Free Bittersweet by Sommer Marsden Page B

talking with his dick, not his head. There was no room for love or anything that even slightly resembled love. He had to squash that before it even started. He could like her, marvel at her, dominate her and fuck her ’til the cows came home. But under no circumstances could he fall in love with Rayka.
    “I’m fine. Just sorry you’ll be late. I’ll make sure Mrs. Shapiro knows it was my fault.”
    “Oh, it will be fine. I’m not on the clock. It’s a party,” she laughed. He watched her pat at her hair, trying to smooth the wildness away. He almost smiled at it but caught himself.
    She caught him looking. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look so serious.”
    “I’m a serious guy,” he said, trying to make light. Just keep it on the surface. Keep it superficial. Dates. Sex. Dinner. Some laughs. And then get the fuck out of Dodge.
    “I know.” She didn’t smile. She wasn’t joking. His heart hurt for just a second that she saw mostly that side of him. Not the funny side. Or the softer side.
    Hard to see it when it’s all locked away. That’s what Gideon would have said. He shook his head again. Great. Now he was channeling his dead, gay uncle.
    “You look a little angry,” she said, softly. “Did I do something?”
    “What? No!” But he was angry. Angry at losing everything he had once had and cherished. At being afraid to let himself have anything worth having. Like Rayka.
    Deacon wasn’t a little angry. He was pissed. But he would not let his heart stray. Keep it simple. Keep it clean. Rayka was a temporary diversion. Some company and some sex. It was how it had to be. It was what was best.
    For both of them
    * * * *
    “Well, it’s nice to meet the man behind the voice!” Mrs. Shapiro gushed. Dressed head to toe in electric lime green, she was one scary broad, Deacon thought. Eccentric and nice, but scary. Her lipstick was the color of cranberries and her shoes were zebra print. Rayka had been right. Not a good mix at all.
    Rayka caught his look of surprise at the outfit and grinned as if to say ‘I told you so.’ He watched her work the room. Watched her confidence and grace and how she had just the right amount of professionalism and humor. He was proud of her.
    “Nice to meet you, too. You have a lovely home. Lovelier I’m sure once Rayka gets a hold of that master suite.”
    “Absolutely. You are lucky to be wooing her. I think she’ll end up like one of those TV decorators on Oprah and such. You know, giving people’s houses makeovers. Improving their taste.”
    His eyes went to her outfit of their own accord when she said “taste.” She wrapped one thin arm around his and started to guide him to the board. The board was front and center. Deacon was surprised she didn’t have a spotlight on it. The thought made his mind stray back to the front porch. Plunging his fingers into Rayka’s wet, moist heat until she came for him. Until she cried out for him, forgetting where she was. Forgetting herself. Letting go.
    “... right?”
    “I’m sorry?” he said. He redirected his attention to the board Rayka had dropped off earlier in the day. A large white board on an easel. She had put up a watercolor rendering of the old lady’s bedroom and some swatches of the fabric she would use. Deacon was surprised out how artistic the “blueprint” was.
    “I said you obviously have impeccable taste if you are with Rayka. Tell me, are there wedding bells in the future? Baby booties?”
    “No,” he growled before he could temper himself. He watched the old woman recoil and then slowly let go of his arm as if she were afraid.
    “Oh,” she stammered, clearly frightened. “Very well, then. Enjoy the party. Thank you for coming.”
    Deacon hung his head and clenched his fists. Godammit. Why hadn’t he stifled that anger? Now Mrs. Shapiro eyed him with uncertainty and more than a bit of trepidation.
    Rayka came up to him with a beer. “What did you say to her? You must tell me your secret.”