STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) Read online

  “And why would you subject yourself to such ridicule?” I tease.

  “Exactly. Oh, hell no, I refuse. So, I end up coloring little kids coloring books. I’m going to tell you right now, the Frozen coloring books can stop. I’m one Olaf away from writing Disney a letter.”

  “They just can’t let it go, can they?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face.

  “Clever.” She chuckles. “Ana or Elsa?”

  “I’m more of a punk rock Ariel fan.”

  “A what?” She crinkles her nose in confusion.

  “Oh, come on.” I shove her shoulder with mine. “You haven’t seen those pictures trending all over Facebook? Artists drawing the Disney princesses in all different get-ups. There’s been the book nerds, the hipsters, the average woman, the punk rock chicks. Ariel dressed up in tattoos with long black hair, fucking boner worthy.” It doesn’t escape me that Paisley is a close relative of Punk Rock Ariel.

  “Ah.” She gives me a sideways glance, looking up through her lashes. “You like tattoos, huh?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I ask, not talking about my own ink, but about hers.

  Electricity bounces between us, heat starts to develop, and all I can think about is pushing her down on her towel and exploring her body, tracing every single one of her tattoos until they are memorized.

  She clears her throat and lies completely down on the towel, closing her eyes. I take that moment to scan her body once more, appreciating every curve, every defined muscle in her stomach, the little dip in her hips where her bathing suit bottoms caress her. Her chest is full, her breasts propped up from her position. What I wouldn’t give to slip her top off right now, just for a small fucking peek.

  “What hobbies do you have other than swimming?” she asks, covering the sun from her eyes and squinting while she looks up at me.

  Drawing my eyes away from her body, I answer, “Not many. My life has been one long session in the pool. My days off usually consist of me out here, on the beach, soaking in nature, listening to the waves crash and little punk teenagers fawn over a hot woman in a miniscule bikini.” I raise my brows at her.

  “Damn kids.” She laughs and shakes her head. Pausing, she studies me and says, “You know, you’re different than I expected.”

  “What does that mean? What were you expecting?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. You have this persona about you on the pool deck, a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, so I presumed you were like that in real life, but you’re not.”

  “Shit, am I forgetting to act like a prick? All right.” I straighten up, lower my sunglasses, and blatantly scan her body. “Do you make a good living selling hot dogs?”

  “What?” She sits up, completely confused.

  “Because you sure as fuck know how to make a wiener stand.” I give her a side smirk and wait.

  She studies me, and then starts laughing, a rich, sultry laugh that has my dick hardening in seconds. “Oh my God, please tell me you’ve used that on a woman before.”

  “Only one.” I wink. “And from the way you reacted, I’m going to chalk that up as a fantastic pick-up line.”

  “Yeah, have fun with that one.” She continues to shake her head, laughter in her eyes. “Seriously though, you’re nothing like I expected. You’re sweet and down to earth.”

  I hold my finger up to my lips and “shush” her while I look around. “Don’t let people hear you, you will ruin my image.”

  “Your secret is safe with me. But why portray yourself as a different person?”

  I look out at the ocean and consider her question. I’m not a dick in real life, but that’s not how I’m portrayed in the media. Fuck if I care, though.

  “I don’t portray myself as anyone else but me. The general population knows me as Reese, the Olympic swimmer, they know of me as the guy who shaves his beard right before I dip myself in the pool, as the man who is laser focused on the pool deck to the point I don’t show much emotion. The media plays up rivalries and shortcomings that irritate me, so during interviews, I only want them to be over. You only see what the media shows. They don’t see me going to hospitals to talk to sick patients. They don’t see me at swim camps for kids with disabilities or hanging out with wounded war veterans. They see me as Reese King, The Silver Stroke, the short-tempered man who can accomplish everything except earning a gold medal.”

  There is sorrow in Paisley’s voice when she asks, “Is that why you’re doing the reality show, to show a different image of yourself?”

  Quietly, I say, “Yeah something like that.” Knowing full well the reality show is a load of crock I signed up for out of pure desperation during a low point in my career, when I was panicking about life after I hung up my goggles and swim cap.

  Seconds span between us before Paisley grips my hand resting in the sand and says, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think of you as The Silver Stroke or Reese the swimmer.”

  Connecting our eyes, I ask, “Yeah, how do you see me?”

  She bites her bottom lip, contemplating her answer. A smile spreads across her face before answering in a teasing tone, “Reese the underwear model, of course.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh. “Oh, how could I forget? How fortunate for me.”

  “You know I’m kidding.” She nudges me. “You’re way more than that, and I’m so happy I get to work with you. You’re an awesome guy, Reese.”

  “An awesome guy, huh?” I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Why does that seem like something a middle school girl would tell her crush?”

  Slyly, she says, “Maybe because you were a middle school crush to a little black-haired girl.”

  Fuck, yes!

  “Have some Teen Bop cut-outs of me?”

  From the shift in her body, I can tell she’s feeling uncomfortable from her confession and my teasing. Clearing her throat, she says, “Uh, it’s hot, I think I’m going to head back. I’m also hungry for lunch.”

  She sits up next to me and grabs her bag. She snags a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses and puts them on. She looks like a goddamn pin-up girl.

  I can’t take my eyes off her and panic sets in. I don’t want her to leave, so I do something completely unexpected. “Come back to my place for lunch.”

  If sunglasses weren’t covering her eyes, I know they would be speaking a thousand words just from the small drop in her jaw and the rise in her brow. I don’t know what possessed me to ask her back to my place, besides the fact that I’m infatuated with the woman who is also my assistant and my fake girlfriend’s assistant.

  I’m so fucked.

  “I don’t know,” she says, clearly uncomfortable by my invite. “I have some, umm, tuna back at home calling my name.”

  I scrunch my face at her and shake my head. Without thinking about the consequences, I stand up and reach out my hand to her. With a quick pull, I help her stand on her feet and try not to drool over the way her breasts bounce with her movements.

  “You’re coming to have lunch with me. I’m having some healthy pasta salad and grilling out. You can wear your bikini too . . . if you want.” I wink at her and start walking toward my house. From behind, I can hear her gathering her things to follow me.

  I sigh in relief. I need more fucking time with her.

  “Hold up,” she calls out.

  Halting in my tracks, I turn to see her unsteadily walking through the sand, her arms full of her beach gear. Like the gentleman I am, I grab her bag for her and link her arm with mine. The shocked look on her face is adorable, so fucking adorable that all I want to do is push her back up against the sand and ravage that sweet mouth of hers.

  But I have time to make that happen.

  ***

  “Your place is amazing,” Paisley coos, now wearing a white crochet cover-up, if that’s what you want to call it. To me, it’s a fucking tease because it barely skims the tops of her thighs. There are slits on either side that go up to her waistline and the holes in the crochet netting are big
enough that I can still see her entire body. The sleeves just fall past her elbows, pulling tightly on her toned arms. All the cover-up does is make her that much more enticing.

  Now that we’re inside and the sun isn’t reflecting off her skin, I can’t help but continue to stare at her while she observes my house. Gracefully she glides across the floors, her hips swaying with every movement, whispers of her hair blowing in the light breeze coming through my open sliding glass doors that lead to a private pool.

  Although she has an athletic build, it doesn’t hide her feminine curves.

  “Did you decorate yourself?” She turns before I can stop taking her in. Once again, her cheeks flush from my blatant perusal.

  I clear my throat and run my hand through my hair, slightly embarrassed that she caught me staring. “Uh, I did. It’s not much, but it works.”

  She nods and crosses her arms over her ample chest as she looks out the back of the house. Spanning the rear of the living room are sliding windows that pocket into the walls, providing a wide-open feel to the outdoors. It’s my favorite part of the house. I added sheer white curtains so when I close them, I have privacy and a breeze.

  Needing to clean some of the sand off me—I can feel it in my crack—I say, “Make yourself at home. I’m going to take a quick shower.”

  “Oh, okay. Can I start making some of the food?”

  “No, just get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” I answer matter-of-factly before I head to the shower.

  Taking no time to let the water warm up, I jump in and start running my bar of soap over my body. I want to clean up quickly so I can get back to Paisley in her see-through cover-up.

  I lather my hands, collecting a generous amount of suds before I run them over the length of my body, under my arms and then slowly moving them down to my cock. The minute I connect with my arousal, I press one of my hands against the tile of the shower.

  “Fuck,” I grumble, applying more pressure and letting the water bounce off the top of my head, not able to stop. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve been with a woman and the one sitting in my house—right down the hallway—is testing my will.

  Flashes of Paisley’s perfectly round ass run through my mind as my hand continues to stroke up and down my length. Paisley has me practically panting at her feet with need. If I’m going to get through lunch with her in that outfit, I need some sort of relief.

  Not caring how long it takes, I envision her in her two-piece, her breasts floating against her chest as she walks toward me, her hips swaying in a hypnotizing rhythm. I think about what it would feel like if she snuck into my bathroom right now and caught me jacking off to visions of her in my head, what it would do to the wafer-thin control I have over my feelings for her. Would she climb in the shower with me? Would she assist me in my release? Would her lips find the tip of my arousal?

  I would fucking beg her to join me and then peel off that tiny red suit of hers, one string at a time, until her entire inked-up body is revealed to me.

  I bend my head even more and groan to myself as my balls tighten.

  “Fuck me.”

  I expand my fantasy and picture her falling to her knees in front of me, those beautiful grey eyes staring into mine. With the lightest lick of her lips, she would let me know she was ready to take me in. From above, I would tortuously watch her open that delicate, fuckable mouth of hers take my cock, licking and sucking until I couldn’t fucking take it any longer.

  Just like that, I snap. I pump feverishly, my chest rising and falling at a rapid rate until my orgasm takes over my body. Shots of white pleasure cloud my vision, and pure euphoria runs rampant through my body from my toes to the tip of my head as I come in my hand.

  My hand slows down and I grumble to myself, fucking satisfied with my shower decision. Knowing I didn’t take too long, I clean up quickly and grab my towel to dry off.

  It just so happens, I left my Nike shorts in the living room, where Paisley is. Looks like I have to go get them.

  Chapter Nine

  **PAISLEY**

  What the hell am I doing?

  Oh sure, Reese, take me back to your place, show me around your extravagant beach home and then let’s make lunch together after you take a nice hot shower, naked, only a few doors down from where I sit. Sure, what a great idea. Real swell. *Thumbs up*

  Yup, I’ve lost all moral sense and have followed one of my bosses to his house to share lunch with him. Did I mention IN HIS HOUSE?

  This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. The worst idea I’ve had in a very long time.

  All I can hear is Jonathan’s voice in the back of my head, harping on about being professional, about keeping my distance. Why can’t I listen to him?

  Oh yeah, because I have a six-foot-two piece of walking sex standing in front of me, wanting to share a towel and talk about the damn weather. Hell, I would have talked about how toilets are made with him if it meant his sun-kissed skin was rubbing against mine, smelling like a combination of salt water and tanning lotion.

  I tried to play it cool, act like I could hang and joke, but inside, my stomach was twisting in knots, and I prayed to the heavens above that my finger didn’t end up flicking him again, or my hand get a mind of its own and start cupping the man’s package. But what a glorious package it is. The way his semi-damp swim trunks clung to his powerful legs outlined his crotch, giving me a good idea that his Speedo is in fact . . . not stuffed. Yup, that will be an image that stays in my mind for quite some time.

  After a long stretch of silence between us, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was either going to roll over and start dry-humping his tattooed arm, or leave. I chose the latter. Too bad for me—he had a backup plan to continuing our little afternoon soirée.

  And of course, his house oozes sex. Everything about it makes me want to take my clothes off and walk around naked. From the white linen curtains blowing in the breeze, to the natural wood furniture and white upholstered couches, to the stainless steel kitchen that overlooks the living area; it is sleek, modern, grown-up, and just flat-out sexy.

  Everything about his place matches the man that lives in it. There are dark pieces of art on the walls, rivaling his rebel image on the pool deck, and smooth surfaces scattered around his home, emulating his silky skin.

  I am so screwed, if I stay, bad things are going to happen. I can feel it. He is too attractive and he has too much swagger for me not to throw my entire body at him.

  Deciding right then and there that it is time for me to leave before I lose control of my emotions . . . scratch that, lose control of my sexual attraction, I stand up from the couch to look for my bag just in time to see Reese walking down the hallway, hair wet, chest glistening, and his white towel riding dangerously low on his waist.

  From my viewpoint—not that I’m closely examining him but I can’t help it—I see his bulge pressing against the terrycloth of the towel causing me to instantly swallow the saliva attempting to become drool from the mere sight of him.

  “Going somewhere?” he asks, coming dangerously close to me.

  Just a few feet away, he stands tall, confidence in his bones, a smirk on his face, one of those side smiles that make your panties melt right off.

  “Um, I was just looking for my bag. I think it might be time to go home.”

  He steps even closer, I can feel the humidity of the shower coming off him, the fresh smell of his soap permeating my senses, wrapping me in the perfect little Reese cocoon.

  “Leave?” his husky voice asks, stepping even closer so now we are only inches apart.

  My heart beats in my chest, my legs start to give out on me, and a delicious pulse starts to throb in my clit from his proximity, delighting every nerve ending in my body.

  “But we haven’t even had lunch yet. I need help making my pasta salad. You won’t skip out on me now, will you?” He leans even closer; if I stuck my tongue out, I would be able to touch his cheek with it.

  What is he doing? Going for a sid
e kiss? A cheek-on-cheek thing? Maybe butterfly kisses? I can butterfly kiss him real good right now if I want to. Would he like that?

  Of course he would. What kind of heathen doesn’t like butterfly kisses?

  “I-I guess not,” I stutter.

  “Good.” He smiles and leans forward even more. I suck in a deep breath of air, waiting for him to make his move, when he quickly reaches behind me and then pulls away, holding up a pair of shorts. A long whoosh of air flies out of me, full of relief and disappointment.

  Did I want him to reach around me and undo my bathing suit? Hell, yeah. Did I want him to reach behind me and stick his hand down my swimsuit, cupping my ass only to push me up against the world’s most comfortable couch and fuck my mouth with his tongue? Pretty much.

  But he is in a relationship, and he is my boss. Two things I have no intention of screwing up.

  With resolve, I step farther away and dust off my cover-up for some reason. Really, I am nervous and fidgety, so I need something to do with my hands.

  “You good with the knife?” he asks, stepping around behind a chair.

  “I’m okay with . . .” I pause just as he whips his towel off, revealing the bottom of his waistline, where his hip divots cut in and the root of his cock rests.

  I pant.

  I pant right there in front of him . . . like a dog in heat, staring dramatically at the vision of a Grecian god standing in front of me.

  There it is, the root of his cock, short, trimmed hair resting beside it. Just like that, my clit starts pounding with arousal and I want one thing and one thing only: the man standing in front of me. There is no denying it.

  Too bad for me, though, I only get a sneak peek, but from what I can see, his dick is thick.

  Eff me.

  He puts his shorts on, snaps the waistband and steps out from behind the chair. “You were saying?” he asks me, clearly tuned into my perusal.

  “I know how to use knife,” I respond like a caveman. Thankfully I refrain from scratching the top of my head and one of my armpits at the same time while dancing in place.