Free Bittersweet by Sommer Marsden

I’m sorry. I know. You’re nervous, right?”
    “Well, who the hell knows who Mrs. S. invited to this shindig. Probably other designers and rich people and I can’t even imagine who else. Probably her horrible grandchildren and her sticky and rude great-grandchildren. And of course there is Petunia.”
    Petunia was Mrs. Shapiro’s pug. Petunia hated Rayka. Petunia thought it amusing to sprinkle just a bit on Rayka’s shoes from time to time.
    “Ah, punt that canine football a good one when she isn’t looking.”
    “Mo!”
    “I’m joking. Calm down. It was a joke. Mostly.”
    “Do you think I have time to shave my head?”
    “Do not! And do not trim. You remember the junior prom? When you trimmed?”
    “Shut up.”
    “Christ, your bangs made Cyndi Lauper’s hair look symmetrical.”
    “You are not helping me, Mo.”
    “How about a smooth, low pony tail?”
    “It never looks right. I always look...unkempt.”
    “Hmm. Then I say you go with it. Put a spritz in that hair, a bit of water, turn your head upside down and make it as bed-head sexy as possible.”
    “It’s my only option, isn’t it?” Rayka sighed.
    “Pretty much. You’re running out of time.”
    “Okay. Here I go.”
    “Go with God, young one,” Mo said and hung up.
    Rayka stared at her hair. Maybe if she...
    The doorbell rang.
    “Shit.”
     
    “Jesus.”
    “I know. It’s the hair. It’s like a science experiment gone awry.”
    But then he wasn’t staring slack-jawed at the mess of tangles and waves any more. He had his hand planted in the blonde mess and was tugging her forward. Tugging her to his mouth. Rayka let him kiss her. Kiss her so hard she felt her lips bruise right then and there. And it wasn’t only her lips, but her scalp. Pain sang along the nerves and follicles, danced along her top of her head with wild abandon until her heart knocked against her chest like a war drum. He was hurting her. The pain was very real but the pleasure overshadowed it. Her body was a war of sensations. Pain, pleasure, dread, excitement. One big tug of war to be won by the most dominant nerve endings.
    The crotch of her satin panties crew moist, and she moaned into Deacon’s hot mouth. She had a winner. Pleasure had won. Now all she had to do was convince him to stop playing caveman, release her hair, and get her to the party.
    “We have to go,” she managed.
    “Not yet,” he said. His voice was barely a voice. More animal than man.
    “We’ll be late.”
    “So we’re late.” He pulled her in and kissed her harder. Rayka let her head fall back. Let her body go limp as he kissed her until she thought she’d die. What a wonderful death it would be.
    Deacon’s hands slid up her legs, dragging the skirt with him. He found her bare above her thigh-highs and slid his palms over her skin. The cold night air found her naked flesh and pebbled it instantly. His hands felt so hot, like he was branding her.
    “We’re outside,” she said and tried to worm back from him. On the front porch with the light on. Might as well be a stage with a spotlight. Plus they were late. Her mind was whirling with shoulds and should nots. Her body didn’t care. Her body was at Deacon’s mercy as it called up all the memories of the pleasure he had already delivered.
    “Shhhh. Do not move.” His voice left no room for argument.
    As he continued to kiss her, branding her throat with his mouth and tongue. Surely marking her with his teeth as he bit her here and there. Hard in some spots. Hard enough that her cunt clenched up around nothing. His fingers moved higher and Rayka felt her skirt drape across his wrist like a curtain. Felt the fabric tickling along her stockings as his hand traveled higher still. He clutched her tight to his body with his free arm, played his lips brutally hard across her own. Then slid two fingers effortlessly inside of her. High into her pussy. And there, he stroked her, hooking the pads of his fingers against her swollen G-spot