Page 132 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Never. Got to keep up the good looks so you don’t leave me.”
Smiling softly, she stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Your looks might have gotten me interested, but it’s your heart that will keep me around.”
Well, fuck me. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch ever.
“I love you, Paisley.” Not letting her respond, I move us both under the water and let my lips work her body, from her mouth, to her neck, and to her breasts.
I might have finally won a gold medal but it would mean nothing without this girl in my life, without her intuitive eyes splitting me in half and her beautiful heart sewing me back together.
Epilogue
**PAISLEY**
“Wheat Thins? Wheat Thins??” Bellini shouts through the phone as Reese pulls on my hand, dragging me to the back of his pool . . . oh I mean, our pool. He moved me into his house a week after we said, “I love you.” He wasn’t liking Jonathan’s inability to put pants on. “Do you think I’m some kind of parrot who sits on an evil sorcerer’s shoulder? I don’t eat Wheat Thins!”
It’s the daily call from Bellini. Actually, daily is an understatement. She likes to call multiple times a day to complain about something. Today it’s the food her new assistant has put in her cabinet.
“I don’t eat food, Mauve.” Yeah, she refuses to call me Paisley. It’s fine. Mauve has kind of grown on me. “I demand two things, Tic Tacs and my venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot with only seven cubes of ice. Is that too hard to fulfill?”
I sigh while Reese looks at me with those big hazel eyes of his, begging me to hang up the phone. “Bellini, there is a giant box in your hall closet full of orange Tic Tacs and, Biscuit,” yes, her assistant’s new name is Biscuit, aka, Beatrice, “she’s been given a Starbucks card and knows of all locations around her. You will have your preferred food. The Wheat Thins are for those who have to be at your house for long production hours.”
“They can starve,” she shoots back.
Knowing exactly how to handle the situation, I say, “Now, Bellini, what would Pope Francis think of a comment like that?”
Yup, that’s the kind of action I’ve taken with her. She thinks her dog it the epitome of humankind, then I will use that to my advantage.
“He would agree,” she answers quietly.
“Are you lying right in front of Pope Francis?” I chastise.
Dramatically sighing, she says, “Fine, he would not agree with making people starve.”
“Good, so let’s forget about the Wheat Thins and get a good night’s rest. You have a big day of filming tomorrow. Melon will be at your place early in the morning for hair and makeup.”
“And my drink?” she almost asks frantically.
“Biscuit will be sure to be there when you wake up. Please be sure to have Pocket stay away from her, the heavy breathing has gotten a little out of control.”
“She’s seeing a specialist about it. I think I’m going to stick her in rehab.”
I don’t even want to get into the weird relationship between Bellini and Pocket. I just have to warn Bellini about Pocket and her heavy breathing while around everyone else . . . it’s freaking them out.
“Do what you have to do. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Are you hurrying me off the phone?”
“Yes, I am,” I say without skipping a beat. “Have a good night.” I click “end” and then turn off my phone. Tossing it to the side, I turn toward Reese, who has a picnic laid out under the stars for us.
His smile is devastating as I walk toward him, my thin white cover-up blowing in the breeze. Underneath, I’m wearing a very miniscule bikini that barely covers anything. I know it’s doing the trick when Reese’s eyes scan my body and heat with fire.
“You’re trying to kill me before we even have dinner, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smile and then toss my cover-up to the side, revealing my swimsuit . . . if that’s what you want to call it.
His hand rubs his jaw as he takes me in. His beard is a little fuller than normal and his hair is a little longer, curling at the ends and framing his face. He said he wouldn’t let himself go, which he hasn’t. We actually go to CrossFit together where he shows off and I try to keep up with him. But his hair is a different story. There is even a light splattering of hair caressing his chest. It’s minimal and short . . . and sexy as hell. Thirty-two looks seriously good on him.
“Sit,” he demands as he takes off his shirt, revealing that perfectly defined chest and . . .
