Bittersweet (3 page)

“Yes you can. Take your hand and touch yourself. Stroke your clit. It’s hard isn’t it? I know it is. I can hear it in your voice. Put your finger inside that hot, wet mouth of yours and get your finger wet first. Now do it.”

God help him, he swore he heard the slide of her finger over her lips. Heard the soft sound of her sucking it. His cock twitched, and though he thought it impossible, it grew harder still. Fuck.

He heard a soft sound of pleasure through the phone and sat down hard on the sofa. Her finger was on her clit and he was in her head. He popped his fly and took his cock in a loose fist. Just a few strokes. Nothing more. This was about getting her to bend. She didn’t seem like a phone sex girl. He wanted her to be one. Just for him.

“Does that feel good?”

“Mmmm.”

“Harder circles now,” he said and pumped his cock once. It felt too good. Too much like he would come if she so much as said his name. He clenched his jaw tighter, ran his thumb over the gem-sized dot of pre-come.

“It’s sensitive,” she admitted.

His cock jerked in his hand at her words. He took his free hand and put it behind his head. Reclining back on the sofa, he said, “And you think I wouldn’t suck you hard there even if it was sensitive? Harder circles.”

She made another, harsher sound and he tried not to unravel right there. She was obeying him. “Deacon,” she said. Just his name. No more.

“Put me on speaker,” he said. Everyone had speaker these days, right?

He heard a click, the loud sound of the phone being set down, and her breathing. The speaker setting seemed to amplify her more and he could hear the ragged sound of her breathing as she stroked herself as instructed. “Okay. You’re on.”

“Two fingers, Rayka. Two fingers is what I would use. Not one. No starting small and then adding. I would want you to open for me right away. Take me in immediately. And my fingers are bigger than yours so that means three. Now. Three fingers in that cunt of yours, sweetheart.”

He heard her moan and then gasp. This time she hadn’t even balked. Not even for show. “Oh, God,” she said.

“If I were there, I’d fuck you with my fingers until you bloomed for me completely. Until your pussy clenched around my fingers and you hovered right there on the edge. Right there where you need to come so bad you are sobbing. And then I would pull you onto my lap and impale you. Slide you down on my cock and watch your face as you took in every last inch of me.”

Little sweet sounds came over the phone. Little gasps and puffs and sighs that let him know he was on borrowed time. His hand found his cock again and the rasp of his calluses over the length of his hard-on almost made him shoot right there. This woman was addictive. She had somehow filled his every thought and now he would hear her orgasm for him. Mere hours after their first meeting.

“I would wait until you got that far-away look and your cheeks were a flaming pink. I would raise you and lower you and watch your breasts. Watch them move, watch that flush spread across your pale skin as your pussy grew tighter.”

“Oh!” she said, and Deacon could hear her panting.

“And when you were right there. When that first tear came, Rayka. Because you don’t think you can live one more moment without coming...” He tightened his fist on his cock because her sounds were growing lower, as if her throat were full of something. For an instant he allowed himself to imagine it was full of him. That she had a throat full of his cock. His body liked that thought. Deacon felt it building in him. Felt the orgasm coming, an unstoppable force, like a wave off the ocean. “Then I would thrust up into you and suck your nipples, Rayka. And sometimes, sweetheart, I have to warn you, I bite.”

“Deacon!” she yelped, and he let go. A hot wash of semen on his hand, his jaw clenched, his heart in his throat.

Chapter 5

Rayka cried out as her pussy clenched around her probing fingers. She was biting her lip so hard she expected blood, but the pain only mingled with the sweet pleasure of unexpected orgasm. His gruff voice in her ear as she fucked herself according to his explicit instructions, the picture he painted of how he would be with her, what he would do, it all fed into one intense, mind-melting orgasm.

“Jesus,” she panted and eyed the phone as if it would move. She swore she had heard his own pleasured groans through the phone even as she had made such a ruckus. Had he? Had he gotten off to listening to her? Jesus. What was happening to her? From always-wear-clean-underwear to phone-whore in a day. “Deacon?”

Rayka couldn’t help it. She grinned. To think she had the power to make a man stroke himself until he came was a heady thing. She never expected to be that woman. She wasn’t a temptress or a siren. She was plain old Rayka.

“I’m glad,” she whispered, and she meant it. She wasn’t sure why. She knew very little about this man other than the fact that he had inherited a candy store from his uncle, had exquisite taste in chocolate, and was a bit bossy and rough around the edges. That and how he made her feel. That was the sum total of her knowledge of Deacon James.

“You and me both. Now...” She heard him take her off speaker and she did the same. And there he was. Intimately. In her ear and in her head. “I called to say, we can do tomorrow. I finished up with Tom Frye this evening. All the candy store stuff is done with. I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear red and no panties,” he said. And then he hung up.

“Red? No panties?” she said to no one. The phone suddenly seemed cold and unforgiving in her hand and on her face. She shut it with a loud bang and marched upstairs to take a shower. “Of all the nerve. He makes me...he tells me to...well, all that and then bosses me around and hangs up on me! Of all the nerve!”

She turned on the shower and cranked the knob to hot. “And stop talking to yourself, you lunatic,” she muttered. Even as her anger seemed to go from a rolling boil to a simmer, her mind catalogued her wardrobe for red. Red turtle neck, red sweater, red stilettos, red skirt, red wrap dress. That was the one. Red wrap dress. It was pretty snug, though. Especially since she had her ten occasional pounds on. An absence of panties would be visible to anyone who cared to look at her.

“Fine,” she mumbled and climbed into the hot water. The steam engulfed her and she sighed with pleasure. “I’ll wear red. But I am so wearing panties, mister! I don’t care what you say. And we’ll have a nice long conversation about phone manners. You do not make a woman orgasm like that and then hang up on her. I don’t care how hard I came.”

Then she let the hot water wash over her and soften her up. Make her tense places go fluid. It felt good. Soon the outside of her body matched the inside. Warm, soft, and satisfied.

* * * *

“I don’t know. I like my lime color better,” Mrs. Shapiro whined. Literally. Whined.

Rayka shoved her hands in her skirt pocket to keep from clenching them into fists and then beating the hell out of Mrs. Shapiro. That would not be good. The peace offering of the gorgeous chocolates from
The Good, the Sweet, and the Yummy
had gone over well. Mrs. Shapiro had cooed and accepted Rayka’s apology graciously, for the most part. She understood the “artistic type” and how “high strung”
they could be. “People like you” upset more easily, she had said, assuring Rayka that she understood. Rayka had nearly bitten the tip of her tongue off during that monologue. She reminded herself of the hefty check she would get if she could salvage this account and satisfy the old biddy...um...client. She could give Brazil a well deserved raise and rent a bigger office space and even put a bit of money away.

“Let’s look at this lavender,” she said softly so she wouldn’t scream. “You like the black paired with pastels a lot. The classic French kind of duos. You really don’t want to do lime green.” When Mrs. S. frowned at her, Rayka did some quick thinking. “I heard Pearl Parkerson was doing lime green. We all know what people say about Pearl.”

She would have to go to church or donate to charity, she decided, because Pearl was a lovely woman who Mildred Shapiro loathed for some reason. Personally, Rayka thought Mrs. S. was just jealous because Pearl’s bank account had more zeros in it.

Mrs. S. clutched her chest as if she might have a heart attack. “Oh, no! My signature color? That woman, I am telling you. She found out. She found out that that is my favorite color and she hijacked it!”

Rayka shrugged.
Hail Mary, full of grace...
she said in her head even though she wasn’t Catholic. Then for no reason she felt the phantom sensation of her orgasm from the night before and her nipples peaked beneath her sweater.

“She is a vulture...” Mrs. Shapiro was rambling.

Rayka couldn’t seem to get a deep breath. She could hear him in her mind.
I would thrust up into you and suck your nipples, Rayka. And sometimes, sweetheart, I have to warn you, I bite...

“Hmm?” Rayka caught herself just in time. Reeled herself back from the land of daydreams before Mrs. Shapiro caught her. “I mean, I’m sure she didn’t do it on purpose.”

She felt terrible. The last time she had seen Mrs. Parkerson, she had told Rayka about the lovely brown and silvery blue theme in her master suite. She wouldn’t do neon lime and cranberry if someone put a shotgun in her mouth and threatened to pull the trigger.
I am going to hell...

“Now, you told me you don’t like the pink and black. That it’s been done to death and that every French stationery or painting has the pink and black and a poodle...”

Her client nodded vigorously, picking at her fingernails without even looking. A habit that drove Rayka nearly to madness. “It’s true. It’s become too cutesy.”

“You have a point,” Rayka said. And she did have a point. Every cartoonish depiction of French fashion had exactly what Mrs. S. described. “So what about the black and maybe this turquoise? It’s very pale. Almost a pastel but not quite. And you don’t see it everywhere. Very small, dainty polka dots. Some stripes. Pinstripes to be exact. Maybe a white wrought iron chair at your dressing table. White wood would be good. A large mirror in front with a shelf or two hung over the mirrored surface...”

“What is it, Rayka?” Mrs. S. asked. She was fingering the lavender version of Rayka’s first fabric choice. She did have a love of all things purple. Lavender was technically purple, but not shock-me purple as Mildred would have chosen.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said. But she had just realized she was basing her design on the very Parisian décor of the candy shop. Inspiration and orgasms all in one stop. She let out a high little giggle and quickly covered her mouth with her hands. It was official. This was the deep end, and she had just gone off of it.

“What’s so funny?” her client asked.

“Nothing. I am a little tired. I think it’s sleep deprivation,” she lied through her teeth.
No panties...
he had said. He wanted her to show up for dinner with no panties. And then what? What would he do to her? Would he do it right there in the restaurant? Would he wine and dine her and then pin her up against the wall of the alley in the dirt and grime? Would he ply her with liquor and hike up her dress and fuck her against the hood of his car? No panties and then what?

“You don’t look well, dear. You’re all flushed. Do you have a fever?” Mrs. Shapiro put a cool hand to her forehead.
Older women’s hands were always cool
, Rayka thought, out of the blue.

Her pussy was thumping in time with her racing heart. She realized that any of those scenarios would do. She would let him do anything to her. Take her anywhere. The sudden realization that she would rule her business with an iron fist but let a virtual stranger fuck her in a dirty alley did it to her all over again. Another high, nearly whistling giggle slipped out.

“I think you should go home and go to bed,” Mrs. Shapiro said, turning maternal all of the sudden.

Maybe later. After dinner. Dinner with no panties. And a quick lay in the alley. Or up against a car...
Rayka shook her head to force the crazy thoughts away.

“I think I’ll do that. Call me if you have any questions. You think about some of these suggestions and we will meet in a day or so.”

She was juggling her bag and her book and her swatches, and she was trying to ignore the way her body was nearly humming with the want of this man named Deacon, when Mrs. S. called, “What do you think about red? I’m thinking red for the bedroom, Rayka!”

Dammit. There was the high-pitched giggle again. She hurried out and pretended not to hear. She had to get her head together before dinner.

Chapter 6

Deacon pulled into her driveway. Rayka’s house was small and white with black shutters and a porch swing. Two rather large oaks flanked the front walk, and a small garden was planted at the bottom of the front porch. He took a deep breath and walked up the steps. Deep inside of himself he knew what he really wanted, and it was definitely not dinner at Frederick’s. He wanted to walk her backwards into the house the moment that door opened and he wanted to drape her over the nearest available surface. Didn’t matter. Sofa, butcher block, armchair, anything that would hold her stable while he stripped her bare and then slid into her. Entered her. She’d be wet, he was sure of it.

“Jesus,” he said, and his breath puffed out a little cotton ball of smoke in the cold air. “Get a handle, son.”

His boots sounded like cannon fire going up her wooden steps. He hadn’t dressed up. Frederick’s was casual to say the least. He hoped Rayka had, though. He wanted to see what kind of clothing came to mind when she thought of him. It said a lot. Cotton said less than silk. Wool not as much as satin. Soft and slippery and colorful said, ‘Touch me.’ An invitation she would not have to extend twice.

Deacon ignored the knocker and rapped the red wooden door with his fist. The door was cottage style. Wide planks of wood, rounded at the top. It was painted a cranberry. He expected Little Red Riding Hood to answer his knock. She did.