Honey (15 page)

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 elderly 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.”

 

“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 week 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?”

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.