Free Sex Machine: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Marie Force Page A

with someone else. I’m well aware of my reputation around town as a “machine” in the sack, and the women I’ve been with always comment about the size of my equipment. Whatever.
    Without fail, they always come back for more.
    I always say no. One and done. That’s how I roll. So what in the ever-loving fuck am I doing telling Honey to leave her door unlocked?
    Tipping the bottle back, I take a long drink of beer as I watch her across the room, laughing and talking with Julie and Lauren and Scarlett and other women we’ve known all our lives. Why can’t I stop looking at her? Why do I have to notice that her lips are still swollen from last night and there’s a hint of razor burn—my razor burn—on her neck from the middle of the night, when my beard started to come back? Why does knowing I left my mark on her in more ways than one give me such a perverse thrill?
    Why do I care that she’s rattled?
    “Having a good time?”
    I look up at Matt, my best friend since first grade and the man who single-handedly saved my life in every possible way after Jordan died by not leaving my side for two whole months. “A great time. You done good. Julie seems thrilled.”
    “It’s nice to see her smile again.”
    I was one of the very few people who knew they were pregnant again after the heartbreaking miscarriage last winter. See what I mean? Life always fucks you up the ass no matter how happy you might be. Their miscarriage is a classic example. What did they do to deserve that devastating blow? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This sort of thing is why I believe it’s easier not to get involved than to risk that kind of pain.
    “It sure is,” I reply, hiding my inner turmoil from him with the expertise I’ve perfected over the years.
    “Why you staring at Honey?”
    Oh shit. “What? I’m not staring at her.”
    “Um, yeah, you are, and I heard a little rumor that you left the bar with her last night. Any truth to that?”
    I can lie to some people—and I’m not ashamed to say I lie shamelessly when it suits my best interests of staying free and clear of anything that can cause me additional grief—but I’ve never been able to lie to Matt. “Maybe. She came by. We hung out. Nothing to get wound up about.”
    “You and Honey Carmichael ‘hung out,’ and that’s nothing to get wound up about?” He snorts with laughter and takes a drink from his beer. “Whatever you say, man.”
    His comment strikes a note of panic deep inside me, in a place I keep walled off with concrete and barbed wire. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
    Have I mentioned that my best friend often makes me want to throat-punch him? And did I mention that he’s one of the two foremen at work who keep my business running smoothly? So punching him isn’t an option unless I want to compound my aggravation. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. Otherwise, fuck off.”
    The bastard laughs again, takes another sip of beer and then looks me dead in the eye. “Don’t do to her what you usually do, Blake. She means too much to all of us, and you know as well as I do she’s not as tough and ballsy as she’d like us to believe. You hurt her, you hurt us.”
    Fucking hell… “I’m not doing anything with her.” Well, if you don’t count fucking like rabbits, but that’s over now. We did it. It was done. As in past tense. Nothing to worry about.
    But there’s an ache in my chest that won’t go away since I woke up alone this morning after one of the best nights I’ve had since Jordan died. I took some Tums earlier, hoping that would help, but it didn’t make a dent. Maybe I should go to urgent care to see if something is up with my heart. I rub a hand over my chest.
    “I mean it, Blake. Don’t fuck with her, or you’ll answer to me.”
    Under normal circumstances, I love that our work relationship hasn’t gotten in the way of our lifelong friendship. I like that he’ll say something