STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (13 page)

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.

**PAISLEY**

“I’m so tired I think I’m about to pass out,” I say into my phone, while trying to navigate the streets of Los Angeles in the early morning dew.

“But I made you coffee . . . with love. You should be alive and ready for the day.”

“With love? What is with love?”

“You know, stirring in your cream while naked,” Jonathan says with laughter.

I roll my eyes and turn on my blinker, scoping out the parking lot I’m about to turn into.
Please let there be a close spot, please let there be a close spot.

“Please tell me you used a spoon to stir.”

“As opposed to what?” From the jovial way he asks the question, I’m quite sure he knows what I’m talking about.

“I swear to you, Jonathan, if your naked dick went anywhere near my coffee I’m going to make sure you’re never able to get it up again.”

Chuckling, he answers, “You think so low of me, Paisley. It truly hurts me.”

“You’re fine,” I tell him. Pulling into the parking lot, I start searching, hoping and praying for something close. I can barely turn the steering wheel, let alone drag my carcass across the early morning asphalt.

After I left Reese’s house in a state of panic, I spent the entire evening replaying our time together over and over in my head. From the moment he saw me at the beach, his blatant perusal of my body, to the way his bare chest burned against my back while he was helping me cut those damn peppers. I couldn’t erase the images out of my head, causing me to toss and turn endlessly until the wee hours of the morning. When I finally fell asleep, my alarm started ringing, letting me know I had half an hour to get ready before I needed to meet Bellini, Reese, and Jasper at the pool to go over some logistics.

“Want to get dinner tonight?” Jonathan asks. “I’m feeling like some pizza.”

“How can you even think about dinner? It’s not even seven in the morning.” I find a parking spot that’s not as close as I was hoping, but I settle since I have about two minutes to meet everyone at the pool. Surprisingly, this was the place to be in the morning. I have no clue why. Venice Beach is a few blocks down, so if people want to swim, they should just go to the ocean.

Gathering my coffee, keys, and purse, I work my way out of my car as Jonathan continues to speak. “Just trying to schedule some time with my favorite girl. You’ve been working a lot. I miss you.”

“Are you trying to get me to pay?”

“Maybe.” He laughs. “Come on, you owe me some pizza. It’s the least you can do for me getting you that job.”

“Ah, yes, I can’t thank you enough for helping me land the opportunity of a lifetime. Every time Bellini points at her mouth and shouts for a Tic Tac, I praise to the heavens above for the blessed chance you’ve given me here.” My sarcasm is heavy.

“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart.” I know there is a smirk on his face.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait,” he says quickly. “What about dinner?”

“You know I’ll have dinner with you. Now I have to go. I’m almost at the pool.”

“Okay, make good decisions today.”

If only he knew.

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up just as I turn into the pool area where the water in the pool is being sprayed around by flailing arms and kicking legs. There are a few athletes on the pool deck, conducting some dryland training while everyone else is in the lap pool and coaches are calling out instructions.

There are eight lanes in the pool and at the very far end, three lanes are still, with only one athlete hanging on the edge of the pool, listening to a coach instruct him while pointing at the clipboard.
Reese
. Instant recognition. Not hard due to the unforgettable tattoo cascading from his shoulder blade.