by Marie Force
“Did you run out of other guys to fuck? Is it down to me?”
I hold back a wince at his judgmental tone. I’m not proud of the number of men I’ve test-driven, seeking the hoopla. “What do you care?”
“I don’t.” It’s a well-known fact that Blake Dempsey doesn’t care much about anything other than his family, his business, the people who work for him and a few select friends, of which I’m one, or I was until about five minutes ago anyway. He shrugs as he drains the beer bottle and puts it on the bar next to a ten-dollar bill. “It’s your business, not mine.”
When he stands to his full six-foot-three-inch height and looks down at me, I nearly swallow my tongue. My nipples stretch against the confines of my bra and tank top, as if they’re reaching for him. I hold my breath, waiting to see what he will do.
He brings his head down close to my ear. “Follow me home.” His tone is gruff and sexy and authoritative.
I shiver as my heated core weeps in anticipation. My eyes travel from broad shoulders to lean hips and below, where the outline of that legendary cock has me licking my lips once again. Soft, faded denim hugs him in all the right places, and it’s all I can do to refrain from reaching for the button and giving it a tug to get things started.
My mouth waters as I picture his big cock springing free of his clothes, ripe for my mouth, my pussy and anywhere else he chooses to put it. Wait. What? No, not that, not with him. No way.
“Honey?”
Once again I shake off the sexual stupor and force myself to meet his gaze. If thinking about sex with him gets me this hot, I can’t imagine what the actual deed might entail.
“Are you coming?”
Even though Lauren assured me he wouldn’t say no, I’m still insecure enough to be surprised that he accepted my offer. Oh my God, I’m really going to have sex with Blake Dempsey. Resting a hand on his sculpted chest, I say, “Oh yeah, I’ll be coming, and so will you, big boy.” The cocky statement, exactly what he expects from me, covers the quaking going on inside.
A throbbing pulse in his chiseled jaw is the only sign of emotion in his otherwise blank expression as he takes me by the hand and heads for the door.
Mindless of the prying eyes of the other customers, I scramble to keep up with his long-legged stride.
“Where’s your car?” he asks when we’re outside in the fading sunlight.
Heat from the long summer day rolls off the blacktop in scorching waves, but I shiver from the almost predatory way he looks at me. “There.” I point to my tiny silver car with the decal on the side hawking my photo studio.
“I’ll wait for you.” He drops my hand and stalks to his big black truck bearing his own company logo on the side. His long strides eat up the pavement. I watch him go, fascinated by the way his jeans hug his muscular ass. I can’t wait to see if his ass looks as good naked as it does in denim. Who am I kidding? It’ll look even better.
I order my quivering legs to move. They finally get the message, and I rush to my car, managing to drop my keys in the dusty dirt parking lot. I bend to get them and am scorched by awareness. As I stand up, I venture a glance at his truck and find him watching me intently, his entire focus on my ass. The quaking begins anew as I get into the car and fumble some more with the keys before managing to get the car started. At this rate, I’ll need an insane asylum before I ever get what I want from Blake.
His truck leaves a cloud of dust in its wake as he pulls out of the parking lot onto Highway 90, heading out of downtown Marfa, Texas. The sun is a ball of fire in the sky as I follow him at a safe distance. The last thing I need is to smash into his back end because I’m such a nervous fool. It’s not like I’ve never come on to a guy before. I have, once or twice. But even though we share mutual friends and have known each other forever, Blake has always been so remote and off-limits that it took all my courage to walk into that bar and say the line that Lauren and I rehearsed until I got it just right. My hands are trembling and sweaty as I reach for my phone.
“What’d he say?” Lauren asks when she picks up on the first ring.
“I’m following him home.”
“To his house?”
“Yes.”
“This is huge! He never takes women to his place.” Lauren lets out a shrill squeal. “I’m so jealous!”
Instantly alarmed, I swerve before I right the car. “You said you didn’t care!” I can’t lose Lauren, the closest thing to family I have left. “I’ll call it off right now if you don’t want me to go with him.”
“I’m not jealous about him. I’m jealous that you get to be with The Cock.”
I swallow hard. “It can’t be that different from all the others.”
Lauren’s dirty chuckle comes through the phone. “Oh, Honey… You have no idea what you’re in for. Tomorrow, when you’re walking bow-legged, remember I told you so.”
A bead of sweat slides down my backbone. Propping the phone between my ear and shoulder, I turn the AC on high and follow the black truck as it hangs a left onto Antelope Hills Road. “You always did exaggerate, Lo.”
Lauren snorts with laughter. “You’ll know soon enough that I’m not exaggerating. Call me in the morning. I want every single detail. In fact, if you could take notes, that’d be great.”
“Shut up.”
“Honey…”
The unusual seriousness in Lauren’s voice puts me immediately on guard. “What?”
“Ever since your Gran died, you’ve been looking for a place to call home again. It’s not going to be with him. No matter what happens, don’t forget that. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Blake’s story is well known around town. He blames himself for the car accident our senior year of high school that claimed the life of his girlfriend, Jordan Pullman, who was also a friend of mine and Lauren’s. The loss of Jordan rocked our entire class, but no one more so than Blake. Even after the police ruled that the accident was the fault of the other driver, Blake continued to blame himself. He’s kept his distance from people—especially women—ever since, throwing his considerable energy into his business. Occasionally, he takes a lover, but he never keeps her for more than a night.
My story is equally well known. Abandoned at the church when I was days old, Nora Carmichael, who never married, took me in and raised me as her own. Because Nora was in her early sixties when I came to live with her, I always called her “Gran.” She died ten years ago when I was only twenty, leaving me to fend for myself in an unforgiving world. I’ve done okay, all things considered, but it’s been a struggle.
“Call me in the morning?” Lauren says.
“I will.”
“Remember: only sex.”
“I gotcha.”
“Did you use the ‘I want you to fuck me’ line?” Lauren asks. We debated a number of ice-breaking lines and settled on the most direct of the many choices.
“Sure did.”
“I need to try that one on Garrett.”
Poor Lauren has been lusting for years after Garrett McKinley, accountant to Blake’s company and most of the other businesses in town, including mine. “What’s stopping you?”
“Um, only the fact that he thinks I’m a brainless floozy.”
“You’re neither brainless nor a floozy. Look at what a booming business you’ve made of the flower shop. How can he think you’re brainless?”
“Maybe because I act that way any time he’s in the same ZIP code as me?”
“I still say you should hire him to do your books. Then he’ll find out how full of brains you really are.”
“Not happening. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”
I watch Blake pull into a driveway a block in front of me. The door on a two-car garage goes up, and Blake pulls in. “I gotta go. We’re at his house.”
“Just sex,” Lauren says one more time.
“I heard you the first ten times. Bye, Lo.” Ending the call, I repeat Lauren’s refrain. “Just sex.” The last
place in the world I’m going to find my home is in the arms of the most remote man I know. Determined to take this one night, and only this one night, with him and “The Cock”—a thought that makes me giggle nervously—I follow Blake’s hand signal to pull into the empty half of the garage.
By the time I make it out of my car and into the laundry room that adjoins the garage, he’s removed his work boots and stripped down to boxer briefs that hug his tight ass.
I stare at the muscles on his back that taper down to that most excellent butt—and wonder if we’re going to get busy right here. I clear my throat to remind him I’m here.
He seems in no particular rush as he tosses his clothes into a front-loading washer, adds detergent and starts the cycle. Then, as if I’m not there, he goes into the kitchen.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him, but I do it anyway.
He hands me a piece of paper. “Tell them to send my usual and get whatever you want.”
I somehow manage to tear my gaze from the most lickable male chest and ripped abs I’ve ever seen to glance at the print on the paper. I recognize the logo of Pizza Foundation. “They don’t deliver.”
“They do for me. I pay extra.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He shoots me a meaningful look. “I worked all day, and if I’m going to be expected to work all night, too, I need fuel—and so do you.”
A burst of heat creeps from my chest to my face as the implications of his statement settle on me. All night. Whoa.
“Make the call. I’m going to grab a shower. There’re drinks in the fridge. Help yourself.”
For a long moment after he leaves the room, I stand motionless in the middle of a nicer-than-expected kitchen. What the hell am I doing here? Did I really go to the bar Blake Dempsey frequents and ask him to fuck me? “You’ve lost what’s left of your mind, Honey Carmichael.”
I could cut my losses and leave while he’s in the shower. Sure, the few times a year that I run into Blake at the grocery store or post office or at the home of a mutual friend would be awkward from now on, but I can live with that if it means saving some face.
My cell phone chimes with a new text message that jostles me out of my temporary paralysis. Digging into my purse, I pull out my phone. From Lauren: No matter what, don’t chicken out. You’ll be sorry forever if you do. Trust me on that!
As always, Lauren’s timing is impeccable. Sucking in a deep breath and releasing it, I call in the pizza order and then take a beer from the fridge. If there’s ever been a time for liquid courage, this is surely it.
Chapter Two
A girl walks into a bar and shocks the shit out of a guy… Not in a million years did I expect this day to turn out the way it did, with Honey at the bar asking me to fuck her.
I run a razor over my face, and then, thinking of Honey’s flawless complexion, I do it again, though if this encounter goes all night, it won’t matter. My beard grows back fast.
So Honey Carmichael has finally gotten around to me. It’s taken long enough. Honey is the one girl from my childhood who never threw herself at me after I grew from a scrawny kid into a man with man-sized appetites. Rather, she’s remained an enigma as she worked her way through several other guys in town.
I’ve wondered—more often than I’d ever admit to anyone—why she seems to date every guy but me. Is it because there’s always been a spark of something between us, something potentially incendiary, or is it just me who feels that? Doesn’t matter now, I decide, as I step out of the shower and grab a towel.
For once, I actually bother to run a comb through my hair and slap on some of the face lotion my mother gave me for Christmas. And with that, I’ve done three times as much to prepare for this evening with Honey than I have for any other woman in years.
Honey Carmichael.
As I think about the night ahead, my cock twitches in anticipation. Will she taste as sweet as she looks? Will her breasts be a perfect handful, or are they as big as they seem? What color are her nipples? And is the honey color of her hair the real color? I can’t wait to find out.
With one last look in the mirror, I conclude that I’m as presentable as I ever am and head into the bedroom. Shit! The sheets! I can’t remember the last time I changed the linen on my king-size bed. Moving quickly, I grab clean sheets off the closet shelf and make fast work of putting them on the bed. Then I pull on a pair of gym shorts and go out to see what trouble Honey has gotten into in my absence.
I find her nursing a beer and flipping through the photo album of my childhood that my mother gave me for Christmas.
Without looking up at me, Honey says, “You were an awfully cute little boy.”
“You should know. You were there.” I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know her.
“You were very mean and aloof back then.”
That surprises me. “Was I?”
“Uh-huh. I used to go home and tell my Gran that you’d been mean to me.”
I sit on the sofa, keeping a reasonable amount of space between us. I have to eat before I touch her, because once I start, I won’t stop until the sun comes up. Thank God tomorrow is Saturday, and I’ve given my crews the weekend off after a month of seven-day workweeks. “I was mean to you? When?”
Honey lets out a delicate-sounding laugh that catches the attention of my restless cock. He can’t wait to get in on this party. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You used to chase me around the playground and pinch me until I cried.”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I am not! I think I remember who pinched me and made me cry.”
“I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“That’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
We share a smile that’s full of nostalgia and promise, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself. The doorbell rings, saving me from pushing the photo album off her lap and getting an early start on the night’s festivities.
I pay the delivery boy and carry the pizza box and bag to the kitchen, the smell making my mouth water. I’m always starving after a long day at work. I grab a beer from the fridge and pop it open. Honey appears at the door, looking hesitant and unsure of herself, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the woman who boldly propositioned me an hour ago.
“This is all you got?” I ask of the small salad in the bag. “That’s nowhere near enough.”
“It’s all I wanted.”
“You’re going to burn a lot of calories tonight.” I love watching her face flame with color when I remind her of why she’s at my house and what’s going to happen after dinner. I get the feeling she’s nowhere near as ballsy as she wants me to think she is after that blatant come-on at the bar. “That’s okay. I’ll share my pizza with you.”
I flip open the lid to the thin-crust pepperoni and green-pepper pizza with extra sauce cooked well done. “Now that’s a pie,” I say as the delicious aromas fill the air.
“It does look good,” she says wistfully. “I can’t remember the last time I had pizza.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“I love it. That’s the problem. Too fattening.”
I take a long perusing glance at Honey’s trim figure that curves in all the right places. “You can afford it.”
“Not if I eat pizza every time I have a taste for it.”
From the cabinet over the dishwasher, I get out two plates, putting three slices on mine and one on hers. Handing her the plate and a fork, I say, “You’re going to need your strength, Honey Bunches of Oats.”
“Nothing wrong with your self-confidence,” she mutters, but I can tell she’s amused by the nickname I’ve given her.
Laughing at her comment, I study the sweet blush that flames her cheeks, wondering why I’ve never noticed the way her face lights up when she’s embarrassed. If I have my way, her face will be bright
red all night long. I plan to embarrass the living hell out of her before I’m finished with her. While taking a swig of my beer, I keep my gaze fixed on her. “Tell me something, Honey Carmichael.” I wait until I have her attention. “Why me? Why now?”
I wrestle with how I should answer his question. Do I dare tell him the truth? That I’ve heard he’s a god in bed, and I’m dying to be with a real man who doesn’t fumble his way through the act like a randy teenager getting laid for the first time? Or do I feign boredom and let him think he’s one of the last remaining men in town who hasn’t been favored with my attention when he’s far from the last one standing? I’ve never gone near his friends Matt or Garrett, for example.
“Tell the truth, Honey,” he says, seeming to read my thoughts.
Am I really so transparent? Or is he that perceptive? I put down my fork and blot my lips with a napkin. “I want to be with someone who knows what he’s doing without having to be told.” The words are out of my mouth before I consciously decide to go with the truth.
“And you think I know what I’m doing?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “Why do guys get accused of kissing and telling when women are the ones who do all the talking?”
“We don’t ‘talk’ so much as compare notes.”
“Is that right? And what ‘notes’ have you gotten about me?”
“Just what I said. You know what you’re doing.”
Blake lets the beer bottle dangle between his fingers as he eyes me wolfishly. “You want to find out if it’s true?”
I swallow hard and try not to blink as my entire body heats up. “Don’t my actions thus far this evening speak for themselves?”
His grin is arrogant and sexy at the same time. “Eat your pizza.”
“I’m not hungry.” I’m too nervous to eat—not that I’d admit that to him. What had seemed like a brilliant idea an hour ago is becoming more and more ludicrous by the minute. I’ve known Blake all my life, and after tonight, every time I run into him around town I’ll be forced to remember how I propositioned him, asking for sex like a common floozy. “I’ve never done this before.” It’s suddenly crucial that he know I’ve never blatantly propositioned another man the way I did him.
