Sex Machine: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (6 page)

I wake up alone and feel oddly disappointed that she’s gone. Disappointment isn’t something I normally feel after a night with a hot woman, but Honey isn’t just any hot woman. She’s a friend, too, and our shared history makes her different. That’s exactly why I usually stay away from sleeping with women I grew up with in Marfa. I know them too well, but when a woman like Honey walks into a bar and asks me to fuck her, well, I’m only human, and she’s a freaking goddess.

I’ve always thought so, even in high school when I was in love with Jordan and planning to spend my life with her. Honey was the untouchable queen of all things Marfa High School—homecoming queen, prom queen, cheerleading captain. In other words, off-limits to mere mortals. And that was fine with me. From tenth grade on, I was completely enthralled by Jordan and didn’t give a thought to being with any other girl the way I was with her.

We were going to get married right after high school and have four babies—every two years for eight years. And then, when they were grown, we would travel and see the world. All our plans were shattered the afternoon a semi ran a stop sign, killing her instantly and injuring me so badly, I spent a month in ICU. For a time, the doctors told my parents to prepare for the worst.

I survived, but I’ve never been the same. I miss Jordan every day and have never stopped thinking about what might’ve been for us. I have no memory of the crash itself, but I have vivid nightmares in which my brain imagines what it must’ve been like, forcing me to relive the horror over and over again. That’s one reason why I rarely spend the night with a woman. Do I need the whole town talking about Blake Dempsey’s pathetic night terrors?

That wouldn’t be good for business, the one area of my life that’s actually satisfying and successful, and I intend to keep it that way.

It’s weird to feel disappointed about waking up alone when I wake up alone every day of my life and wouldn’t have it any other way. Like Honey said, I never bring women home with me anymore. It’s too messy when I want them to leave and can’t think of any other way to get them out but to ask them to go. They’re all the same. They all hope they’re going to be the one to fix Blake Dempsey’s broken heart.

What they don’t know is my heart shattered the day Jordan was killed, and it doesn’t exist anymore as anything other than an organ that pumps blood. It doesn’t
feel
anything. It took three years after Jordan died for me to have sex with someone else, and that was a total cluster fuck. I broke down into pathetic sobs that scared the hell out of the poor girl I’d chosen to get me back on the horse.

Thank goodness that happened during my brief stint at UT Austin, far enough away from Marfa that no one who mattered ever heard about it. A year after that, I got totally wasted with a girl in a bar and did it again, this time without the histrionics. I declared myself cured and got back on the horse in a big way with a different woman any time I wanted one, all of them knowing the score before they went to bed with me—one night and one night only.

My system-wide numbness makes for a drama-free, peaceful existence most of the time. I mean, it’s not every day that a woman like Honey propositions me in a bar, and she more than lived up to the nickname her Gran gave her by calling her “Honey” for her entire childhood. Her real name is Evelyn, but no one has ever called her anything other than Honey.

Now I know she tastes like the sweetest honey I’ve ever had, and hours after I last touched her, I can still taste her on my lips and smell her scent in my bed. Am I really lying here on a rare free Saturday thinking about a woman? Yeah, I guess I am, probably because I’m surprised that a guy as jaded as I am can still have his world rocked once in a while.

She rocked me by walking into a bar so far below her usual hangout, it’s not even in her stratosphere. She rocked—and shocked—me with what she said. And then she totally rocked me with how she responded to me. It’s no secret that Honey Carmichael has dated her way through many of the single guys under forty in Marfa, so it was interesting to discover how innocent she really is underneath her smooth, sophisticated veneer.

I never would’ve guessed, for example, that she’s never been spanked or had her ass played with or come as hard as she did many times last night. Just thinking about the squeeze of her pussy around my cock makes me hard. She was so small and tight, and it was such a battle to enter her—a battle I loved all three times I coaxed her into trying.

Wrapping my hand around my cock, I stroke from base to tip, nice and slow as I relive the night with Honey, from the second she uttered those unforgettable words in the bar to the third time I came inside her. I wonder if she’s sore today, if she’s thinking about me the way I’m thinking about her, if she’d want do it again if she were still here…

I close my eyes, remembering the way her big, round breasts heaved with every deep thrust of my cock. God, I loved watching them move and the way her nipples dragged against my chest. I’m starting to feel the telltale tingle at the base of my spine, and I’m dripping pre-cum onto my hand, but that makes the up-and-down slide easier and hotter.

I don’t want to come yet, so I slow it down and recall her shock when I fingered her ass. No one had ever touched her there, and I take a perverse thrill in knowing I was the first. I let my mind wander to what it’d be like to fuck her there, how she’d writhe and grunt and scream when I forced my way past the tight ring of muscle that would try to keep me out.

I’d have us both so slick with lube that I’d be able to push into her until my balls are tucked up against her pussy and she’s taken the widest part of my cock. I’d keep her coming the whole time so she’d be in a hot frenzy, unable to do anything other than take me over and over and over again until I come deep inside the most private part of her.

I picture her ass stretching to accommodate me, and that’s all it takes to send me over the edge, the hot splash of my release covering my abdomen and flooding my hand. I’m gasping from how hard I came, almost as hard as I did with her during the night.

It was good with her, I concede as my heart rate and breathing slow to normal. The best sex I’ve had since Jordan died, if I’m being honest with myself. It was comforting being with someone I’ve known all my life, someone who knew me before I lost Jordan and who still cares about me, even though I’ve given her no reason to.

And then it occurs to me that tonight is the surprise party for Julie’s thirtieth birthday. Julie is one of Honey’s lifelong friends, and Matt is one of mine. As I get out of bed and head for the shower, I try to pretend that my lifeless heart didn’t give a happy little jolt at knowing I’ll get to see her again later.

I can’t wait.

T
he shoot is
a disaster from the get-go, with two cranky babies and parents who try to micromanage every aspect. I want to tell the parents to come back in an hour, but I can’t do that, so I put up with them, nodding in the right places while doing it my way in the end. My way is what people come from all over for.

Before I had the idea for my Desert Babies series, my studio was on the verge of bankruptcy. People don’t hire photographers the way they did before the digital age brought do-it-yourself photography into vogue. Weddings were the backbone of my business until the bridal magazines started touting candid photos taken by guests as an alternative to one of the biggest expenses—the photographer. Don’t even get me started on what cameras built into smartphones did to my already struggling business.

I’d begun to panic about how I’d survive if the studio went under when I stumbled upon the idea for the Desert Babies, quite by accident, late one night when flipping through a magazine that featured Anne Geddes’s distinctive baby photos. Then I moved on to a local magazine that had photos of the desert outside Marfa, the rolling hills of West Texas and the wild vegetation. The two things had come together to give me the idea that I began implementing the next day by designing props and costumes and backdrops that plopped the babies into the environment in clever and inviting ways.

After I posted the first shots to my Facebook page, the idea was an immediate hit, with word-of-mouth publicity bringing in clients from all over the state. It surpassed my wildest dreams, and I have a waiting list a month out. However, the success of my idea means I spend a lot of time with babies who are often less than accommodating of my vision and that of their harried parents.

Today is one of the worst shoots I’ve had since I started the program a year ago. The mom is a total pain in the ass with her endless demands. The dad is a useless doormat who does whatever she tells him to do, and the babies… Well, I hate to say this about innocent children, but they aren’t photogenic. It happens sometimes, and I’m usually able to make lemonade from lemons. I do what I can with these two and have my “money” shots in the first hour, not that the mom will hear that. She forces us through two more interminable hours, after which her twins are in full-on meltdown mode, and I’m wishing I kept vodka on hand in the studio.

By the time they finally leave, I’m feeling almost as sorry for the kids who have to grow up with her as I feel for myself, having lost three hours I’ll never get back dealing with her. My body hurts so badly I can barely walk as I leave the studio two hours before Julie’s surprise party and head home to the house my Gran left me when she died.

I adore the thirties-era Craftsman that Gran lovingly restored over the years, one room at a time, until every inch of the two-thousand-square-foot home gleamed with new floors, paint and windows, some of which are stained-glass beauties she found at antique stores and yard sales.

She went with desert landscaping outside so we wouldn’t have to mow grass in the heat of the summer. Cactus and gravel require very little upkeep. Gran was right about that, but then again, she was right about most things. It took me four years after she died to move into the larger master bedroom suite that I will always think of as hers, but she disliked nothing more than pointless sentiment, and she would’ve protested me being squashed into my tiny bedroom when her much larger one was going unused.

Lauren helped me make the room my own and mopped up my tears when I finally got around to packing up Gran’s things and donating her clothing to the needy, which she would’ve loved. She was forever giving away money she didn’t have to help people who were less fortunate than she was, not to mention taking in a baby abandoned at the church and raising her as her own.

I kept her good jewelry along with photographs of her parents, siblings and cousins, all of whom predeceased her. They were the closest thing to family that I’ve ever had, even if I never met any of them. I count those photographs and the ones I have of her among my most prized possessions.

I limp onto the porch, where I find that Lauren has come through with a basket of Epsom salts and other bath products. I moan with anticipation of sinking into Gran’s cast-iron, claw-foot tub. Because this day has been a total bitch, I fix myself a tall glass of wine and a plate of crackers, cheese and grapes to tide me over until the party.

In the bathroom, I set my drink and snack on the windowsill, light a few candles and sprinkle the new bath beads and salts Lauren got me into the steaming water. Before I turn off the lights, I kick off my cowboy boots and strip out of my dress and underwear. I catch a glimpse of my ass in the mirror and gasp at the fingertip bruises that stand out in stark contrast to my white flesh. Turning to face the mirror, I see that there are also bruises on my hips and breasts, and I shiver, remembering the way he touched me with such all-consuming hunger. Thank goodness he didn't leave bruises anywhere people could see them.

My nipples tighten and my clit springs to life, making me groan as I wonder how it’s possible I have any gas left in my tank after last night. Sinking into the hot water is almost as orgasmic an experience as fucking Blake Dempsey was. If my poor, tortured flesh could actually sigh with pleasure, it’d be hyperventilating at how good the hot water and Epsom salts feel.

I lay back against the pillow I bought just for the tub and reach for my glass of wine. During the shoot, I forced my mind to stay on the subject at hand, hoping I’d get rid of them sooner rather than later. We all know how that worked out. So it’s been a few hours since I did a full review of last night’s activities, and I let my mind wander back to the bar, to the way he choked on his beer after I delivered my opening line, to how he whispered gruffly in my ear to follow him home, how he insisted on feeding me before we got down to it, and the way he completely obliterated my memories of all other men in one incredible night.

How did he manage that last part? Well, The Cock managed it. That thought makes me laugh. I have to admit I thought Lauren was exaggerating when she said she’s never seen one quite like Blake’s. Now I know she wasn’t exaggerating. If anything, her descriptions didn’t do The Cock justice. Just thinking about it makes me tingle all over. He made me feel like a newly deflowered virgin trying to take him into my protesting body. The struggle was epic and my reactions unprecedented. I’ve never come from penetration alone. It usually takes a lot more than that, but not with Blake. Not with The Cock that stroked every nerve ending I possess into an unholy orgasmic frenzy.

Picking it all apart with the perspective I lacked in the moment, I realize it was more than his equipment that set me on fire. It was the way he paid such close attention to my every reaction, the way he touched me and stroked me and sucked on my nipples with my ultimate pleasure as his only goal.

I return my wineglass to the windowsill and fill my hands with my breasts, running my thumbs gently over sore nipples that immediately respond by getting even harder. I draw in a sharp deep breath at the connection between my nipples and clit. I’m amazed that thinking about last night has me fully aroused once again.

My legs move restlessly, sending water sloshing toward the sides of the tall tub.

Closing my eyes, I relive it, from those first minutes in the bar to sneaking out this morning and everything in between. As if it’s happening all over again, I can almost feel the press of his huge cock against my opening, stretching me to my absolute limit as he works his way inside.

I bite my lip and send a hand down to tend to my tingling clit. Oh, that feels good, even if I’m still so sore and tender. I take it easy as I rub slow, soft circles around the tight knot of nerves while continuing to tweak my nipple. It usually takes much more than this to get myself off, but remembering the things he did, the places he touched me with his fingers, tongue and cock, has me on the verge of exploding in no time at all.

Was I really bent over in half on his bed, my ass in the air while he tongued me
there
? Thinking about what we must’ve looked like in that position, I inhale a shuddering breath as the memories of how it felt and how much I loved it send me careening into an intense orgasm. Water spills over the sides of the tub, but I can’t bring myself to care as it goes on and on, as if I haven’t come more in the last twenty-four hours than I have at any one time ever.

Afterward, I slide deeper into the water, completely relaxed and depleted. I could go to bed now and sleep until tomorrow morning, but I can’t do that. I can’t disappoint Julie, who would be crushed if I missed her thirtieth birthday party. With my own three-oh right around the corner, I can’t do that to her. Besides, Blake will be there, and I’m on fire with curiosity about whether it’ll be different between us after last night.

Though I know I shouldn’t be excited to see him again, that’s what gets me out of the tub twenty minutes later. It’s what has me spending extra time on my hair and makeup and dressing with careful thought in the same frilly, feminine dress he liked so much the last time we were at Matt and Julie’s. Because I’m a Texas girl through and through, I put on my red cowboy boots to complete the outfit and grab a denim jacket in case Matt has the AC on the frost setting, as usual.

I look good. I feel better than I did before the bath. I feel ready to see him again.

* * *

I
wasn’t
ready to see him again. I feel like I’m wearing a neon sign on my head that says
Blake fucked my lights out last night
. I’m sure everyone must know, when no one does, except Lauren, and she wouldn’t tell anyone. Well, Blake knows, too, and more than once, I feel his intense blue eyes trained on me as if he’s seeing me naked right there in the midst of our friends.

I never should’ve propositioned him the way I did, but I can’t seem to regret the stupendous sex I had with him. If only I didn’t actually have to
see
him today, but I’d forgotten about Julie’s birthday when I decided last night was the night after weeks of trying to work up the nerve to put Lauren’s plan into motion.

Thus one of the three times a year I run into Blake had to happen the day after we had the wildest, dirtiest sex of my life. Judging from the smug, satisfied expression on his face, he knows I’m uncomfortable, and he’s enjoying my discomfort.

I got exactly what I wanted from him, so I suppose a little embarrassment is the least of what I should expect in the aftermath. I can handle it, or so I tell myself.

“What’s up with you tonight, Honey?” Julie asks when she comes over to me with Lauren and Scarlett in tow. Julie was well and truly surprised by the party and has been glowing with excitement ever since her arrival a short time ago. I’m happy to see her that way after months of profound depression following a miscarriage last Christmas.

“Nothing’s up with me other than your big three-oh.”

“You seem distracted. Is everything all right at the studio?”

“Everything is great, except for the mom-zillas that interfere every step of the way.”

“I’m never going to be like that,” Julie says.

“I’m beginning to think there’s something in the placenta that turns perfectly rational women into lunatics after they procreate.”

The girls laugh at that.

“You might be on to something there,” Scarlett says. Being my next-door neighbor in town, she hears most of my horror stories soon after they take place.

“Speaking of placenta,” Julie says tentatively, taking a look around to make sure no one else can hear her. “I’m pregnant.” She says it softly, as if saying it out loud might somehow jinx her.

Knowing how badly she and Matt want to have children, my eyes immediately fill with happy tears. “That’s the best news ever.” I hug her, and when I pull back from her, I see tears in her eyes, too.

“I’ve been dying to tell you guys,” she says as Lauren and Scarlett hug her, “but Matt and I wanted to wait until we were past the three-month mark before we told anyone this time.”