Honey (19 page)

Carlson's eyes, weary-looking no longer, drilled into hers. “With or without your help, eventually I am going to get this son of a bitch. And when I do, I'm going to put him away for the next twenty-five years, not to mention the millions of dollars in restitution he's going to have to pay to the government and SEC. The only question is whether, when I do, you go away too or stay free to live your life. It's your choice, but I need you to make it now, this minute. Are you in or are you out, Ms. Gustafson? What's it going to be?”

Honey swallowed hard. “Choice” in this context was really an egregious misnomer. There was only one path left open to her. Her “choice” came down to taking it—or not.

“I'm in, Agent Carlson. Only, under the circumstances, hadn't you better start calling me Honey?”

 

“I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong.”—Audrey Hepburn

 

Honey returned to the apartment that night in what Marc could only call an agitated state—restless, hypersensitive, and altogether on edge. It made total sense that she would be upset, even devastated, about Drew's trashing the apartment and destroying all her belongings, and yet all things considered, she'd seemed in good spirits when he left her.

Not so now.

Pacing the apartment's four corners, she couldn't seem to settle. Was she maybe experiencing a delayed reaction to the trauma? When he asked what had happened to her at lunch, she responded with an obviously manufactured excuse—something to do with her interior designer friend calling about a sample sale in Brooklyn, poor cell reception, and a generally lost sense of time. Marc wasn't buying.

Unable to take it any longer, he put down his tablet and rose from the couch. “Damn it, woman, look at me.
Talk
to me.”

She folded her arms. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What do I … It's not like I have a script. Just be real with me. Tell me whatever's on your mind. It's obvious something is.”

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 popping. 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.