Bittersweet (7 page)

She wasn’t aware she was dozing until Deacon climbed off the sofa. His sudden absence, even with the quilt, left her chilled. She watched him through slitted, sleepy eyes as he started to build a fire. Rayka had turned the heat way down before leaving for the night, and now that the temperature outside probably hovered just below freezing, her small house was turning frigid.

She liked the way his broad back flexed under his charcoal gray Henley. The way his super-faded, softer than soft jeans seemed to barely manage to cling to his hips. They had been worn into submission with years of wear and tear, she could tell. Only favorite clothes were that soft. She liked the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck making him seem just the tiniest bit vulnerable despite his attitude and size.

There was a lot about Deacon James that she liked, and more she wanted to know. She snuggled down further and watched him work, his movements measured and deliberate.

“Do you fit in here?” she asked. Even she was surprised by the question. She hadn’t known she would speak until she heard her own voice.

Deacon stilled, a fat bundle in his hand. He remained silent for a moment, and then half-grunted, half-smiled. He resumed building the fire and said, “I was starting to wonder myself until yesterday.”

“I’m not exactly a candy shop kinda guy. Especially a frou-frou candy shop with a French décor.” He said the last part with a grin. “I come from a land of cinderblocks and dirt and dust. Trailers as offices and sawhorses as lunch tables.”

“Ah, a working man. Busted up knuckles and grimy bandanas in your back pocket.” She sighed and stifled a yawn. Her uncle had been a foreman. Her dad a roofer. Her grandfather a coal miner. She knew a man who worked with his hands when she saw one.

“Exactly. I am more comfortable eating a sub over a trash can than I am serving peppermint bark to rich women.”

“I’m not rich.”

“I didn’t mean you. I meant most of the shop’s patrons. But now...” He set his neat and tidy pile aflame. His face glowed orange and yellow. He looked sad but sort of peaceful to Rayka.

“What is it? You miss your uncle I’m sure.” But there was more. She didn’t want to push it, though. She stopped, biting the tip of her tongue to still it.

“Of course. Gideon was my last family,” he said matter-of-factly. And then he rose and poked the burgeoning fire with the poker. “I miss him terribly. Believe it or not, an old queen and a gruff foreman can get along well when they have always loved each other. Gideon was the uncle who brought me stuff at Christmas when the others forgot. He sent cards. Took me to the circus. He had six nieces and one nephew.”

“So you were special,” Rayka said, smiling. Anyone could see that. For as intense as Deacon could be, underneath it all, there was something about him that beckoned you. Something calm and serene. Then there was the part of him that seemed slightly wounded. She wasn’t a fool. She knew that part of him called to her, too.

“So now you have—” she stopped. She didn’t want to say it aloud but he did it for her.

“No one. I have no one. I am alone in the world. For now.” He brushed his jeans off and stood. “Hungry?” he asked, changing the subject. When Rayka looked him in the eyes, his gaze was strong, but his eyes spoke volumes.
No more. Leave it be. Let’s drop it.
So she did.

“Whatever. I want to cook. I like to cook almost as much as I like to eat. You stay there. Stay warm. I like the thought of you under there all naked and warm.”

Rayka wasn’t aware she had dozed again. She remembered thinking that Deacon seemed like a man who had lost a lot. More than an uncle and more than a foreman job. At some point the sofa and the fire and the warmth had worked their magic. The domestic sounds from the kitchen added to the cozy feeling.

She could feel him standing over her. Feel his presence where none normally would be. She lived all by herself, not even a cat or dog to keep her company. “I’m coming,” she mumbled, meaning she was trying, trying desperately hard to wake up.

“Take your time,” he said. His voice was soft and something in the tone made her force her eyes open to see his face. He stood in his low slung jeans, her tea tray in his hands. Steam rose from the tray, but she couldn’t see what he had brought. His face was an intense mask of emotion. She just wasn’t sure what emotions she was dealing with. Deacon could be terribly hard to read. And yet, intuition told her to speak softly, be gentle.

“You okay?” She sat up and pulled the quilt around her. The warm air felt chilly to her after being swaddled in the big blanket. Her nipples peaked, and she shivered.

He nodded. Happy with her response. “Hungry?” He shifted his gaze, but Rayka could still feel that unnamed emotion. The tension that wasn’t quite tension but something she couldn’t place.

“Of course.” He turned and put his finger on her bottom lip and pushed her mouth open. Then he tore off a piece of sandwich and placed it on her tongue.

Rayka chewed and then, “Oh, God. That’s good. That’s not grilled cheese. That’s...” The bread was flaky, buttery and crisp. The cheese rich but sharp. Another, smoother flavor accented the sharper cheese.

“It is so. It’s aged sharp cheddar with a very thin layer of cream cheese on buttered white bread with a dash of garlic powder. Now soup.”

He put the spoon to her lips and she took in the rich, red soup. No surprise now, it was doctored up to be ten times better than regular old canned soup. He watched her face intently. “Well?” His voice very soft. So soft at times she had to strain to hear him over the crack and hiss of the burning fire.

“I need you to teach me to do this. So much better than half-burnt grilled cheese and watery yet lumpy soup.” She let him spoon another bite into her mouth and swallowed. She felt warm, both outside and inside. Deacon leaned in and kissed her. Long and slow, the kiss spread that warm feeling throughout her arms and legs.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she said without thinking.

Deacon ran his tongue along her bottom lip and tasted her. He set the soup on the tray and pushed his hands under the quilt. He ran his palms over her hot, naked skin. Being wrapped in the big cover had left her hot to the touch, but the air from the room felt cold. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why would you?” Rayka bit her lip at the way his face colored and grew even more serious.

“Because I don’t fuck and leave. And I didn’t know I gave off that impression.”

“You don’t, “she stammered. “It’s just me. The last guy I dated, he seemed like the kind to stay and the first time...well, the
only
time—”

“As it should have been,” he said gruffly and hauled her onto his lap. She could feel his cock, hard and ready again, through his jeans. It rode the cleft of her sex, and now when she bit her lip it was for a different reason. Rayka felt a flush start in her cheeks as he pulled her close and bit gently on the slope of her collar bone. Then he bit even harder where her neck met her shoulder. A spark of pleasure mixed with pain shot through her, and she gasped.

“I’m not going anywhere, Rayka.” His hands took a quick tour, and then he was tugging at his fly and she was helping. He settled her down on him again. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of the feel of him, how his cock felt stretching her, filling her. She already felt sore and used, but in the best kind of way. Her tender flesh accepted him again, and she sighed.

“I have plans to stick around for a very long time,” he said and then bit her again. It was the hardest bite of all, and she felt her flesh bruise even as her cunt clenched around him. The bruise on the back of her neck from early thumped in sympathy.

The orgasm rolled through her, pushed higher and then higher still by that bright, intense flash of pain. “You belong to me now,” he said into her ear.

A flash of fear and then an odd calm. Deacon tensed under her and then came, pulling her down into his lap even as he thrust up into her. “Mine,” he said again.

Somehow, Rayka believed him.

Chapter 12

They didn’t even make it to the bed. They devoured the lukewarm food and then curled up on the sofa. The fire was dying and Rayka was out cold. She had nestled down against his chest, his arm crooked around her. She snored lightly, and he grinned down into her sleeping face. She would have a fit if she knew she snored.

Deacon smoothed her hair off of her forehead and bent to kiss her softly. She would have something smart to say if she saw him do that. More than once as they had eaten, she had teased him for his gruffness. What he felt around her was an ease. But he didn’t say it. Couldn’t admit that to anyone, to a degree, not even to himself. It was no effort to spend time with Rayka. He didn’t struggle to think of conversation or find ways to engage her. Whether discussing the dreaded Mrs. Shapiro,
The Good, the Sweet, and the Yummy
, or the impending name change of said shop, being with her was effortless. Something Deacon would have to adjust to. Mostly he struggled through the date to get to the sex. He neither sought, nor had he found, anything that resembled an emotional connection.

This intense and seemingly instantaneous connection with her was unnerving, and very few things unnerved him. In most situations, if brains didn’t get you through, brawn would. If that failed, a combination of the two would always work. With her, he seemed to be running on what he felt in his chest and his cock. His heart strings seemed directly wired to this crazy, quirky designer.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled when he kissed her again. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. He kissed her once more between the eyes.

“I believe the kids are calling it kissing these days.”

“Uncle,” she mumbled and snuggled closer, her breasts mashing against his bare chest. How many times can you make love to a woman in one night and still suffer an insane want of her?

“Yes. That. If you try to do that again, you’ll kill me. It would be the best way to die, I’m sure, but I’m so sore. In a very, very good way, but still. Very sore.”

“Why a big day?” Deacon ran his hand down her back. He cupped the swell of her bottom and played his fingers over the welts that still stood out on her flesh.

Rayka moaned against his chest and pushed her body closer to his. She liked that. She liked the after-pain and the feel of his hand on her marks. And Deacon liked that she liked it. He kissed her hair.

“Mrs. Shapiro’s party, of course.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said, trying not to laugh.

“Oh no! No, no, no! It’s all your fault. You will be there, Deacon. No doubt. Spank me, tie me up, whip me, drag me around by my hair, but you are coming.”

“Careful how you phrase things.” In his head he heard her lilting voice again,
tie me up
. Definitely on the menu but he would keep that to himself.

Rayka reached down and slid her palm along his cock. A gentle touch. Already awakening, it twitched in her hand. “Jezaloo. You are a machine. Are you human?” she snorted.

“Yep, all man.”

“Yeah, but most men can’t...I mean they don’t...they aren’t so resilient,” she finally finished and then shook with laughter. He held her close, liking the way her body felt happy and alive. Not tense with him. That made him feel even more at peace. Mostly, women were attracted to him but had a certain amount of fear. Awkwardness, even. Not her. She would get on her knees for him, cry for him, obey him, and then tease him mercilessly.