Honk if You Love Real Men

by Lora Leigh

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Let me get you ready.”

  “Bree—”

  “Take down your pants.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Please, Trent,” she implored. “I have to at least see if this will work.”

  Still, he didn’t budge.

  “Please,” she added again.

  He looked to the side, his hand coming up to his hair. “I can’t believe this.” But then he turned back to her, his eyes never meeting her own as he stripped out of his pants.

  She went down on her knees. He was flaccid, just as he’d said, and for some reason that made Bree feel better. She took the tip of his cock inside her mouth.

  “Shit,” she heard him gasp.

  Her lips encircled him, her tongue sheltering his sensitive flesh as she gave him one long suck.

  He grew less flaccid.

  She worked him again, taking the whole thing in her mouth.

  “Shit,” she heard him curse again. “Jeez, Bree.”

  His dick began to grow hard, her juices leaving a slick trail as she worked his head, rolling her tongue around the underside, tasting the pre-cum that surged from the tip.

  It got her hot.

  She was just slut enough to love the taste of him, to love the way he moaned as she began to work his cock, taking the thing as far as it would go, then mouthing the tip when he drew back. And with each long pull, she herself grew slick, felt that lovely buzz of sexual excitement that made her swell. It didn’t matter that her hands were tied; she lived in the moment, loving what she did to him, her mind acknowledging that she’d gone back to taking control.

  No.

  She was supposed to give him the power.

  But he wasn’t ready yet. He needed to want to come. And she was getting him there, his hips thrusting into her mouth now, his head thrown back as she sucked him, the blue veins of his penis swollen from pleasure. He was fully engorged now, his head reddish purple from the pressure of her mouth working him.

  “Jeez,” he was saying. “Jeez. How do you do it?”

  She worked him harder, taking him deep, sucking him down. His legs flexed, so did his butt, his hips working faster and faster.

  Close, she had him close.

  She let him slip from her mouth.

  He froze.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered.

  You’re controlling him, Bree.

  No. He was about to control her, and her desire cooled as quickly as it warmed when she stood, gave him her ass and said, “Put the condom on and take me.”

  And still he hesitated.

  “Damn it, Trent. Fuck me right now.”

  He grabbed her by the hips and pushed into her. But not in her ass, in her cunt, her slick pussy taking him all the way.

  Oh, Jeez.

  “Is this what you want, Bree?” he panted

  “No,” she cried out, trying to turn but he wouldn’t let her. “Do me in the ass.”

  “You can’t have it there,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, one of his hands cupping her pussy, dipping his finger into her valley until he found her pleasure knot, pressing it until it caused that odd mixture of pleasure-pain, working it, making her body come alive, despite it all.

  “Damn it.”

  He drew out only to ram her again, his arms holding her in place. No good. This wasn’t what she wanted.

  But it felt good.

  His fingers fondled her and it felt so good. He had her bent over, his cock ramming her again and again and again.

  “Is this what you want?” he gasped.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Is it?” he asked, taking his hand away.

  “Yes,” she finally answered, wishing she could move. She’d strangle him if her hands were free. “Yes.”

  He gave it to her again, fucking her to the hilt and she threw her head back and took it—took it all. He found her G-spot. She gasped again.

  “Trent.”

  Yes, she thought, her pleasure building as he worked her. Damn it, he was going to make her come. No, wait—that was a good thing. She wanted to come. Had been afraid . . .

  He fucked her even deeper. She cried out.

  And that was it for her, that was all it took, one hard slide of his dick and she slipped over the edge, his big body holding her as she gave herself up to pleasure, each contraction more beautiful than the last, each wave of pleasure building on the other until she had nothing left to give. Nothing.

  She began to sob. He released her hands, turned her around . . . and held her.

  She’d done it. She’d had an orgasm.

  She held him, too, crying out all her emotions: relief, joy, bitterness. Bitter because it’d taken so damn much to get her to this point, joy because she knew John had lost his power over her. She had Trent now. Just Trent.

  She looked up at him. He had tears in his eyes too.

  “You okay?” he asked gently.

  “I think I am,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I think I’m going to be.”

  “Good,” he said, his hands moving to frame her face. “Because I wouldn’t do this for just any woman.”

  “I know.” Her smile became misty then, misty and full of joy. He bent and kissed her, Bree realizing then that he still had an erection. And why wouldn’t he—the man was a stallion, one who knew how to hold back so he wouldn’t come. She reached down and tugged off the condom, then pulled him down onto the bed with her.

  “Make love to me,” she told him. “Make love to me, Trent, and show me how much you care.”

  “I do care, Bree,” he said softly. “I do.”

  And then he kissed her. Bree spread her legs for him, loving how huge he felt when he entered her. He filled her up completely, her legs wrapping around his waist as he began to thrust. And it was a different type of lovemaking this time, as different from the first as number one was to three. He kissed her, Bree giving him total access to her mouth as he slid his tongue in and out of her, his dick doing the same thing. She clutched his ass, feeling his butt flex with every deep thrust. His shoulders tensed and she knew he was about to lose control.

  “Come,” she said softly, wanting to feel him spurt inside. She needed him to do that—needed him to fill her up. “Come,” she asked again.

  “Bree,” he cried out, thrusting into her. “Bree.” And then he stiffened, his whole body going—if possible—harder. She felt it then, felt the deeply satisfying pulses deep inside her. He thrust once more, each push deeper and harder than the last as he spilled his cum inside her.

  Yes, she silently cried. Yes.

  And then she too felt an orgasm build. She opened herself wide, pushed herself up on his cock.

  And came.

  Oh God—it rolled through her, made her whole body arch in pleasure, a deep orgasm, spasms of ecstasy that rolled over her one after another. She gasped, felt her eyes tear up in wonder.

  Perfection, she found herself thinking. Absolute perfection.

  “Bree?” a gentle voice asked.

  Bree wiped at her eyes. Damn, she probably scared him off now with all her stupid tears.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, something pitching and shifting inside her as she looked into his eyes.

  “You don’t look okay.”

  But she couldn’t stop the tears of joy that fell from her eyes. “I feel as if I’ve come home,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

  “You have come home, Bree. You’ll always be at home in my arms.”

  And Bree knew that was true. The past was forgotten. In Trent’s arms she might have found her future again, and maybe love.

  Epilogue

  The phone rang at 1:08 P.M.

  “Convicted of four counts of rape,” the DA told Bree. “He’ll be serving three consecutive sentences totaling ten years.”

  Bree sank to the bed, her hand so tight around the cordless phone, she accidentally switched the channel.

&nb
sp; “You there?” the woman asked.

  “I’m here,” Bree said softly, her lids tightly closed as words repeated themselves over and over in her head.

  Finally. Finally he was going to pay.

  “You happy?”

  Was she? Bree didn’t know. Relieved, yes. Thrilled he was going to jail, yes. But she’d long since moved on with her life. It had taken nearly two years to bring John to trial, and in that time she’d done a lot of healing—both emotionally and mentally.

  “I’m happy,” she answered at last, but she referred to her new life, not John’s conviction.

  They hung up, a gentle hand landing on her shoulder. Bree turned into Trent’s arms, his big hands resting flat against her back as she laid her head against his heart.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Ten years,” she said.

  He tightened his grip. “He should have gotten twenty.”

  “He didn’t have a record.”

  “And the electric chair.”

  Which made Bree smile. She’d long since gotten over her rage. She couldn’t be angry when what had happened had ultimately brought her and Trent together.

  “I’m just happy he’ll never be able to do that to someone again.”

  “You want to go out and celebrate?” Trent asked.

  Bree leaned back. “Actually, I was thinking of another kind of celebration.”

  He smiled, tipped down his head and kissed her, and as Bree felt his lips gently nudge apart her own, she marveled at how lucky she’d been. Things could have turned out so differently. Instead she was whole again.

  “I love you,” she said, pulling back to stare up at him.

  “I love you too,” he answered, grabbing her hand and kissing the engagement ring he’d placed there a few months back. “And I’ll love you even more when we’re finally married.”

  “Oh?” she teased. “Does that mean I don’t have all your love now?”

  He scooped her up in his arms. “I’ll give you all my love, baby.”

  Which made her laugh, the teasing glint in his eyes causing her spirit to soar. And a few minutes later he did give her all his love, that and so much more, because while sex with Trent was always great, it was what he gave her emotionally that most mattered. He gave her love and hope and a joy she’d never had before. He gave of himself—and Bree would go on taking that for the rest of her life.

  Have Mercy

  Susan Donovan

  Chapter One

  Winifred Mackland’s kidskin pumps made quick work of Fifth Avenue, but the brisk pace and straight back were all bluff. The truth was, the screenplay tucked inside her Gucci briefcase was fifty percent written and one hundred percent crap, and this was not her usual triumphant stroll to her agent’s office, guaranteed hit in hand. This was a march of defeat. This was a trudge. This was bad news, and possibly the end of her career.

  Win knew what happened to screenwriters who couldn’t write. They became Hollywood pariahs. Shopping-cart ladies. They went home to live with their mothers in Dothan, Alabama, where they could sleep in their middle-school-era beds adorned with matching pink quilt and pillow sham. These has-beens eventually came to be tried in literary court, where a judge could sentence them to death by frustration, death by ignominy, death by failure, death by—

  “Good morning, Miss Mackland.” The security guard smiled politely as she signed in as one of Artie Jacobs’s clients. She tried to smile back, making an effort to shake off all the negative thinking. Win hated how her brain could find certain doom in a run of writer’s block. She knew she should be pouring that creative lava into the mold of her latest screenplay, the final installment of the Lethal Mercy trilogy. It was supposed to be the hottest, the best, the sexiest adventure yet for big screen bad-ass Maximillion Mercy. But for many weeks now, her thoughts had spun night and day, fuzzy, random, spiraling into nothing discernible.

  With a shock, Win caught her reflection in the slick marble walls by the elevators, and realized her hair could be described in those exact terms. She hated August in Manhattan. She hated her curls. She hated that her perfectionism had sent yet another fairly serviceable boyfriend packing.

  And most of all, she hated her most embarrassing dirty secret: that she couldn’t write unless she had a man in her life.

  “Win! Baby!” Artie met her at the entrance to his office suite as he always did, standing up on tiptoe to kiss her cheek, guiding her through the mahogany doors and sending Betsy for decaf lattes. “Come on in, sweets. How’ve you been? How come you didn’t return my calls from the Berkshires?”

  Win cocooned herself in Artie’s creamy white leather sofa and tried to find a place to hide her briefcase. She gave up, propping the leather-encased, half-written pile of crap against the coffee-table leg in full view. There was no escaping the inevitable. “I don’t like to bother you on vacation.”

  Artie sniffed and waved his hand. “I wouldn’t call you if I didn’t want to talk, now, would I?” He smiled at her, his mischievous old eyes narrowing into wrinkly slits behind his glasses. He laughed. “You’re that unhappy with the script? You know, we can always send it directly to the studio and they’ll assign a rewrite team.”

  Win’s head snapped to attention. “I’d rather be eaten by a pack of rabid dingos, and you know it.”

  “Same difference.” Artie often amused himself, and this morning was no exception. After a few moments he stopped chortling and patted Win’s stocking-clad knee. “Let’s have it. Let’s see the script, babycakes.”

  “It’s not done.”

  Artie’s pleasant expression evaporated, and he glowered at her over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses. She could see the lamplight reflecting dead center on his bald little head. “This is not good, dear,” he said.

  “You’ve already read it?”

  Artie shook his head with disappointment. “You can’t be late on this one, sweetheart. They’re nearly pissing themselves waiting for this script. Production budgeting is done. It’s in the pipeline. I promised them one more month, doll—four weeks, I said, and Maria would have it in her greedy little manicured hand.”

  Win swallowed hard. If Artie Jacobs told executive producer Maria Chen that something would happen, it would happen. That’s what made Artie what he was—the most powerful literary agent on the East Coast and Win’s own personal fairy-freakin’-godfather. Nine years ago, the man lifted one of her action adventure scripts from the slush pile and made her a very happy—and financially solvent—girl. If it weren’t for Artie, she’d still be mixing cosmos at Lower-The-Bar in Chelsea.

  “Four weeks?” The outburst sounded whiny even to Win’s own ears.

  “Hand it over.”

  Win unzipped the Gucci case, loving the feel of well-crafted steel and soft-as-butter leather, knowing she’d soon be toting Land’s End canvas if she didn’t get her act together. She handed him the severely deficient pile of paper.

  Artie flipped through it, his expert eye grazing over dialogue and stage directions, devouring what she’d spent nearly six months ripping out of her brain and soul.

  “So where’s the sex?” Artie flipped through the pages like Evelyn Wood on poppers. “I see no sex here, doll.”

  Win scrunched up her nose and shrugged. “Yeah. About that. I haven’t felt motivated lately.”

  Artie placed the half-script on the glass coffee table between then. “You know, Winifred, you have the worst love life of any single woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”

  “How sweet of you to say.”

  “Look at you—you are stunning. Bright and charming and what—? What are you now, thirty-five or something?”

  “I’m thirty-three.” God.

  “You go through men faster than Barbara goes through hundreds at Barney’s.” Artie sighed. “How many suitors have you deemed unworthy so far this calendar year? Five? Six? Seven, for God’s sake? I’ve lost count.”

  Win didn’t appreciate that comment, though, truthfully, s
he’d lost count, too. But aside from Carly, she didn’t let other people talk to her with such bluntness. A girl expected that from her best friend, but not necessarily from her agent.

  “You need a change of scenery.” Artie got up and headed for his speaker phone. “Betsy, bring in the lattes and get my sister on the line if you please.”

  Win was relieved to hear the lattes were coming, but a bit confused about what Artie’s sister could possibly have to do with their current dilemma.

  Betsy came in, smiling, and placed two big white stoneware mugs and saucers on the glass-top table. She winked at Win and headed toward the door. “Your sister is on line two,” she said to Artie in passing.

  Win half listened to Artie on the phone as she sipped the hot, sweet froth, letting her eyes stray to the coffee table. The stark white pages of the screenplay mocked her, cursed at her, reminded her that she was washed up. Her stomach twisted and her heart tripped. Her left eyelid twitched. Four weeks. Four insanely short weeks made up of seven days each.

  “We’re all set, sweets.” Artie came back to his leather chair. “Day after tomorrow, I’ll have a car pick you up at your place. All you need to bring is your laptop and an extra battery, and some comfy clothes. Oh, and I’d throw in a couple of sweaters because it gets chilly at night.”

  Win held the latte an inch from her lips, too stunned to either sip or put it down. None of this was registering in her brain as information she would need to know, for any reason. “Exactly where does it get chilly?”

  “The Berkshires.”

  “Why would I need to know about the weather in the Berkshires?”

  “Winifred. I’m sending you to my place for three weeks. You’ll be comfortable. You can concentrate. You can immerse yourself in the story, let it flow out of you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Artie patted the pile of pages and gave her a malignant grin. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Winifred didn’t like the tone he’d just used, or that menacing smile. It reminded her of something one of Maximillion Mercy’s evil antagonists might do while holding a gun to the hero’s temple.