Sex Machine: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Read Free Page A

did not!”
    “Yes, you did.”
    “You’re making that up.”
    “I am not! I think I remember who pinched me and made me cry.”
    “I’m sorry I made you cry.”
    “That’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
    We share a smile that’s full of nostalgia and promise, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself. The doorbell rings, saving me from pushing the photo album off her lap and getting an early start on the night’s festivities.
    I pay the delivery boy and carry the pizza box and bag to the kitchen, the smell making my mouth water. I’m always starving after a long day at work. I grab a beer from the fridge and pop it open. Honey appears at the door, looking hesitant and unsure of herself, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the woman who boldly propositioned me an hour ago.
    “This is all you got?” I ask of the small salad in the bag. “That’s nowhere near enough.”
    “It’s all I wanted.”
    “You’re going to burn a lot of calories tonight.” I love watching her face flame with color when I remind her of why she’s at my house and what’s going to happen after dinner. I get the feeling she’s nowhere near as ballsy as she wants me to think she is after that blatant come-on at the bar. “That’s okay. I’ll share my pizza with you.”
    I flip open the lid to the thin-crust pepperoni and green-pepper pizza with extra sauce cooked well done. “Now that’s a pie,” I say as the delicious aromas fill the air.
    “It does look good,” she says wistfully. “I can’t remember the last time I had pizza.”
    “Don’t you like it?”
    “I love it. That’s the problem. Too fattening.”
    I take a long perusing glance at Honey’s trim figure that curves in all the right places. “You can afford it.”
    “Not if I eat pizza every time I have a taste for it.”
    From the cabinet over the dishwasher, I get out two plates, putting three slices on mine and one on hers. Handing her the plate and a fork, I say, “You’re going to need your strength, Honey Bunches of Oats.”
    “Nothing wrong with your self-confidence,” she mutters, but I can tell she’s amused by the nickname I’ve given her.
    Laughing at her comment, I study the sweet blush that flames her cheeks, wondering why I’ve never noticed the way her face lights up when she’s embarrassed. If I have my way, her face will be bright red all night long. I plan to embarrass the living hell out of her before I’m finished with her. While taking a swig of my beer, I keep my gaze fixed on her. “Tell me something, Honey Carmichael.” I wait until I have her attention. “Why me? Why now?”

    I wrestle with how I should answer his question. Do I dare tell him the truth? That I’ve heard he’s a god in bed, and I’m dying to be with a real man who doesn’t fumble his way through the act like a randy teenager getting laid for the first time? Or do I feign boredom and let him think he’s one of the last remaining men in town who hasn’t been favored with my attention when he’s far from the last one standing? I’ve never gone near his friends Matt or Garrett, for example.
    “Tell the truth, Honey,” he says, seeming to read my thoughts.
    Am I really so transparent? Or is he that perceptive? I put down my fork and blot my lips with a napkin. “I want to be with someone who knows what he’s doing without having to be told.” The words are out of my mouth before I consciously decide to go with the truth.
    “And you think I know what I’m doing?”
    “That’s what I’ve heard.”
    He lets out a bark of laughter. “Why do guys get accused of kissing and telling when women are the ones who do all the talking?”
    “We don’t ‘talk’ so much as compare notes.”
    “Is that right? And what ‘notes’ have you gotten about me?”
    “Just what I said. You know what you’re doing.”
    Blake lets the beer bottle dangle between his fingers as he eyes me wolfishly. “You want to find out if it’s true?”
    I