Honey by Jenna Jameson Read Free Book Online

Marc, but then again her behavior fit the profile. Like so many women in her situation, she’d probably been browbeaten, not to mention beaten-beaten, into believing everything but the weather was her fault.
    He focused on Winterthur. “A medal, hardly, certainly not for doing my job.” Not even when that job involved patching up women in the wake of their men’s meltdowns.
    For the first time since walking up, he looked Honey Gladwell over, a direct, headlong stare, no subterfuge. The eye was healing nicely, the bruise on the cheekbone beneath cleverly concealed with cosmetics. The classic red lipstick she’d selected must mean her mouth had returned to its normal size; that it really was that lush and wide and wonderfully shaped with a top lip slightly longer than its mate. That sexy mismatched mouth sealed the deal. The prettiness he’d suspected weeks ago wasn’t prettiness at all. It was beauty.
    Marc switched back to the son of a bitch, sizing him up. The clammy handshake, heightened color, and perspiration filming his upper lip all suggested an addict looking for his next fix. Given the frequency with which his focus seesawed between the two service bars, Marc would bet that his drug of choice was alcohol.
    A moment later Winterthur confirmed it. “Jesus, who does Honey here have to fuck to score us some beverages?”
    â€œDrew!” she said again, this time in a high whisper, her mortified gaze flying to Marc’s and then falling to their feet.
    The asshole chuckled, confirming that his penchant for torturing came with a verbal component as well. After several scotches there was no telling how raunchy—or violent—he might get. Unfortunately sons of bitches like this one had too much savvy to blow up in public. They did their damage behind the scenes where the only witness was too beaten down and scared to talk. Conjuring scenarios for how the evening might end sent ice water shooting through Marc’s veins, the psychological equivalent of throwing ice water on his erection. Crazy as it was, he couldn’t keep from fantasizing about scooping up Ms. Gladwell and carrying her away. She was only a hundred pounds and change. He’d bench pressed that much plenty of times.
    But women like Honey Gladwell didn’t let regular guys like him go all Neanderthal on them. No, you’d better have an expense account in the high six-figures and the right address if you expected to fuck, or fuck up, a woman like her. He thought of his Washington Heights two-bedroom and choked back a bubble of sour laughter. Women like Honey Gladwell might take a walk on the wild side from time to time, they might live on the edge somewhere between perennially and occasionally, but they absolutely did not venture above 96 th Street—never, no way. Born and bred in New York, Marc knew the score. Women like Honey Gladwell weren’t looking for white knights.
    They were looking for sugar daddies.
    â€œSorry, Honster, but I’m running low on patience. That server I saw earlier must be taking the biggest dump of his life.” He turned back to Marc. “Mind entertaining my friend for a few while I score us some drinks?”
    His friend, not even his girlfriend, but then again he was, technically speaking, married, judging from the hammered gold banding his left ring finger. “It would be my pleasure,” Marc replied, fastening his focus on their mutual “friend.”
    Seemingly satisfied, Winterthur turned back to Honey. “Want anything, babe?”
    She hesitated. “Champagne, please.”
    The server Marc had earlier seen butlering glasses of sparkling wine and chardonnay did indeed seem to have vanished. Snaking lines had formed in front of both service bars. With any luck, Winterthur had a substantial wait ahead.
    He snorted. “I’m guessing this is more of a Cava crowd, but I’ll see what I can scare up.”
    She waited for Drew to