that her legs straddled him. Grabbing hold of his shirt with both hands, she tore it open, sending buttons pop
ping. Bending her head, she suckled his nipples, then dragged her mouth upward and bit hard into the side of his neck.

  Marc moaned. Laving at his bruised skin brought him bucking. He lifted the hem of her linen dress to her waist and anchored his hands to her hips. Now that the striking had stopped and the fucking had started, he hoped he was more than a stand-in for her ex, but for now he would be whoever and whatever she needed him to be.

  Moving upward, she straddled his face. Levering herself slightly above him, she tore open her panties’ split crotch. A petal pink vulva bloomed above him, his personal Georgia O’Keefe canvas. Too caught up to await any cue, Marc buried his nose and mouth in her moistness. She smelled like the park did after a shower, earthy and yet scented with freshly mowed grass and spring flowers. He breathed her in, senses overflowing, the room spinning like a carousel. Brine coated his mouth, stinging his split lip. He found her clit and circled. He licked and lapped, nipped and nibbled. Honey ground against him. Glancing up at her, he confirmed that hitting him again was the farthest thing from her thoughts. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed. Her thighs quivered. Her arms shook. On the cusp of coming, she pulled back, heavy eyelids lifting. Holding his gaze, she glided downward. She took his penis in hand, positioned herself over him, and came down—hard.

  Her small hands bit into his shoulders, holding him to the floor, at least in theory. He lifted his torso and hips, driving as deeply as he could go.

  Honey groaned and rocked against him. Her hands slammed into his shoulders, pushing him back to the floor, her nails raking his already scored skin. She pulled back and sheathed herself yet again. Marc thrust upward, sharp and deep.

  He knew the exact moment when her orgasm hit. Her eyes dilated, her mouth opened, and her skin flared. Her nails scored his skin. Like a velvet fist, her pussy pumped him, the contractions rhythmic and powerful. Marc gave in, coming hard. Penis pulsing, spunk spraying, the only words that sprang to mind were the very ones she wasn’t yet ready to hear.

  I love you.

  *

  Honey rolled off him and onto her side. Now that her adrenalin was ebbing, her conscience made a comeback. “Oh my God, look what I’ve done to you.” She lifted a hand to her mouth, and then stopped when she realized she wore his skin beneath her nails.

  “I’ll live.”

  Marc sat up stiffly. Sucking his cut lip, he pulled up on his zipper. His shirt was rent to ribbons, his skin shiny with sweat and sticky with blood. The bruise at the side of his neck looked as though she had gored him. Even when called upon to play the dominatrix in the past, she’d never hurt anyone, certainly not like this. And Marc wasn’t anyone. She was someone whom she cared for deeply, maybe—probably—even loved. A lot. And yet she had gotten off on hurting him just like … Drew?

  Starting out, she hadn’t expected to orgasm—but she had, oh how she had. The pleasure had ripped through her, wave after breaking wave. Until now, even with Marc she’d always held a part of herself back, inwardly bracing for the strike that, with him at least, had never come. Now she knew it never would.

  The reassurance exacted a precious price. She might not have taken a pound of his flesh, but she’d taken several good-sized chunks of it. His split bottom lip still bled and his cheekbone still bore her handprint, along with several scratches.

  He draped an arm around her back. “Hey, calm down. It’s okay. You didn’t dish out anything I couldn’t take.”

  “But I—”

  “Wanted to see what it felt like to be on the giving side of sexual violence. Now that you have, I hope you won’t make it a habit.”

  “Never again, I promise.”

  She had never willfully hurt another being—until now. And once she’d let loose, she hadn’t wanted to stop.

  She struggled to her feet, tugging down her dress. “Let me get you cleaned up.” She stretched out a hand.

  He started to protest. “You don’t have to baby me. You didn’t do anything I didn’t let you do.”

  Rather than debate him, she kept out her hand. “Then humor me. Please, it’s the least I can do.”

  “Okay.”

  He got up and they went into his bathroom. Honey took inventory of his wall-mounted medicine cabinet, shockingly bare. A tube of Neosporin that had nearly run dry, a few dusty-looking cotton balls, and one measly Band Aid pretty much summed up his first-aid supplies.

  “For an ER doctor, you’re not exactly stocked. You don’t even have any alcohol.”

  “Alcohol stings.”

  “Baby.” She squeezed the Neosporin for all it was worth and began dabbing the cooling cream on the scratches cross-hatching the tops of his shoulders.

  “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.