Lion Heart: Summer's Romance, #1

By L. A. Zoe

When 25 year old Summer meets Clayton Solomon, she can't believe such a handsome, rich man 50 years old wants her. 

Then she learns his secret fetish. A furry, he enjoys dressing up to make love in a lion costume.

Summer resists. The romance she craves invites enough criticism because of her younger age. 

Clayton's passion overwhelms her hesitation. She can't control her love for Clayton.

Summer Watson seems to Have It All.

25-years-old, beautiful, a rising local TV reporter, she attends a birthday party around a backyard swimming pool for one of the wealthiest self-made CEOs in St. Louis -- as his son's date.

She doesn't intend to fall in love with his 50-year-old father. 

Clayton Solomon doesn't intend to steal the woman his son loves so madly.

Summer still nurses the emotional scars from her only serious previous relationship. Clayton counts three ex-wives.

Summer's mother never learns to say no to booze, noninjectable drugs, or men. Clayton fathers his first daughter years before Summer's birth.

Summer demands fidelity. Clayton can't stop himself from cheating -- according to all 3 ex-wives. And his own children.

Summer's family thinks Clayton too old for her. Clayton's family thinks Summer too young for him -- except his son, who simply seethes with jealous.

Summer's friends call Clayton a pervert. His friends believe Summer a golddigger.

And Clayton Solomon has a secret. A furry, he enjoys sex fantasies as a lion. 

Can they make their love work? Despite the fear of having their furry sexual practices 'outed?' Despite opposition from their family and friends?

Can Summer even keep the peace long enough for everyone to celebrate Father's Day together, so Clayton can spend it with his children and grandchildren?

If you want to root for two lovers determined to make a life together despite their problems, give it a try.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386482857

Book preview

Lion Heart

The Watsons 1

Summer's Romance: 1

L.A. Zoe

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter One

You never told me your father is so scorching hot, Summer Watson said to Calwood Solomon.

They sat at a round, wood table close to the pool. The warm breeze blew a whiff of green from the nearby lawn thick with elm trees, barberry bushes, and fine fescue grass into her face. Sunlight glinted off the water’s surface. In the shallow end, a little boy and girl splashed around.

Summer took a sip of the sweet wine cooler.

Nothing like starting off summer, Memorial Day weekend Saturday afternoon, with a lawn party behind a Ladue mansion. Family and close friends occupied the tables around the concrete pool deck. The other guests, some dressed up and others wearing casual wear befitting the time of day and season, milled around a backyard so large Summer couldn’t see the back of it.

He’s just well-preserved. Like an Egyptian mummy, Calwood replied.

A flimsy black cloth, lined with black crepe paper, covered their table, and all the tables. The plasticware utensils were also black, as were the paper plates and plastic glasses holding their drinks. Overhead, strings held more black crepe paper and black balloons reading ‘Happy 50th Birthday’ in white lettering.

In the center of the main table up front sat a huge three-decker black-icinged cake with a big ‘2’ candle before the big ‘5’ candle.

Shouldn’t the candle numbers be reversed? Summer asked. Except you told me he’s just fifty today.

It’s supposed to be a joke, Cal said. Brooke—that’s his third wife—

They’re divorced now?

Yeah, but they’re still good friends. Anyway, she lets him get away with too much. He claims he’s still twenty-five—every birthday. But everybody knows this is number fifty, so he’s got to put up with the mourning theme.

Summer laughed. I think it’s cute. He wants to remain our age.

Younger than me, Cal said with a grim voice while looking away from her. I’m twenty-six, and not ashamed to admit it.

Summer smiled to herself, feeling a nervous tingle as she took advantage of Cal’s ill-temper to admire his profile. His chiseled, sharp features never failed to thrill her. A man handsome in a plain, masculine way. Not a metrosexual pretty boy.

Although now tightened in a grim frown, his mouth and full lips could broaden in a full, engaging smile. Bushy eyebrows over intense, gray eyes. A full head of brown hair combed to the side, and trimmed to blend in unobtrusively. No doubt by some stylist who charged a hundred dollars or more.

Yes, Cal Solomon had a face to spread legs for. And she would. Not yet, but soon. Just not too soon.

She liked her lips, tasting the anticipation.

Not that the rest of him was anything to ignore.

He wore his knit Izod green-trimmed shirt on a small, compact frame with just the slightest hint of flab around the waist, from too many nights spent working, not exercising, no doubt. The stylish white tennis shorts showed off knotted calves and well-defined thigh muscles.

Yes, a body to throw into her bed and hump until her sweat and juices soaked the sheets and she couldn’t scream anymore.

Of course, it couldn’t and wouldn’t go any farther than that.

But, if Solomon Real Estate opened an account and ran a few million dollars of advertising on KPLU, that wouldn’t hurt her standing at the station ...

While the five-piece band played something that might be a Beatles song—Grandma would know, but not Summer—she looked around.

As ever, despite the many social occasions she attended as part of her job, hobnobbing with the rich and successful thrilled Summer. Thank goodness for American social class mobility.

Between the pool deck and the patio, the catering service set up a buffet on a long table. Men wearing black pants and white shirts, some in aprons, carried large trays of sliced ham, green beans and bacon, and three kinds of potato salad. Women in gray uniforms and white smocks laid out the tossed salad, deserts, and punch bowl. That table too was decorated all in black.

Careful to keep a neutral look on her face, Summer glanced down at herself. Just to make sure.

A powder blue Tadashi Shoji dress new from Neiman Marcus at Plaza Frontenac. A conservative neckline and length, but showing off her trim figure.

With a black leather Armani purse, Versace flats, and sophisticated costume jewelry. All bought from a resale shop in Brentwood, because the dress alone took her entire clothing budget for three months.

And of course, her prize pink rose diamond earrings in 14 carat gold. She bought them with her last bonus.

A few clips and hair spray to hold her long, gleaming black hair in place as the stylist intended, a few sprays of YSL Baby Doll Magic perfume, and Summer was set, sure she was blending in.

Sure nobody realized she didn’t belong despite her high-profile job. Nobody knew her mother was a burnt-out case and her grandmother a hippie organic gardener.

After all, she arrived on the arm of the only son of the party’s star.

Clayton Solomon sat at the head of the main table, waving his hands as he spoke.

The founder and CEO of Solomon Real Estate wore lightweight, gray shorts and a sweat-soaked t-shirt. Plus a red knit band around his head.

Your dad looks like he just came off the tennis courts, Summer said to Cal.

Probably did, Cal said, growling.

His hair’s mussed, like he hasn’t even showered.

Probably hasn’t, Cal said. Father objects to the whole idea of a birthday party for him. Would rather just ignore the whole thing. He really doesn’t care what anybody else thinks or feels.

Too intent on studying Clayton Solomon to respond to his son’s evident dislike, Summer kept staring at him.

Like son, like father.

A thin, hawkish handsome face, only slightly rounded by age and the loss of some hair on top. No beard or mustache. Face brown and smooth, with no sign of weathering. Gray eyes that matched his son’s. Black hair, with tinges of gray, especially at the temples.

He didn’t look fifty. Older than Cal, but not old. More like a big brother than a father.

Especially not with that bod.

The muscles Cal hadn’t built up, Clayton had, though not with the Incredible Hulkish, shirt-ripping, steroid bulk of a bodybuilder or weight lifter.

Just muscles large and well-defined enough to attract attention, to tell the world Clayton worked out. Pecs that pressed out the knit shirt. Biceps that stretched the short sleeves. Quads that pushed up and out of his shorts. She couldn’t see below the knit shirt, but it lay flat on his stomach, and his waistline showed no trace of fat.

He swigged a drink from his black glass, leaned back, laughed at something someone said, and Summer saw something flash from his eyes.

Not a light or anything corny. But something. An energy.

The more she stared, the more Summer realized some kind of invisible force field surrounded the man, drawing people to him. She hated to think like that—it reminded her of tripped out Mom and hippie-dippie Grandma—but she felt the vibration in the pit of her stomach.

Not to mention between her legs.

She turned to Cal. You’re wrong.

What?

Your father is so hot I almost need a cold shower, or a dip in the pool.

A strange look flickered across the features of Cal’s face, then disappeared. Summer thought it was anger, but couldn’t be sure.

Once she worked on a story where a police detective taught her how they could catch guilty liars by looking for such micro facial expressions. But they had cameras to record them, and computers to analyze them. She didn’t.

He does work out, Cal said. And watches what he eats. He has the time I don’t, while I’m running the company for him.

Touchy, touchy, Summer said in a teasing voice, grinning as she spoke.

Cal didn’t smile back. If you want a grandfather’s muscles...he’s currently interviewing for a new girlfriend. Go for it.

Maybe she wouldn’t land the Solomon account after all.

Two men brought out a big, steaming platter of roast beef. A man in a white cook’s uniform and big white chef’s hat sliced it.

That was the signal for everyone to line up at the buffet line and help themselves to the delicious food.

Summer restricted herself to the tossed salad, green beans with bacon, and a juicy slice of the roast beef. She refilled her glass of the wine cooler. Cal loaded up his plate and took another whiskey and soda from the bar. Was that his third, or fourth?

She forced herself to eat slowly, savoring each bite, enjoying the relaxed, peaceful atmosphere. Bright warm sunlight, cheerful wealthy people, and a hot bod beside her. Who could ask for more?

Summer smiled at Cal. He didn’t stop eating, but did smile back. He forgave her whatever she said wrong.

The long table full of wrapped presents reminded her. Should I walk over there and put my present and card with the others? she asked Cal.

You bought my father a present? Why?

Because I’m here at his birthday party, and I was raised to be a polite girl, silly.

I don’t see it.

It’s in my purse. It’s small.

Cal frowned. If you go now, everybody will watch you. Wait until later.

Summer didn’t want to be the center of attention. She had enough of people gawking at her when she was out on a story. These people were too sophisticated to fawn on her just because she appeared on their TV screens. And she didn’t want them to think she wanted extra attention. Okay.

But I can’t believe you bought him something. You ought to return it and get your money back. Everything he really wants, he buys for himself. Whether new shoes or a new mistress.

Who are all those people at the head table?

The bleached blonde is Brooke, used to be my stepmother. This is her mansion, her party. I think she still loves him, but they get along a lot better divorced than married. She can tell herself it doesn’t matter to her what he does, even though it does. The dried out old prune is Father’s first wife. That’s what two years of marriage to him did to her.

How about the couple and their two kids?

My half-sister Patricia, her husband Ferguson, and my niece and nephew. The girl is my younger sister Taylor. She graduated from Brown University last year and now works in an online marketing department.

First and third wives are here. What about the second?

Cal grinned for the first time since their arrival. Like the Big Bad Wolf at Red Riding Hood. My mother? Not until Hell hosts the Winter Olympics.

Am I keeping you from that table? Summer asked.

Cal shrugged. I didn’t send in my RSVP.

I meant, since I’m just a date, not your wife ...

A look of irritation flashed on Cal’s face. Doesn’t matter. You’re more respectable than Father’s girlfriends.

The band members returned to their instruments, picked them up, and began to play a funeral dirge.

Brooke Solomon stood up and used the microphone to give a small speech wishing her favorite ex-husband a happy 50th birthday.

Clayton followed her, thanked both his two favorite ex-wives for the party, and made a big joke out of correcting her. It’s my twenty-fifth birthday, he said. Just like last year’s was and next year’s will be. Anybody who claims they know differently for a fact has to be so old they’re senile.

Summer felt Cal’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t pull hers away from Clayton. The man projected charisma like a searchlight into the night. Maybe it was animal magnetism. He certainly made her feel like an animal.

She suddenly wondered—not why he had so many ex-wives—but why he didn’t have a girlfriend up there with him. Or how any of the three wives let him go.

Not why, just how.

Since middle school she had many boyfriends. Some for months, some just for a night. But none had the raw sex appeal Clayton Solomon gave off as unconsciously—or was it?—as the scent of an aftershave lotion. Not even Bobby. And she loved him until...until.

She noticed her left hand in her lap, pressing down at her groin, and quickly brought it up to the table.

Don’t slobber on your nice new dress, Cal said.

His voice shocked her, like an alarm clock pulling her out of a warm delicious dream. What?

Your mouth is open so wide you look like the village idiot.

Cal —

You’ll have to wring out your panties.

Cal, that’s —

The rest of the crowd watched Clayton Solomon cut the first slice of cake while making jokes in an amplified voice that boomed around Summer’s ears.

Cal stood up. Let’s go now. I can’t stand anymore.

How many —?

I’m not drunk! he shouted. He grabbed her elbow and pulled up, wrenching her wrist, forcing her to stand with him. You coming or not?

The party wasn’t over yet. She wanted to talk to the other guests, bask in their wealth. Make contacts. Network. Maybe get leads on other local businesses not yet advertising on KPLU.

I just want to see —

Her shoulder jerked and pain shot through it, then the fingers were no longer tight above her elbow.

The sky tilted, and it and the blue water changed places and then nothing was below her but air, feet no longer on concrete, and Summer hit cold water.

Chapter Two

Summer landed right shoulder first, then her head went under. She splashed and foundered, twisted and turned, struggling with her arms and hands, fighting the drag of her wet dress and the shoes covering her feet.

She tasted the wet bland metal of chlorinated water, desperately exhaled to spit it out.

Finally she found the bottom, stood up, gasped for air, and flipped her wet hair to the back. Her face powder and mascara streaking down her cheeks.

Her dress was ruined!

Dared to open her eyes to the dazzling sunlight, then wanted to close them again.

And cry.

Shocked expressions on their faces, everybody was looking at her. Clayton Solomon held the microphone in one hand. It squeaked with feedback. He stood without speaking, his mouth a big open gap.

Something for them to talk about for the rest of her life. The blood rushed to her head. All she wanted to do was leave. Get out, hide, away from the smirking faces.

Elbows high, she held her arms up and paddled a little with her hands, and walked toward the shallow end where she could use the ladder to climb out.

And escape.

And look for a job in Muncie, Indiana. They had TV and radio stations there, didn’t they?

She couldn’t stand the shame. Tossed into a swimming pool like a kitten. In front of a hundred or so of the wealthiest and most influential people in St. Louis. She’d never live this down. She’d be the laughing stock of the Metro area.

The shock and horror made her want to throw up, but that would only add to her embarrassment, so she choked it down.

She never before thought about how hard it was to walk in a swimming pool with shoes on. Her feet kept slipping away uselessly. The water kept trying to pull her back under. She breathed in shallow, harsh gasps.

She wanted to cry and scream, but refused to let herself do anything but head for the way out. Not while everyone was still watching her.

She’d react when nobody could watch her. Take an entire bottle of Ambien and hire a hit man to take out Cal.

She hoped Clayton Solomon was happy his son had made his birthday party a screaming success. Very entertaining for all. Except her, the uppity party crasher who thought a successful career as a broadcast journalist gave her an entree to the upper class.

Small waves rocked her, and she realized in front of her someone dived into the pool. They landed cleanly, arms overhead, hands cutting through the water. They kicked, despite wearing white socks and red running shoes, stroked, and then stopped in front of her.

They got their feet to the bottom, stood, wiped the water from their face with the palm of their hand.

Clayton Solomon.

Summer almost fainted.

He raised his hands like a performer addressing the audience, and shouted to all his guests, Hey, everybody! She’s right! The water feels great! First time I’ve jumped into a swimming pool with my clothes on while I was sober!

He gave her a sharp look.

What did he want?

Summer reached deep into herself, and realized she had to play along.

The water looked so inviting, I couldn’t wait to put on my swim suit! she shouted to the other guests.

To her surprise, they not only laughed, with her not at her, but applauded. The applause grew until they were giving a standing ovation.

Encore! somebody shouted, and Summer had to laugh.

I give that dive a score of two point five, someone else called out.

Are you all right? Mr. Solomon asked in a quiet voice for just her to hear.

Summer took a deep breath to try to clear her head and remain calm.

Up close, Mr. Solomon looked even hotter. Now, even the new, chilly summer water wasn’t cooling her down. Thank goodness the mess of makeup on her face was hiding her furious blush.

Wet, the knit shirt outlined his muscles in bold detail. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt. Summer could even see the shapes of his nipples. She tried to turn her eyes away, but then they rested on his forceful biceps.

Up close, his face still looked handsome. His lightly tanned skin remained smooth and clear. He’d lost some hair over his forehead, but that just helped make him...what did they always call good-looking men over forty? Distinguished.

That’s it. Above the neck, he was distinguished.

Yet below the neck—and the still-tight throat—he looked like a young athlete.

His gray eyes stared with deep, unreadable intention. Again Summer felt some force exuding from him. Some subtle pheromones that made her estrogen effervesce like Alka-Seltzer.

He called to her in a secret voice it seemed only she could hear, like a dog whistle, but compelling. The mythological Sirens pulling sailors to their deaths.

She forced a smile. I am now.

Her right ear missed the weight of its earring. Her hand flew up to it, confirming the loss.

My earring! she said.

Clayton leaned forward to look closely at the one on her left ear. Oh my, that’s beautiful. You don’t want to lose them.

It must have fallen out.

Mr. Solomon clapped his hands and shouted, Josh! Kelly! Where are you?

Still wearing their swimming suits, the two tow-headed children, crumbs and sauces smeared over their mouths, ran to the edge of the pool. They shouted, Grandpa! Then jumped in, swam to him, and each held on to one of Mr. Solomon’s shoulders.

This beautiful young lady lost an earring in the pool, he told the children. Whoever finds it gets my piece of birthday cake.

The biggest one? the boy asked.

That’s right, Josh. With all the extra icing. Now, no fighting, you two. The one who holds it in their fist first, wins. Okay? One. Two. Three. Go!

Mr. Solomon lowered his body so the kids let go and kicked themselves, pushing their feet against his chest, down to the bottom.

If they don’t find it, I’ll have Charles put on a mask, Mr. Solomon said to Summer. Don’t worry. It’s too big to go through the drain grating.

Really, you don’t have to —

Yes I do. Voice firm though friendly. It’s my party. You’re my guest.

You don’t even know me. I came with —

He held up his palm. We’ll discuss that later, please.