STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) Read online

  He chuckles, a rugged rumble from his chest.

  Eff me . . . again.

  “Good to know. Want to show me your skills in the kitchen?”

  I nod, not able to speak. I follow behind him like a lovesick puppy, wishing he would give me a little more attention. Maybe a pat on the head, a lick to the neck, or a penis to my vagina. Any would really do right about now.

  While he grabs the ingredients for the pasta salad, I watch his steady movements, his confidence in the kitchen, and his familiarity with his surroundings. He doesn’t seem like someone trying to act like they cook; he knows what he’s doing, and that is downright sexy. Any man who can cook, can easily win a piece of my heart.

  “My mom and I came up with this recipe for pasta salad back when I was in high school. I was eating over four thousand calories a day to keep up with my training regimen, and this healthy version of pasta salad was a lifesaver. I took a bowl of it to school with me every day as a mid-afternoon snack.”

  “Over four thousand calories?” I ask, finding my voice. “That is an insane amount of calories.”

  “I eat about thirty-five hundred now. It’s one of the positives of being a swimmer; you get to eat a lot. But now that I’m older, I don’t necessarily sit down and eat a giant burger, I try to find calories in a healthier way. My pasta salad helps with that.”

  “But aren’t you grilling up burgers for lunch?” I tease.

  “I am, smart-ass.” He laughs. “Instead of buns, we’re eating them on lettuce wraps.”

  “Appetizing,” I say sarcastically. I am a healthy eater, but I love my bread, I don’t appreciate people taking it away, especially when burgers are mentioned.

  “You’ll live. Now wash your hands while I cut the peppers. I don’t know where those hands have been and I don’t want them all over my food.”

  “I’m not disgusting,” I say, going to the sink to wash up.

  The soap next to the sink is from Bed Bath & Beyond, and it smells like heaven. It’s funny to me that he has a fancy hand-wash soap. What man stocks such a thing in his house?

  “Why are you giggling to yourself over there?”

  I didn’t realize I was giggling. Busted. “Your soap. I just didn’t expect a bad boy like you to have black-cherry-apple-scented hand wash.”

  “My mom brings over a bunch whenever she’s visiting. She is constantly making sure I’m prepared to be a good hostess when I have people over, which is pretty much never.”

  “Oh, I’m one of few,” I joke.

  He slides the peppers, a cutting board, and a knife in front of me. “You are.” His voice displays no humor in it. “This is my sanctuary. I don’t like a lot of people messing with it.” His breath practically tickles the hairs on the back of my neck.

  Gulp.

  I clear my throat. “I can understand that. You must get hounded a lot when you’re in the public eye. I’m surprised no one approached you at the beach. Your tattoo is kind of a giveaway.”

  He looks down at it and then scans my body. “I could say the same about you. What’s the story behind your ink?”

  The peppers are left in front of me while he grabs a box of veggie pasta from the shelf and starts boiling a huge pot of water. He covers it with a lid and then turns to me, waiting for my answer, hands resting behind him against the counter. His chest expands with his breath and his abs ripple with each movement. It would be no hardship having to stare at him all day.

  “So, are you going to tell me?” he prods.

  Not caring about chopping vegetables, I say, “Ever hear a phrase or saying that touches your heart to the point that you want it branded on your soul?”

  “I have,” he answers, curiosity in his eyes.

  “I grew up on an Indian Reservation. My parents weren’t too keen on me exploring outside of the general store they own. I was sheltered, big time. I didn’t really know life outside of going to school and stocking shelves. My grandpa was my only outlet. Every Friday night he would take me to the movies, and I would sit there, a big tub of popcorn on my lap and a huge smile on my face. The movies were my escape, very much like swimming is yours. I fell in love with the production, the storylines, the creation of putting it altogether. I wanted to be a part of making dreams become a reality. I studied film, went to school for it and got a master’s degree in production. Movies have been a part of me ever since I can remember; they helped me escape a humdrum life and gave me a dream to live for. Along the way, I collected phrases, musings from movies that touched me in a way I can’t explain. Those sayings were branded in my soul, so I branded them on my body as well.”

  He steps closer and examines my tattoos. Gently, his finger pulls down my cover-up, exposing the tattoo that runs across my collarbone. “You had me at hello.” His grin peeks past his lips, lips I wish would press against my own, just for a small taste. “Jerry McGuire, great movie.”

  “The first movie I ever saw with a sex scene.” I laugh. “But one of the best romantic lines ever in a movie.”

  He chuckles. “Hell of a good sex scene, you’re lucky it was your first.” He tilts his head so he reads the tattoo along the length of my neck. “I figure life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wasting it.” He pulls back and studies me, unsure of where the quote is from.

  “Titanic,” I answer. “Leonardo DiCaprio will forever be a part of me. I would never let go.” I laugh, and he joins in with me.

  He then lifts my arm to see the tattoo on my left wrist. It’s small, but legible. “Anything can happen, if you let it.”

  “Mary Poppins,” I say before he can guess.

  “A wise woman.” He smiles, looking at my lips as if he wants to kiss me. The tension between us grows as he continues to examine my tattoos. With every turn of my body, I feel his heat, filling my space, suffocating me in all the right ways.

  He can only read the visible tattoos, I don’t plan on taking my clothes off for him to inspect every last inch of me, but to be honest, if he asked me to, I would be stripping right here, right now, in the middle of his state-of-the-art kitchen.

  “These are all words that have touched your soul?” he asks, running his finger along the tattoo on my right forearm.

  “Yes, in one way or another, these words have helped me through my life; they’ve inspired me to be a better person, to strive for more.”

  He nods and steps back, giving me some space, space I don’t want. “I can relate. I have a saying I carry around with me everywhere I go and tape it to my locker before each swim meet.”

  “Really?” I ask, curious to find out we are similar in a way. “What does it say?”

  Without skipping a beat, he answers, “Every champion was once a contender that refused to give up.”

  “Rocky Balboa,” I say, holding up my right arm and pulling up the sleeve of my cover-up, so he can see the small saying etched on my inner bicep.

  His hands automatically go to my arm, and he reads his saying that is scrawled across my skin, his fingers carefully caressing the ink. “No fucking way.” He laughs. “Damn, I think my heart just skipped a beat.”

  His heart just skipped a beat? How about mine is about to pound right out of my chest from the light caress of his fingers along my arm.

  There is a fire in his eyes, a passionate fire, full of heat, yearning . . . wanting. The feeling is mutual. An addictive pulsing runs through my body, settling in my core. Beat after beat, our silence surrounds us. His chest falls in rhythm with mine, our breathing syncing as one as his hazel eyes continue to bore down on mine, looking for answers as to what this burning sensation is flowing between us.

  I clear my throat and take the first look away. His gaze is too strong; I’m bound to do something stupid. “So, these peppers need to be chopped, huh?” I ask, turning quickly so my back faces him. My hands rest on the counter, and I take a few deep breaths, trying to still my heart from exploding out of my chest.

  Not the smoothest of transitions, but at least I didn’t have
to face him anymore; I just get to feel his stare beating down on my back.

  From behind, I can sense his body retreat from mine. I peek over my shoulder to see him casually pace the kitchen, his hand running through his hair, tension evident in his shoulders.

  “Yeah,” he grumbles. “Cut them up into little squares. I’ll grab the cheese and start working on that.”

  It’s awkward.

  Incredibly awkward. I can feel my armpits start to sweat and my ears heat from embarrassment.

  Why I’m embarrassed, I don’t know. It’s one of those reactions I’m prone to. Some people might get angry, or laugh it out, whereas I get embarrassed and my ears turn a bright shade of red.

  Should have listened to myself earlier, I should have left when I had the courage to leave. But then Mr. Muscles just had to take off his towel in front of me, giving me the smallest of peep shows.

  In silence, we work on our respective foods. I chop, not paying attention to what I’m doing, and to the side, it sounds like he’s doing the same.

  Nonchalantly, I look over at his cutting board. He has a sharp knife in his hand, and he’s cutting a block of cheese like a professional chef, in perfectly symmetrical cubes. The peppers on my board look like they’ve been half mutilated by a spork.

  Cringing, I turn back to my peppers and try to concentrate on what I’m doing, which is pretty much impossible with Reese King standing next to me—shirtless, his shorts riding incredibly low on his hips, and smelling like some damn piece of heaven dropped from the sky. Earlier, when he turned around, I was able to check out the dimples right above his ass. I envisioned sticking my tongue in them, just for the hell of it, testing the depth with my fingers, maybe even doing a little nipple play with those dimples. You know, placing my nips right in there just for the hell of it.

  “What are you doing to those peppers?” Reese asks me, mirth in his voice.

  “Um, cutting them?” I ask, knowing full well it looks like I’m shredding them like pulled pork.

  “Let me show you how it’s done.”

  Like any other normal person, they would have asked the pepper mutilator to step aside so they can take the helm of the cutting board. Not Reese. He’s not like every other normal human being. I should have known that by the deep V in his waistline.

  Instead of sliding me to the side, he steps behind me and wraps his arms around my body. His six-foot-two height towers over my short frame. His head ducks down to mine, where his lips speak directly into my ear. The warmth emanating off his body breaks through my thin cover-up and spreads over my skin. Without any control over my body, my back rests against his chest, giving him a better view of my front and the peppers.

  His arms encase me, and his right hand wraps around mine that is holding the knife. Together, he forces us to pick up the pepper, so we are working in tandem, exercising our ability to chop vegetables . . . in the most intimate way possible.

  I don’t think I can breathe. There is an inferno raging in my stomach, my clit is pulsing uncontrollably, and my mouth falls into desert mode, drying out completely.

  With a rugged voice, he says into my ear, “You have to cut the pepper lengthways first.” He demonstrates, using my hands as well. “Then, you start cutting little squares.”

  As if we are one, our bodies are fused together and we chop, not saying a single word to each other, just completing the task at hand.

  Time slows down, our breathing becomes ragged, and no longer are we chopping. From behind me, Reese’s head dips to my neck. I can feel his lips a whisper away, begging to press against my sensitive skin. Chills run up and down my spine, and I wonder if he’s actually going to make a move.

  I want him to make a move, desperately. Every square inch of my body wants him to take charge, to tear my bathing suit off and ravish me on the kitchen counter. I want to know what it looks like to have his head between my thighs, to see him look up at me during my throes of passion.

  “Paisley,” he breathes out and turns me around, slowly.

  Pushing me up against the counter, he tilts my head so I’m forced to face him. His eyes are searing with hunger . . . for me.

  My breath catches in my throat as he leans forward, inches away from my lips. He smells, expensive, addictive. Male. His body is hard against mine, heated, and willing. All I have to do is press myself a few inches closer, weave my hands in his wavy black hair, and revel in the feel of his short scruff on my face.

  But I remain still. I don’t move for two reasons: my job, and he has a girlfriend.

  Shit, he has a girlfriend.

  Just as he closes the last few inches between us, I slide to the side and part from our connection. Feverously running my hands up and down my body, as if I am trying to wipe myself off, I glance at him, confused.

  “What are we doing? You’re in a relationship . . . with my boss. Am I insane?” I poke him in the chest, his rock-hard chest. “Are you insane? I can’t believe you would cheat on Bellini like that.” I pause for a second and then think about what I said. “Well, I guess I could believe it. She’s not the biggest charm on the bracelet.” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. This doesn’t make any sense. What am I doing here? This was a huge mistake. I need to get my things.”

  I weave my way past him, through the kitchen and into the living room, all the while he’s laughing.

  LAUGHING!

  Annoyed now, but hiding my fingers so I don’t have another flicking episode, I turn to face him, hands on my hips. “Why is this so funny to you? Is adultery funny to you?”

  Still with a smile on his face, laughter crinkling the corner of his eyes, he glides toward me until his hands meet my hips. I step away but he stops me, not letting me go. In his deep, sultry voice he says, “You have to be in an actual relationship, Paisley, in order to commit adultery.”

  “What?” I ask. “I’m not in a relationship, you are. You are the one being the adulterer.”

  “Also, adultery is for married people. Neither of us are married.”

  His calm attitude is starting to make me mad. “Fine, cheater, you’re a cheater.”

  “Also incorrect.”

  “Oh, because you didn’t actually kiss me? Well, getting close enough so you can lick me is pretty much cheating, I don’t care how you spin it. Now, if you would please let me go, I need to leave before I do something stupid.”

  “And what might that be?” He brings me closer, so our chests are pressed together.

  Lord, is he strong.

  I sigh in exasperation. “Reese, you’re my boss. Your girlfriend is my boss. You are attached to someone. This isn’t a good idea.”

  “But you want to,” he counters, a spark in his eye.

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing can ever happen.”

  I disengage his hands from my hips and step away to grab my bag from the floor. I feel empty without him near me even though the heat between us is still very strong. I tell myself not to look back, to keep moving toward my exit, but my body defies my mind and gives him one last glance.

  A cocky grin stretches across his face while one of his hands pulls on the back of his neck. His muscles flex, his bicep bulges, and everything about him screams, “jump me right now.”

  “We’re not together,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know we’re not together. I’m well aware—”

  Pressing his finger to my lips, he says, “Bellini and I are not together. It’s all for the show. It’s not real. Our publicists set it up.”

  Come again?

  Did he just say his relationship is a hoax?

  This delicious man standing in front of me is actually available, and he wants me?

  And just like that, the throbbing in my body starts up again, my mind draws a blank, the only thing running through it are thoughts of Reese naked and on top of me.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s a lie, Paisley.” He cups my cheek. “The only relationship I have with Bellini
is a working one. There is nothing romantic between us.”

  Annoyingly my head presses against his hand, and I revel in the way his thumb rubs adoringly along my cheek. Before I know it, both his hands are cupping my face, and his head is lowering toward mine.

  No, this can’t happen, despite how much I want it to. He’s my boss. I can’t lose this job, even if the man in front of me smells so divine I could orgasm multiple times. From his smell alone. Virile. Sexy. Edible. Available. Stop! Boss. Boss. Boss. Boss.

  Basic stranger danger instincts register in my head, and I snake my arms between us, with my forearms, I throw his hands off my face while simultaneously slamming my forehead into his for an epic headbutt, sending him backward a few steps.

  Pain radiates through my skull as I realize the wrong instincts kicked in—once again—and I abused the man.

  He holds his head where I smacked him and gives me a dazed and confused look.

  Oh God, not again.

  I didn’t mean to headbutt him. I was just trying to get away as quickly as possible before I did something incredibly stupid. Too bad for me, I still did something incredibly stupid.

  We stare at each other, not saying anything, while he searches me for answers. I will myself to say something, anything to get this moment over with.

  Instead of apologizing like any other Chuck Norris impersonator, I hold up my bag to my ear and say, “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” he asks, still holding on to his head.

  Digging through my bag, I find my phone and then give him the universal “one minute” finger for hold on. “Hello, oh hey, yup, give me one second.” I cup the fake call to my chest, like I’m blocking off the speaker and say, “Sorry, I have to take this. Got to go. Okay, talk to you later, Reese.” I point to his forehead. “Ice, rest, and Tylenol. See ya.”

  I walk toward the front door, pretending to talk on the phone as Reese calls after me. “This isn’t over, Paisley. I know that’s a fake phone call.”

  My eyes squeeze shut from being caught, but I continue to move out the door. If I’m faking a phone call, I will see it through, despite not fooling anyone.