Free Honey by Jenna Jameson Page B

have thought two French lesbians going at it on-screen, the one seriously butch with blue-tinted hair, would have gotten him going but it did.
    That was bullshit. The screen actresses weren’t responsible for the boner concealed beneath the coat across his lap. Honey was. In his mind’s eye, she was the one naked and being backed onto the bed, he equally naked and coming down on top of her.
    Easing back into the seat beside him, her light perfume mingling with the buttery aroma of the theater popcorn, she was completely irresistible, utterly edible. Add to that, it was dark, movie-theater dark, and every dirty fantasy he’d had since the age of thirteen about pulling down a girl’s jeans’ zipper pretty much sparked to full-throttle life.
    Only Honey wasn’t wearing gender-neutral jeans. She had on a dress—a sexy, sophisticated dress. And black stockings. Not pantyhose, but actual stockings, the kind that required garters. Whatever else she had or didn’t have going on under there, Marc could only imagine—and badly wanted to find out. Mentally slipping down her body-cinching black dress, unsnapping those gartered hose, and peeling off those silky stockings, he sent a sideways look her way—and saw that she wasn’t watching the movie either. She was watching him .
    Through the darkness, her eyes anchored to his. She moistened her lips, that crazy upside-down mouth that always brought his mind back to kissing—and fucking. Imagining those sweet lips cinching about his cock, he felt himself further thickening.
    There was no getting around it. Marc absolutely had to kiss her. He reached for her, slipping one arm beneath her back. With his free hand, he touched her cheek. If foreign films had this kind of effect on him, he’d be better off going cold turkey— after today. For once, this once, he was completely caught up in the moment.
    She could have moved away but instead she came closer. Leaning over, he angled his face to hers. Their mouths met, matching as if drawn by magnets. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, back and forth, teasing her there until she opened. Once she did, he touched his tongue to the tip of hers, and then swirled it about. She tasted of cinnamon from the crumble and butter from the popcorn and, like some crazy Ben & Jerry’s flavor, the combination worked. And so, it seemed, did they. There was no first kiss fumbling or awkwardness, no inadvertent clinking of teeth or salivating of spit. They kissed as though they’d been doing it their whole lives, as though kissing each other was what they’d been born to do, what they’d been made for. Kissing Honey wasn’t any kind of prelude to better things but its own thrilling journey, one he was satisfied to savor, not rush.
    He settled a hand on her knee, leaving it there to give her ample opportunity to push it away. She didn’t. Instead those gorgeous long legs of hers did something much better. They opened. Not wide, not spread eagle—she was too ladylike and subtle for that. More like a gentle easing apart as though gifting him with access to her private place was the most natural of acts.
    Her slim-fitting skirt didn’t give him much room to maneuver. Rather than raise it, he slid his hand underneath, gliding along silky stocking-sheathed thighs to where those stockings ended—and her satiny flesh began. She was wearing panties, which for some reason surprised him, and garters, which didn’t. Mired in murky darkness, still the contrast between the black banding her milky thighs was unbelievably erotic. Fuck blue hair and baggy boy clothes, neither chick on-screen had a snowball’s chance in hell of holding his attention, though their moans were definitely fueling his desire. Whatever moves he’d amassed in the last two decades of adulthood, whatever expertise he might boast, now existed solely in the service of bringing Honey pleasure. He