Honey Page 7

  Relaxing, he turned back, covered them with his coat, and slid a second finger inside her. Warm and wet, her body seemed almost to inhale him. He followed with a third digit, and Honey began to move, grinding against his cream-coated fingers as though they were a cock she couldn’t get enough of. Seeing how into it she was almost sent him over the edge—almost. Pulling out, he found her clit and swept his thumb over it in deliberately slow circles. As if she was an instrument he strummed, her whole body seemed to vibrate. She came, shuddering, her release flooding his fingers, her sharp cry joining that of the women on screen.

  She lifted her face from where she’d buried it in his neck and smiled over at him. “That was lovely, thank you,” she said, as though not speaking of sex at all, as though expressing gratitude for some innocuous gift or treat. A pair of gloves, a sweater—a lunch.

  Beneath the cover of his overcoat, she drew down his zipper. Marc sucked down a deep breath as her hand slipped inside his open fly and freed him from his briefs. Deft fingers took possession, a sweet vise he had no desire to escape. Her slender hand encircled him, glided back and forth along the length of his shaft. Teasing her thumb over the slit bisecting the sensitized head, she tested his wetness and his willpower.

  A bead of semen leaking from his slit filled him with sudden alarm at the realization that he was precariously close to coming. And that he was sitting with his dick hanging out of his pants in a movie theater. With a woman who was a former patient. No matter how you looked at it, the view was all kinds of bad. He was a physician, for chrissake, not some horny teenager.

  Snapped back to reality, he moved her hand away and zipped himself up, albeit with some difficulty. Covering himself with the coat once more, he shifted over, putting as much space as he could between them. “I’m so sorry. I … we … This is so … wrong.”

  “Wrong?” she echoed as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her, as if giving hand jobs in public places was a routine part of everyone’s day.

  And yet she didn’t strike him as slutty, more like a child of nature—a wild child but a child just the same. It didn’t help that part of her hair had come down, the stray strands spilling free from their pins, loose waves framing a face that suddenly seemed achingly young, heartrendingly lost.

  Averting his gaze from her wounded one, he reached into his pocket and handed her a paper napkin. “Yes, wrong—on my part, not yours.”

  Averting his gaze while she made herself as presentable as possible, Marc raked a hand through his hair. Now that his erection was easing, he was thunderstruck by the enormity of what they—he—had just done. He’d set out to help her, not screw her. For someone who prided himself on being a straight arrow, who’d colored inside the proverbial lines even as a kid, who almost never went with the flow or lived in the moment, he’d bulldozed through a hell of a lot of boundaries today. He only hoped that Honey, once she gave some greater thought to what had just happened, could find it in her heart to forgive him and trust him to help her.

  God knew it would be a good long while before he forgave, or trusted, himself.

  *

  Standing alone in her bathroom several hours later, combing out her hair at the mirrored vanity, Honey admitted she felt different, or at least more like herself than she had in some time—years. Climbing out of the cab in front of her building, the cab for which Marc had insisted on paying, she’d caught herself humming—actually humming.

  Her first year in the city she’d hummed a lot, danced in her underwear, and sang in the shower. Sure, there’d been scary stuff to sort out, the basics of food and shelter, but once she’d nailed those down, everything else took on the sheen of an adventure.

  That she was harkening to her escort service employment as “the good old days” was nothing if not a statement. At least she’d had some degree of self-determination, if not exactly power.

  Most of her “dates” had taken place in the evenings, leaving her mornings and afternoons free, solid blocks of time to do whatever she wished. As soon as she could, she’d cut out of her crazily crowded apartment and hit the streets. Between the Angelika in Soho, the Paris Theater in midtown, and the IFC in the West Village, she’d seen nearly every foreign and indie film in its first week of release. That aspect of her former lifestyle had been rather glorious.

  She and Drew had a few movie outings during their first few years but their tastes were so divergent she soon gave up. Finding a film that satisfied his desire for ample sex and gratuitous violence that she could also watch without having flashbacks or flinching had proven somewhere between difficult and impossible. Added to that, he absolutely refused to see anything with subtitles. It was so much simpler to do something else or stay home.

  Her earlier impromptu movie “date” with Marc was nothing if not memorable. Despite all the fantasy scenarios she’d enacted for clients, making out in a movie theater was a personal first. Of course she’d have to re-watch the film at some point, not that she was complaining. They’d parted ways more than two hours ago, and her body still hadn’t stopped tingling.

  That meant masturbation. She had a goody drawer chock-full of toys and various vibrators, but while she’d always appreciated novelty, no battery-operated device had ever been able to trump the temporary bliss brought on by her own deft touch. No matter how difficult or outright awful her life ever got, she was fortunate in always being able to bring about release by her own hand. Self-pleasuring was a salvation of sorts; her body a temple where she took care to worship on a regular basis. Alone, she could indulge the fantasy that she belonged to no one but herself.

  But of course that wasn’t so. She belonged to Drew—for now. As content as she’d be to curl up in bed cocooned in her and Marc’s comingled pheromones, she couldn’t take that risk. She was going to have to bathe. Not because she felt dirty—she didn’t—but because she never knew when Drew might decide to drop by. If he caught so much as a whiff of another man on her or her sheets, he’d either kill her or make her wish he had.

  Not that the issue had ever come up before now. Once she’d left the escort industry to be with him, she’d been entirely faithful. Sex with his wife aside, she doubted he could say the same. Still, she wondered that she didn’t feel even the tiniest twinge of guilt about what had happened earlier. She really must not love Drew anymore. Was that progress, one small step toward a brighter, freer future, or had she finally become that numb?

  Either way, her exit strategy, studying for and taking her GED exam, was still some months away. Without that all important certificate, she was more or less unemployable for much beyond flipping burgers. In the interim, she’d have to suck it up, bide her time, and play Drew’s game.

  Resigned, she set the brush aside, slipped off her robe, and stepped inside the shower. In the spirit of multitasking, she might as well get clean and get off at the same time. To help move things along, she envisioned Marc joining her beneath the jets. How might he look with warm water sluicing over him? Amazing, she felt sure of it, even if so far his lean, powerfully built body had been only hinted at, mostly hidden by his horrible clothes.

  She turned the warm water up a notch and shifted away, wetting her hair and back in the steaming stream. Lathering herself with shower gel, she let the fantasy unfold. In it, she stood spooned against him, his erection pressing into her backside, his big hands bracing about her. Hmmm, lovely. Closing her eyes, she cupped her breasts, gently rolling her nipples between her thumb and forefinger as Marc might. The thought of being with him again, really with him, only this time fully naked and at their leisure to make love any way and anywhere they wanted, resurrected the throbbing between her thighs. She trailed a light hand lower, sliding it along the curve of her soap-slick stomach, tracing the periphery of the bared triangle with the pads of her fingers. A gentle raking of fingernails over her unbuffered flesh drew goose bumps. She hadn’t had a bush in years. Paying clients, most of them marrie
d, preferred baby smooth genitals. Honey had long hypothesized that they must see so much untrimmed “topiary” and unshaven legs at home that they were desperate for a contrast. And then there was the disturbingly popular fantasy of fucking a prepubescent girl that got so many of them off, even the fathers. For whatever reason, the girls sans bushes always got more bookings and bigger tips than those who went au naturel. The decision to go with a full waxing wasn’t about personal aesthetics. It was a simple matter of economics. One day when Honey “retired”—if indeed she could find a way to support herself that didn’t involve slinging hash or fries—she meant to let it grow back in, not unlike men who experimented with beards or left off shaving on vacations and weekends.

  Trailing a finger along her crevice, she wondered which Marc preferred. Full bush—she’d swear on it, though she couldn’t quite say why she was so certain. He just seemed like the sort of man who would want his intimacy served up no muss, no fuss in accordance with the KISS rule of keeping things simple.

  Earlier they’d broken not only KISS but a whole host of other rules, too. She only hoped neither of them lived to regret it—or were stupid enough to try and repeat it. Their sexy movie date was best kept as a cherished memory, fodder for innumerable fantasies she might roll out as needed—as in now.

  She traced the cleft partitioning her pussy with a single soapy finger, imagining Marc watching her. Reliving how he’d touched her there, his finger-fucking firm yet gentle, making her hotter and wetter than she’d been in … a very long while, suddenly she couldn’t put off her needs any longer. She faced back to the showerhead, reached for the hand held shower massager—and turned it up to the turbo setting. Widening her stance slightly, she brought the pulsing jets down to her—

  “Honey, baby, where are you?”

  Honey froze. The voice, Drew’s, had the effect of dousing her with ice water. Quickly she replaced the showerhead, rinsed, and shut off the water. With no time to make herself presentable—unlike a lot of men, he preferred her to apply plenty of makeup—she grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped herself in it, and stepped out.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway, he dropped his briefcase when he saw her.

  Wincing at the thud, she tightened the towel around her. “Drew, I—”

  “Wow, you look … amazing.”

  Her second “wow” of the day, not a bad record. Seeing the approval in his eyes, hearing it in his voice, she relaxed marginally. “T-thanks.”

  He was on her in an instant, tugging off the towel, pulling at her breasts, smothering them and her with soul-sucking, scotch-drenched kisses. The room was on the narrow side, the bed but a few feet away. Maneuvering them over to it, he turned her around and bent her over the edge.

  Honey had come to hate being taken from behind, mostly due to the stinging spankings that often accompanied the position, but after making out at the movies with Marc that afternoon, not having to look Drew in the eye seemed a blessing suddenly. Not because she felt badly about the day’s events but because facing him would destroy the fantasy that her eager lover might be Marc.

  Drew reached around to her front. A dry finger thrust into her pussy, but fortunately she was still moist. Still, despite the shower she’d just taken, and the sexy self-stimulation she’d begun while in it, she tightened as soon as he touched her.

  Behind her, he barked, “Relax.”

  “I am. It feels … good,” she lied, relieved that for now at least he wasn’t deliberately hurting her.

  She closed her eyes and turned her thoughts inward, back to the movies and Marc. The washboard flat belly she’d felt beneath his T-shirt. The shape and breadth of his no-doubt beautiful cock that, incredibly, she’d wanted to lick and swallow and suck. The deft way he’d known exactly where and how to touch her. It had taken him all of two minutes to bring her to climax. Again she asked herself what it might be like to repeat the experience with him, only in private, somewhere secluded where they could take their time in learning each other’s boundaries and bodies.

  Absorbed by the fantasy in the making, she suddenly realized that Drew’s dry finger was dry no more but coated in her cream. Though he hadn’t an iota of Marc’s finesse or patience, amazingly whatever he was doing began to feel … not so bad. In casting caution and conscience to the wind, had she stumbled upon a way to make the following months, if not pleasurable, certainly more endurable?

  He pulled out. Though he wasn’t particularly well-endowed, she knew the exact moment when his penis replaced his fingers. For once he slid inside her without her needing to lube herself first. Again, the sensation of him battering her backside wasn’t exactly exquisite but it was bearable. She closed her eyes, hands bunching in the thick comforter. She must really be a cheap whore to get through sex with a man she feared and loathed by thinking of another whom she liked, but there was no arguing with success. So far it seemed to be working. To help herself along, she slipped a hand around to her front, reached down, and touched herself as she hadn’t had time to do in the shower. Her clit was sensitized from the earlier make-out session with Marc, slightly, deliciously tender. Circling it with her thumb brought her back to her happy place; steadier strumming carried her to the cusp. Holding the image of thickly lashed hazel eyes, a square jaw softened with a day’s beard growth, and moist, sensuous mouth in her head, she let herself slip over the side. Honey came, not the swift, sweet release she’d experienced earlier but release, orgasm, all the same.

  Behind her, Drew pulled out and drove back into her. Despite her being damp, the piercing thrust was painful. He let out a groan, withdrew—and blew his load on her back.

  For the next few minutes his heavy breaths and dripping from the bathroom shower were the only sounds in the room. Honey counted to ten, then twenty in her head, willing him to get up and off her.

  She was almost to twenty when finally he did. “That was incredible, just like old times,” he said, giving her butt a soft slap. He straightened and moved away from the bed. The sound of a zipper sliding up confirmed that, for the time being, he was done with her.

  Careful not to get cum on the comforter, Honey pushed herself up on her elbows. At the very least he could have offered her a tissue, used the towel he’d torn off to wipe her, or stepped into the bathroom to wet a wash cloth, but it seemed that even those small civilities were too much trouble. Perhaps it was only Marc’s lovely manners that made Drew’s selfishness seem all the more egregious, but regardless, the contrast struck her. And while wrapping herself in bedding marked by a certain sexy doctor’s spunk was an undeniably dirty-sexy thought, the prospect of lying in Drew’s drippings disgusted her.

  “You know,” she said, reaching for a pillow and tucking it beneath her breasts, “you don’t have to do that. I’m on the pill.”

  Coming back to the bed, he leaned over and bit her shoulder. “Sorry, babe, but you can’t be too careful.” He smoothed his hands over her buttocks, spreading them slightly, and despite knowing that he wouldn’t be ready again for at least another hour, Honey tensed. “Now if you’ll stop being such a prude and let me fuck this tight little butthole of yours, I promise I won’t go anywhere. I’ll come right inside you.”

  “Drew, please—”

  He leaned in and gave her crack a lingering lick, fluttering his tongue over the puckered flesh. “Hmm, sweet as … honey,” he said, framing her with his mouth, his words buzzing against her butt, and suddenly she was reminded that he hadn’t always been such a selfish lover. He pushed up from the bed and straightened. “Chillax, you’re off the hook for tonight. Kathy’s mother’s in town and we have an eight o’clock dinner rez.”

  Honey sagged into the mattress, glad she faced away so he couldn’t read her relief. “Okay, well, I don’t want to make you late.”

  “I’m going to grab a shower first. The old bitch has a nose like a bloodhound. Join me?”

  She shook her head. “No th
anks. I’ll … rinse off later.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Reaching for her childhood stuffed animal cat, Mr. Pinky, set atop her night table, Honey buried her face into the worn terry cloth, wondering how she’d ever got so lost. She’d left Omaha for New York with Mr. Pinky, a suitcase crammed with cheap designer knockoffs—and a whole lot of big-city dreams. Most of those dreams, she now acknowledged, had revolved around meeting a man—the man—who would take care of her.

  Eight years later, her version of Happily Ever After looked a lot different. It wasn’t about finding love, marrying, and having children, though she hoped to someday have all of those things.

  It was all about freedom.

  Chapter Four

  “If I’m honest I have to tell you I still read fairy tales and I like them best of all.”—Audrey Hepburn

  April, Union Square Park

  Weeks slipped into months. Banked snow, blackened by vehicle exhaust and plowed by pedestrian feet, slowly melted away. The thermometer inched upward. Trees and bushes budded. Public green space became green again. Before Marc knew it, they were into April. Making out at the IFC seemed more like something he’d fantasized about, not actually done. And yet, paradoxically, Honey had become a very real presence in his life.

  Amazingly they’d found a way to be friends. By mutual agreement, the movie make-out episode was never brought up—or repeated. If Marc had his way, and he meant to, it never would be. As much as he’d loved kissing and stroking her, and having her do those things to him in return, the shitty feelings that followed had taken too great a toll. He might have stopped before going all the way, but that didn’t excuse going as far as he had. He wasn’t her doctor anymore, but he’d started out that way. Initially he’d sought her out solely to try and help her out of her situation. That was still his hope. Good intentions were great, but on the downside, hell was paved with them. Action was needed to back them up. Being “just friends” wasn’t always easy on him—it was hardly ever that—but given that was the only way he could stay sane and still see her, the struggle was worth it.