Honk if You Love Real Men

by Lora Leigh

  Somehow he stood, and she saw his cock pointing in her direction, his rod swollen from lack of satiation. God, she wanted it. There. Right there, she thought, guiding it to her.

  Trent’s lips were tight as his dick entered her, stretching her to the point that she gasped. “Fuck me,” she panted.

  He bent down to kiss her.

  She pushed him away. “No,” she ordered. “Just fuck me.”

  He thrust. Bree just about screamed. Pleasure. Oh, Lord, the pleasure. She’d forgotten because no amount of manual stimulation, no amount of female manipulation ever felt as good as a man. Never.

  He drew out and pushed into her again. Bree watched his chest rise and fall, his veins standing out along the line of his shoulder and into his arms. She angled her hips, leaning back a bit as he pumped, her clit so coated with sex juices that she could hear each slap of his body against her own. The veins of his neck had started to bulge, Bree knowing he was about to come.

  She tightened her vagina around him.

  He groaned. She did it again, enjoying the sense of power it gave her to watch him come unglued.

  “Bree,” he groaned, his thrusts so hard, she had to clutch the counter to keep, from moving. He was there, right there—that spot that made her want to squirt all over him. He wanted to come inside her, too. She felt him swell as he prepared to fire off his load.

  Maybe that’s why she did what she did next.

  Without thought she pushed him away. He staggered back, his dick slick and wet, a tiny stream of cum dribbling out of the end.

  She tensed, waiting for him to say something, to get mad, to yell at her.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Bree felt something shift inside her, something that made her shoulders straighten in determination, that made her feel ashamed and relieved and grateful all at the same time.

  He still hadn’t moved.

  She went down on her knees and took him in her mouth, ignoring her own need for release. She wrapped her mouth around his head and gobbled down all her salty essence. He gasped, bent his knees. Her vagina pulsed in sexual satisfaction as she suckled on the sticky taste of herself. She knew he was going to come—and quickly—took the first squirt down her throat, swallowed, then drew back and worked his staff for more, satisfaction filling her as another hot stream shot out and landed on her chest.

  “Jeez,” she heard him moan, and looked up to see him staring down at her. His dick hadn’t softened one bit and so she knew she wouldn’t have any problem when she turned around, giving him her ass.

  “My turn.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice, just pushed into her as she rested her upper body against the cold counter, spreading herself wider and wider as he pumped and pumped and pumped.

  She screamed, wanting release, craving release. He worked her harder and harder.

  She didn’t come.

  She changed positions, letting him pound into her from the front, her legs wrapping around his middle. He was grunting now, thrusting and thrusting, their thighs slapping and slapping.

  She wasn’t going to come and the more she tried, the further and further it slipped away until she was just a shell, tears streaming down her face.

  “Stop,” she gasped.

  Trent kept working her.

  “Stop,” she ordered, hitting him on the shoulder. That got his attention. He froze. Bree pushed him away, tears of anger and disappointment falling from her eyes.

  “Bree, what’s wrong?”

  But she didn’t answer, couldn’t answer because she knew if she did, she’d lose complete control.

  Trent watched her walk away, shock holding him immobile. But then he bent down and picked up the robe she’d discarded, throwing it on as he ran out the bathroom door.

  “Bree. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her hand wiping at her eyes as she went to his armchair and grabbed the shirt and sweats he’d left for her.

  She was getting dressed?

  “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving.”

  “Leaving?” he all but shouted. “What are you leaving for?”

  “I’m giving up,” she said, tugging on his shirt. It hung past mid-thigh. “Throwing in the towel,” she added, bending to pull on the sweats. They were too small for him, but they absolutely hung on her tiny frame. She didn’t seem to mind. “Calling it a day.”

  “Throwing in the towel on what?”

  She turned to face him, and the sadness in her eyes, the dismay and, yes, the anger, made Trent want to go to her, to pull her into his arms, to hold her like he had last night. “On me,” she said softly.

  But he knew if he tried to touch her she’d only run away. Hell, it looked like she was doing that anyway.

  “Bree, don’t go. We’re making progress—”

  “Progress?” she said. “You call what I just did to you progress?”

  “You’re not afraid of me.”

  “I tied you up.”

  “Which gave you confidence.”

  “Fat lot of good that does me when I can’t have an orgasm.”

  His brows lifted. “Is that what you’re upset about? You didn’t come?”

  “No, Trent, I couldn’t come.”

  “Probably because you’re emotionally wrung out—”

  “Stop it, Trent,” she shouted, stomping her foot. “Just stop it. Quit making excuses for how messed up I am.”

  “You have a right be be messed up. What you went through would mess anyone up.”

  “And so I guess I have a right to tie you up too?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “And why is that, Trent? Why do you let me do whatever I want?”

  He took a step toward her, wanting her to see the answer in his eyes. “Because I’ve always cared for you. We go back way too many years for me to turn my back on you now.”

  “Then there’s something wrong with you,” she snapped. “A normal man would have told me where to go that first night.”

  “Why? So you could seek out some other man you felt ‘comfortable’ with? You might have broken my heart all those years ago, Bree, but I wasn’t about to let you do that.”

  And he could see the anger drain away, see the sadness that once again entered her eyes. “Well you don’t have to worry about that anymore, Trent. I won’t be trying this again for a very long time.”

  “No, Bree. That’s not the solution. You should keep working at it.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes, with me.”

  “So I could leave you once again?”

  “It might not end up that way.”

  “Yes, Trent, it would,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Damn it, he hated to see her cry. Hated to see the pain in her eyes. It made him want to pound his fists. “Please, don’t go.”

  But she closed the distance between them, lifting up on bare toes to kiss his cheek. “Good-bye, Trent. I can’t thank you enough for putting up with my nonsense the last couple of days.”

  “No,” he said, reaching for her shoulders. “Don’t go.”

  “I have to,” she said, turning and scooping up her clothes and shoes before walking away.

  Chapter Six

  And that was how she left him, the image of Trent standing there burned into Bree’s mind. He’d tried to talk her out of it while she’d waited for a cab, but she’d put him off. She’d just wanted to leave California behind . . . and Trent.

  So she ignored his calls. If anything, the longer she was away from him, the more she realized she had been right to take off. It had been a stupid idea to go and see him, and while she appreciated all he’d done, it was better she’d ended it where she had. Obviously, she was beyond repair.

  So she sank into routine. Work during the days. Sleep at night. A troubled sleep, one that kept her awake most of the night.

  And eventually he stopped calling.

  How screwed up was that? All she’d want
ed him to do was stop calling her, and yet when he did, she sank into an even worse depression. That depression forced her to seek out professional help . . . again. Only this time she chose a different type of therapist, a woman whom Bree immediately liked. And as the days passed, she began to have hope.

  She was just returning from one of those sessions when she saw the envelope. Actually, she almost missed it, only noticing the thing when she went to push on her door, her hand landing right smack in the middle of it.

  How odd.

  She took the thing down, the thumbtack that’d held it in place falling to the ground. She didn’t notice. She was too busy looking at the handwriting on the front. Years of going to school together allowed her to recognize who’d written her name.

  Trent.

  Her heart began to pound.

  She unsealed it, her brow furrowing because there was a picture inside.

  John’s picture, she realized, her pulse skittering off. And it wasn’t just any picture; it was a mug shot.

  “Oh my gosh,” she gasped.

  “Bree?”

  The envelope fell. Bree turned.

  Trent smiled down at her.

  “Hi,” he said softly.

  Bree held up the picture she still clutched. “Did you send me this?”

  He nodded, running his hand through his hair. “I thought you’d like to know.”

  “How?”

  Obviously, she didn’t need to clarify what she meant by the question because he said, “I did some calling around, spoke to a friend of mine who does private security for the very wealthy. He gave me a name—a woman’s name, one who’s made it her mission in life to put sex offenders away.”

  Holy shit.

  He nodded. “She’s good, Bree. She went poking around in his past, got some other women to come forward. The guy is scum, Bree. Once the DA realized that, he went ahead and indicted him.

  “Thank God,” she breathed.

  “Glad you’re happy, Bree, because the DA is taking a second look at the charges you filed. If he’s convicted on all counts, he’s going to go away for a long, long time.”

  Her hands had started to shake, Bree’s mind trying to absorb the fact that it was done. John was now behind bars. All the pain, all the anger was still there—but tempered by her realization that he was going to be made to pay.

  Trent stepped forward, his hand cupping the right side of her face. “I told you I’d take care of him.”

  “You did.”

  “I’m a man of my word, Bree. You should know that by now.”

  “Yeah, but I never thought . . .”

  “Anything is possible if you know the right people and have the right amount of money.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  He smiled. “You could invite me inside.”

  Bree didn’t hesitate as she stepped aside.

  Trent wanted to take her into his arms. God, he’d missed her. Incredible how often he’d had to fight the urge to hop on a plane and find her. But he hadn’t been able to do that, not until he took care of her ex for her.

  He walked into her modest-sized apartment, thinking she looked gorgeous in a black turtleneck, the color nearly the same as her hair. Blue eyes were wide as he walked past her and looked around the bright, airy rooms. It seemed like an apartment Bree would own—the old Bree—with its floral prints and light yellow walls. He stopped near her kitchen, fresh cut daisies on a small side table reminding him that they were her favorite flower.

  “Bree,” he started to say.

  “No,” she said, interrupting him. “Let me start.” She was quiet for a moment and Trent watched the play of emotions across her face—gratitude, happiness, regret.

  “Thank you,” she finally said, looking him square in the eyes. “Thank you,” she said again. “You’ve given me so much, a shoulder to cry on,” she smiled a bit, “a body to use. And now this.” She came forward, reached up on tiptoe and kissed him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  And then she wrapped her arms around him and Trent didn’t need a second invitation. He hugged her back, inhaling the smell of her. She smelled like cotton candy and flowers and it was a scent he’d missed in recent weeks.

  She drew back and Trent worried she’d boot him out again.

  “So how have you been?” he asked.

  She didn’t push him away, just nodded her head once and said, “Good. I’m seeing a new therapist.”

  “Oh?”

  “A sex therapist.”

  And that almost made Trent smile. “Oh really?” he asked with a wiggle of his brows, trying to make light of the matter.

  She smiled a bit, looking away for a second almost as if in embarrassment before meeting his eyes. “I always thought sex therapists were crackpots. You know, secret nymphomaniacs who got their rocks off listening to other people’s problems. But then I met Dorien.”

  “Hmm . . . a woman, eh? I know how fond you are of women.”

  She hit him in the arm. Trent felt hope. She seemed different with him. Almost happy to see him. “Don’t remind me of that.”

  “Sorry,” he said with a teasing grin.

  She shook her head. “Anyway, Dorien’s been a big help.”

  “Did she prescribe some more sex toys?”

  “Trent,” Bree scolded. “Of course not.”

  “Just checking.”

  And then she smiled—a real smile, one that tugged the corners of her mouth up and made dimples appear in her cheeks. Lord help him, he loved those dimples.

  “Actually, she gave me some very good advice. Advice that I’ve been dying to try.”

  And suddenly Trent went on alert. He didn’t know why, but he suspected that “advice” had to do with him.

  “She told me to have sex with you.”

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Wait. Isn’t that how this all started?”

  “Yes,” she said, not cracking a smile. “But this time I need you to be the aggressor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She took a step toward him. “You need to tie me up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know that sounds strange, but when Dorien explained it to me it made perfect sense. I think I need to give you control. All this time I’ve been calling the shots, telling you what to do. But that’s not what I should do to try to help myself. I need to relinquish control in order to regain it, if that makes sense.”

  No, actually, it didn’t. “Bree, that’s a crazy idea. Obviously, you haven’t given this much thought—”

  She kissed him. And, damn, but he hadn’t even seen her move. One minute she was standing there and the next she kissed him in a way that made his fantasies seem like sawdust.

  How the hell did she do it?

  “Tie me up, Trent,” she said against his lips. “I need you to.”

  He shouldn’t do it. He knew he shouldn’t. But he didn’t have the Willpower to say no.

  “What do you want me to use?”

  She kissed him again. “Thank you, Trent. I can always count on you.”

  Yeah. Good old, Trent. Whoopie.

  Now or never, Bree thought, going into her closet to find a scarf. Her hands shook as she dug through a drawer, pulling out a blue one.

  Oh, Jeez, she didn’t think she could do it.

  Trent waited for her in her bedroom, the blinds already drawn as he stood by the edge of the bed. She tossed the scarf down on her white down comforter, then tugged her shirt out of her jeans.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Trent said. “Maybe we should try and tie you up first.”

  “No,” Bree said, jerking the turtleneck over her head. “I want to be naked.”

  “Bree, c’mon.”

  But she continued to undress, knowing the sight of her body would arouse him. It always did. His protests would stop soon enough.

  They did.

  “Tie my hands behind my back.”

  “Bree,” he protested aga
in.

  “Do it.”

  He still didn’t move.

  “If you don’t, I swear I’ll get some other guy to do it for me.”

  “Like hell you will,” he said. He gave her one last look before picking up the blue scarf, wrapping it around her wrist then gently tugging it behind her back. It was a long scarf, the kind you could wrap around your neck and drape down your back. She’d never, not in her wildest dreams thought of using it for this.

  He reached for her other hand. She almost panicked then, told herself to take slow, deep breaths.

  It’s Trent, she reminded herself. Just Trent.

  She felt him wrap the scarf around her wrist.

  Shit.

  She closed her eyes.

  Don’t panic, Bree. It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you.

  “There,” he said.

  “There’s a condom in the side drawer, go get it.”

  “Bree—”

  “Damn it, Trent, do as I ask.”

  “But—”

  “Just go get it,” she all but yelled, trying not to panic because she’d tested the scarf around her wrists and it was tight, almost too tight.

  Oh, Jeez.

  She heard, rather than saw, him go to the side table. Heard because she’d closed her eyes, taking deep breaths, reminding herself over and over that his was Trent, not John, and that she wasn’t going to be thrown down to the bed, her legs spread apart, and then stabbed at—

  No, she mentally screamed. No. That was in the past. This . . . this was now.

  “Got it,” he said, sounding grim.

  “Good, now get behind me,” she ordered.

  “Bree—,” he tried again.

  She shook her head, emphatically shook her head. He hadn’t yet grasped that she needed to do this. It didn’t matter that that one horrible night was coming back to her. That Trent was about the same height and size as John. That John had come around behind her . . .

  Oh God.

  “Give it to me in the ass.”

  “What?” he asked, one minute behind her, the next in front. “I don’t know what you think I am, but I can’t screw you like this. I’m not even hard.”

  She let him see it then, let him see the fear, the determination, the absolute terror she felt. “You have to,” she said. “Don’t you see, Trent? I have to give it up. I have to give you control. If I don’t, I’ll never get over this. Never.”