Sex Machine: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (10 page)

We pull up to my house far too soon, long before I’m ready to say good-bye.

My heart surges with excitement when he gets out to walk me in. But my excitement fades when he stops at the door and draws me into his arms. “Thank you for a fantastic weekend.”

With my mouth suddenly dry, I force myself to smile up at him. “Thank
you
for not turning me down the other night.”

“Even a machine would be a fool to say no to you,” he says with that small grin I’ve become so fond of.

I hate that he sees himself that way. If anything, he feels
too
much and he loves
too
hard if he still feels the loss of Jordan as intensely as he did when it first happened.

Then he kisses my forehead and breaks my heart. It’s over. I got exactly what I wanted from him—more soul-shattering orgasms than I ever could’ve hoped for. But that’s all it’s ever going to be, and I have to find a way to make peace with that.

I force my arms to drop from around his waist and take a step back out of pure self-preservation. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me, too.” He cuffs my chin playfully. “Take care of yourself, Honeycomb.”

The nickname makes me want to sob for what could’ve been. My hands are shaking when I try to get the key in the door.

He takes it from me and does it for me. He steps back to let me go in. “Honey—”

I place my hand on his chest. “Don’t say it, Blake. I’m okay. I promise.”

Looking down, he nods, but I notice the tension is back in his jaw. “I’ll see you around, darlin’.”

“Yes,” I say, forcing a cheerful tone. “You will.” I close the door and slide down the back of it, dropping my head into my hands as a sob erupts from my chest. God, I’m such a fool! Lauren warned me against this very scenario, and here I am, crying my heart out for a man I knew could never be mine.

It was so good with him, so easy and familiar, yet new and exciting, too. How often do you find all that in one man? For me, never. And if only it had just been the sex that was amazing I could’ve moved on from that without feeling crushed. But the fact that
everything
with him was amazing is going to take some time to get past.

I felt a real connection to him and not just in bed. Our shared history, friends, upbringing, roots… All of it combined to bring a sense of familiarity to what might’ve otherwise been an awkward encounter.

I’m devastated to realize it’ll never be more than one perfect weekend.

It’s completely dark by the time I drag myself off the floor and into the shower, where I stay for so long, the hot water runs out. My body is sore and tired, and my head is aching almost as badly as my heart. I wrap a towel around my body, go into the kitchen to find some pain relievers in the closet where Gran always kept the medicine and nearly jump out of my skin when I find Lauren sitting at the kitchen table.

“What the hell, Lo? You scared the crap out of me.”

“Likewise. I’ve been trying to call you all day, and when you didn’t answer, I came to check on you and heard you crying in the shower. What’s that about?”

“Nothing.” I grab the pill bottle from the cabinet and wrestle with the cap.

Lauren comes up behind me, takes the bottle from me, opens it and drops two pills into my hand. Then she fills a glass with water and hands it to me. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I haven’t seen you cry since Gran died.”

I can hide from some people. Lauren isn’t one of those people.

“Blake just left.”

“Wait… He just left as in
today
he just left?”

Nodding, I wash the pills down with the cool water.

Lauren takes me by the arm and leads me to the kitchen chair she abandoned. I sit because that’s easier than fighting her. She sits next to me. “Speak.”

“He came over after the party last night. He said…” Why did this hurt so fucking badly? “He said he wanted one more night. Today, he asked me to go out to Jordan’s grandparents’ place. Did you know he bought it?”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“He’s restoring it and bringing it back to life. We went swimming and…” I blow out a deep breath that does nothing to soothe the ache that has overtaken me. I hope the pills help, but I suspect they can’t fix this kind of pain. “He brought me home, and that’s that.”

“What did he say when he brought you home?”

“That it’d been fun.” My voice breaks, and my eyes fill with tears that I angrily wipe away when they spill down my cheeks. “It
was
fun. I have no idea why I’m such a mess.”

“Because you want more.”

I shake my head. “I know that’s not possible.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t wish it was.”

And there she struck at the heart of the issue. I wish it
was
possible to take this amazing weekend and build upon it, to see what would’ve happened next, to at least
try
to make something with him. Suddenly, I’m sobbing again, emotionally wrecked by the disappointment, even if I know I’m being ridiculous.

“I was afraid of this,” Lauren says when she wraps her arms around me.

“You tried to warn me. Hell, I warned myself, but I still got sucked in.”

She grabs a paper napkin from Gran’s wicker basket on the table and wipes my face and then holds it up for me to blow my nose. I’m reminded of the many times Gran did that for me, and it suddenly occurs to me all over again how alone in the world I really am. For two blissful nights, Blake made me feel less alone, and I think I did the same for him. “Maybe, when he has some time to think about it…”

“Don’t,” Lauren says. “Don’t allow yourself to hope for that. We both know how he is.” She’s very businesslike as she wipes my face with a clean napkin and refills my water glass. “We’re going to get you through this and move on. What would Gran say?”

I smile wanly. “That there’s no sense crying over spilt milk.” She was forever telling us that when we were girls.

“Exactly. She knew what she was talking about. You’re her girl and every bit as tough as she was. Don’t you ever forget it.”

“I don’t feel very tough right now.”

“You’ll get your mojo back in a day or two, and just think, now you know what it’s like to have great sex.”

She means that to be comforting, but all it does is remind me of what I’ll never have again.

“You want me to sleep over?”

“You have to be in early for your flower delivery.”

“I can get someone to do it for me.”

“I’m fine, Lo. I swear. Just a momentary moment of madness.” That sums up my current state of mind and describes the incredible weekend with Blake. “I’ve gotten through worse, right?” For a short time after Gran died, I wasn’t sure I could go on without her. Thanks to Lauren and Julie and my other friends, I managed to drag myself out of that abyss. It didn’t happen overnight, though.

“You certainly have. Call me if you need me? Even if it’s the middle of the night?”

“I will.” We both know I never will, but I tell her what she needs to hear. I pride myself on my independence and my resilience. The shadow of rejection has colored my entire life, so this feeling is nothing new.

I walk Lauren to the door and hug her. “Love you forever,” I whisper. We’ve been saying that to each other since we met as first-graders and formed an instant bond.

“Love you forever.” She hugs me tight, kisses my cheek and takes her leave. I stay at the door and watch until she’s safely in her car. Then I shut off the porch light and lock the door. I go into my room to change out of my towel dress into lightweight pajamas.

I convince myself I’m feeling better until I get into bed and am assaulted by the scent of Blake’s cologne on my pillow. I lose it all over again, sobbing like the heartbroken fool that I am.

Hugging the pillow to my chest, I take deep breaths of the scent, committing it to memory. I never want to forget one minute of the time I spent with him. It was the best time I’ve ever spent with any man, and it will be a long time, if ever, before I get over my weekend with Blake Dempsey.

T
he machine is back
in business the Monday morning after the beautiful weekend with Honey. For a whole week afterward, I power through the way I always do, trying not to think about her or how much I miss her or what might’ve been with her. I can’t believe it’s possible to spend two nights with a woman and never want to leave, but that’s just how it is. If I didn’t know for sure I’d fuck it up somehow, I’d go back. But it’s better for me—and certainly for her—if I stay away. So that’s what I’ve done. I’ve stayed away, even if it has about killed what’s left of me.

My company is building a shopping center outside of town, and I’m in the thick of it all day, every day with my men. We move mountains, doing the work of two days in one. As I head for my after-work beer, I’m completely exhausted at the end of the second Monday after my weekend with Honey.

My usual watering hole looks different to me now. Everything looks different post-Honey. I take my usual seat at the far left-hand side of the bar, and Jimmy brings me my usual bottle of Bud. Same thing, different day. Until Honey Carmichael came strolling in here that Friday night, my routine hadn’t changed in longer than I can remember. And now all I can think of is her. Soft skin, sweet taste, hard nipples, tight pussy…
Fuck
, I’m suddenly hard as a rock for more of her.

I hate my own rigid rules more than I can say. I down that first beer and signal for another, noting Jimmy’s surprise. I never, ever have more than one beer after work. I don’t drink more than one beer and drive. Ever. That’s one of the other nonnegotiable rules of my life after the accident. I never again want to be responsible for someone else getting hurt, or worse, because of me. They said it wasn’t my fault. Fuck them. I was driving her, and she was killed. Of course it was my fault.

The second beer goes down easier than the first. I signal for a third and ask for a shot of Jameson to go with it.

“Y’all right, Blake?” Jimmy asks when he puts the beer and shot in front of me.

I push a twenty across the bar. “Never better.” I want more of her so badly, I burn from the longing. As if it has a mind all its own, my cock refuses to be deterred and takes up all the space in my jeans. I’d find that funny if I didn’t feel so shitty. I’ve got stuff to do tonight. Invoicing and estimates and paperwork that never ends, but I can’t be bothered with any of it.

The last time I felt this bad…
Fuck
. I need another beer, and I need it now.

Eight days after the last time I saw Blake, I’m getting into bed after a long and trying day at the studio when the house phone rings. I almost don’t bother to get it, because anyone who knows me well would call my cell. But cell service in Marfa can be spotty, so maybe my cell isn’t working.

I go into the living room to grab the extension next to Gran’s recliner. Yes, even ten years after she died, it’s still her chair. “Hello?”

“Is this Honey Carmichael?” a man asks. In the background, I hear music and people talking.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“It’s Jimmy down at the bar. You came in here the other night and left with Blake. Right?”

I swallow hard at the realization that people actually witnessed my blatant proposition and recognized me. I wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. And what does this guy want? Some of what Blake got? The thought of that turns my stomach. “Y-yes,” I say, because I can’t exactly deny it. “Why?”

“He’s here now and drinking a lot more than usual. I tried calling his friend Garrett, but couldn’t reach him. Any chance you might be able to come get him?”

I’m shocked to hear that Blake is drinking like that. He never does that anymore. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t let him leave.”

“He’s not going anywhere, sugar. Not on my watch.”

“Thank you for calling. Thank you so much.” My hands are shaking as I get dressed and shove my feet into flip-flops. I nearly forget keys in my haste to get out the door. Once in the car, I drive way too fast on my way to Blake’s favorite bar, also known now as “the scene of the crime.”

For a whole week after our momentous weekend, every muscle in my body felt the effects of the sexual marathon. Naturally, I had several more difficult shoots, the worst today with yet another set of twins who cried for most of the time I was with them. I could relate. I wanted to cry all day, too.

I left the studio with a splitting headache and plans to again soak in the tub before an early bedtime. You know what they say about plans… Here I am, racing into the dark to rescue Blake from himself. My mind is spinning about why he decided tonight was the night to deviate from his usual routine.

Was it because of me?

Who am I kidding? He probably hasn’t given me a thought since he kissed me on the forehead and left me on my front porch. He did exactly what he and Lauren said he would do, and there was no reason whatsoever that I should feel so disappointed. It’s just that when he came over that second night and spent nearly twenty-four hours with me, he sparked a kernel of hope.

Foolish hope. I’ve been taught many times in my life that hope can be a disappointing bitch. Take when Gran rallied after chemo and radiation treatments. I began to hope that she might beat the cancer, but a month later, she was dead, along with my hope.

After that crushing loss, I learned to be careful about what I allow myself to hope for. Hoping that Blake Dempsey might suddenly decide he wants more from a woman, and that woman is going to be me, is so ridiculous that I find myself laughing hysterically. And then I’m crying just as hysterically. I hate that I’ve allowed myself to become so undone over what was supposed to be a one-night stand.

In truth, I’m nothing like the ballsy gal who blatantly propositioned Blake in a bar that Friday night. I’m actually much more like the soft-centered blubbering mess I am right now. I wish I was more like the ballsy girl, but Lauren pumped me up to the point that I actually believed I could
be
her.

It’s not fair to blame Lauren. We were equally culpable in formulating the plan that worked exactly the way we hoped it would. It isn’t her fault—or mine—that it worked a little
too
well.

I pull off the highway and into the dirt parking lot outside the bar. The weekend before last feels like a million years ago as I walk into the dark dankness that instantly takes me back to the high of my success that first night with Blake. Soaring highs lead to crushing lows. That’s the lesson learned here. And judging by the condition I find Blake in, I might not be the only one suffering from the post-one-night-stand-that-turned-into-two-nights blues.

He’s hunched over the bar with a row of empty beer bottles and shot glasses in front of him.

Jimmy, the bartender, nods to me as I approach Blake. I’m not sure if I should touch him or talk to him or what, but as I slide onto the stool next to his, I can’t resist the need to touch him.

When my hand lands on his shoulder, he startles and swiftly looks over at me, his eyes lighting up with pleasure that quickly fades to misery so deep and so pervasive, I feel the ache of it in my bones.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, his words slurring.

“Jimmy called me. He thought you might need a ride home.”

“Why you?”

“He saw us together the other night.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Honey. It’s not the kind of place for a woman like you.”

I want to ask him what kind of woman I am, but this isn’t the time for questions. “Let me give you a ride home.”

“Don’t wanna go home. Nothing there. At least here I can get another round.” He signals to Jimmy, who ignores him.

“I’ll be there,” I say before I can begin to contemplate what I’m offering or whether it’s a good idea.

“You will?” The hopeful sound behind those two words travels straight to my heart, which is now, officially, overcommitted to him and this situation.

“Yeah, I will.”

“You won’t leave?”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from sobbing at the pain and loneliness I see in his eyes. “I won’t leave.”

“You promise?”

He’s killing me here, one short sentence at a time. “I promise.”

I take hold of his hand and give a gentle tug, urging him to come with me. I glance at Jimmy, who gestures for us to go on ahead. Blake’s a regular, and he’s good for what he owes. I smile gratefully at Jimmy and wrap my arm around Blake’s wide back to escort him out of the bar.

Once again, everyone watches us as we make the slow, staggering journey to the door. I’m thankful for the small favor that Blake can actually walk. A few more boilermakers, and someone would’ve had to carry him out of here.

Texas heat hits us square in the face when we push through the door to the parking lot. Though he swerves a couple of times, he’s generally cooperative in letting me steer him toward my car. The next challenge arises when I try to squeeze his six-foot-three-inch frame into my tiny car. I’m sure to outside observers, our struggle would be considered comical, but by the time I finally get him belted in, I’m sweating profusely.

During the drive to his house in town, he keeps his head back and his eyes closed while I try to remember to breathe while reliving his plea for me to stay with him. He doesn’t want to be alone. My heart does a happy little dance at realizing he needs me. Despite that platonic kiss on the forehead, he’s not done with me.

Hope soars within me like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Did I mention that I tend toward the dramatic when the occasion calls for it?

As I pull into the driveway at Blake’s house, I’m assailed by the memories of what happened here that first night, heating me up for a whole other reason. I reach over to unbuckle his seat belt and go around the car to help him out.

He’s dead asleep.

I shake his shoulder. “Blake. Come on. We’re at your house. Wake up.”

He doesn’t move.

What the hell do I do now? I can’t leave him out here all night to roast in this unrelenting heat. After a second to consider my options, I decide to plug his nose and force him awake. He comes to, sputtering and swearing, his eyes widening with surprise when he sees me standing over him.

“Honeydew… What’re you doing here?”

He doesn’t remember me picking him up at the bar? “Just helping you get home safe.” I take his hand and help him from the car. When he slings his arm around my shoulder, he almost takes us both down, but I lock my knees and keep us from tipping over and then reach behind him to shut the car door.

Our stagger to the front door resembles a badly done three-legged race. “What’s the code?” I ask when I see there’s a keypad where the lock should be.

“Six, six, two, two,” he whispers in the second before his lips descend upon my neck, almost making me forget the code he just gave me. I have to punch it in twice before the door finally swings open and we almost fall once again.

He begins to laugh, and I realize that it’s been years since I’ve heard him laugh like that, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Maybe getting good and drunk was just what he needed.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

“Only if you’re coming with me,” he says in a low suggestive tone that has my girl parts standing up to cheer.
Yes, yes, yes
, they shout while my better judgment urges caution. Fuck my better judgment.

With my hands on his hips, I steer him toward his bedroom, intending to drop him on the bed and move to the sofa to keep my promise—and my distance. He has other ideas, however, and hooks his arm around my waist, all but dragging me with him to the bathroom. “Need a shower.”

Not that he gives me much choice, but we end up in the bathroom with him tugging on the button to his jeans and clumsily ripping them off, which is a great way to find out he didn’t wear underwear to work. I try not to look, but I’m only human and I’m totally besotted with The Cock that stands up tall and proud. Is it my imagination or is it leaning in my direction? Definitely not my imagination.

Blake leans in to turn on the water and tugs on my hand.

I fight back. I don’t need a shower. I need a stiff drink and distance. Distance would be great right about now. “Let go! Take your shower.”