Page 26 of Stroked by (Stroked)
That’s all I need, he’s agreed.
“I have the Pope’s blessing,” I shout to the ceiling, praising anyone who can hear about my newfound mission in life. “I’m a matchmaker.” It’s all too overwhelming, my emotions get the best of me and I start to cry.
I wave my hands in front of my eyes, warding off tears of joy. Pope Francis eats the cucumbers that rest on my chest, and Pocket is dancing to joyous instrumental music now playing on her phone.
It’s a celebration, a jubilee, a grandiose occasion to praise me.
Just when I thought my life was over, I resurrect myself from the pit of despair and offer myself a new life. I’m the pinnacle of patronage, a prime example of a good Samaritan, a holy and blessed public servant.
I’m such a gift to this overpopulated and tortured earth. Thank God for people like me.
Chapter Eight
**REESE**
The sun scorches my back, beating down incessantly, not a cloud in sight to lighten the burn. But I welcome it.
Today is my day off from training, a day off from Bellini, from production, from Ashley my publicist, and from the public eye. It’s a day for me to relax, re-group, and prepare for my upcoming taper week.
Even though it’s my day off, I still glide my sore muscles through the open water of the Pacific Ocean, stroke after stroke, until I reach the beach where the sunburned sand meets the ocean waves.
It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from Paisley. All communication has consisted of schedule updates on where I need to be and why. She’s planned out my days down to the very last minute, and it’s terrifying how I rely on her phone alerts now. At times, I feel like I can’t think for myself as to what to do.
That’s how I feel today, slightly confused, unstructured, but also a little liberated.
I rest my hands behind me, letting them sink down into the sand as I look up at the sky, taking in the warm heat and the rolling sound of the waves crashing against the shore. This is exactly what I need: a break from it all, but especially a break from Bellini. Last night when I was forced to talk to her on the phone, she kept going on and on about the gay community, and how she is an integral part of it now. So confused, I stopped listening and tuned her out. I played solitaire—with actual playing cards—on my coffee table while she rambled on and on. It wasn’t until she yelled at me that I started paying attention again.
Why she felt the need to call and talk on the phone was beyond me. Does she not understand the concept of a “fake relationship”? I make a mental note to talk to Jasper and Ashley about that, as I don’t want her getting any ideas of engagement, and I don’t want her to influence Ashley and Jasper either, fill their heads with proposals and lifelong commitments.
Fuck no.
One season. I keep telling myself that over and over again. I just have to get through one season with her and then it will be all over.
Off to the right, there are four puny, teenage kids playing with a frisbee and daring each other to talk to a woman they can’t stop pointing at. I smile to myself, remembering those days. Wanting to see what the commotion is all about, I look to the left of me and see a woman sunbathing, wearing a red two-piece bikini. Her stomach is pressed against her white towel and her rear end is eatable in the most perfect way possible, sticking up in the air, with a thin scrap of fabric showing off her ass. The woman has no shame, and she shouldn’t; her ass is perfect.
Because I’m a man, I glide my sunglass-covered eyes past her rear end, up her back, and to her shoulders, her well-defined and familiar shoulders. There is a pile of black hair, twisted and pulled to the top of her head with a red bandana pulling back any strays attempting to escape. I take in the inked words that decorate her body in a beautifully scripted way, playing with the contours of her sun-kissed skin, highlighting her gorgeous curves.
Fuck.
She is seriously sexy.
Paisley.
Without even thinking, I stand and walk her way. The boys behind me all shout their encouragement, but I ignore their pre-pubescent catcalls and make my way toward Paisley.
My broad shoulders cast a shadow over her delicious body. From afar, she is irresistible. Up close, she is damn near lethal.
From my shadow, she turns to the side, confusion on her face, until she sees who’s standing above her. Instead of covering up quickly to hide her exposed skin, she turns completely over and stretches out with her elbows propping her up.
I have no shame; I look up and down her body. Her bikini bottoms barely cover her skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Not only are they low rise in the back, with two straps on each side connecting around her waist, but the front of the bottoms dip incredibly low in the front as well. Her stomach is toned, to the point that I wonder if she was an athlete in her past, making her that much more tempting to me.
My gaze rides up to her breasts, full and cupped in a matching red top, a little more modest than the bottoms, but still quite revealing, just enough to make me want to rip the strings apart and explore every last inch of her delectable body.
“Reese, I’m surprised to see you here.” Interrupting my perusal, she forces my eyes to fall on her makeup-free face. “I would have thought on your day off you would avoid the water.”
She looks casual, as if talking to me is something she does every day. However, I can hear the waver in her voice, belying her calm with each word.
“I like to stay loose,” I answer, licking my lips.
