Page 50 of Stroked by (Stroked)
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. Believe me, if you were in my shoes, you would have done the same thing. It was impossible to look away. Every female in the vicinity stared, actually gawked, mouths agape, and beads of sweat forming on their upper lip. The entire photo shoot felt like something out of a dream, a very horny and inappropriate dream.
Now, I stand here, my hands on his hips, fingers dancing at the edge of his towel and a burning sensation running up my spine. I can’t remember the last time I was intimate with a man. I know it’s been a long time, but it’s because there hasn’t been a man that’s actually made me feel the way Reese makes my entire body shiver.
I can still feel the imprint of his lips on my neck, the nip of his teeth at my ear, the way his beard scratches against my cheek in the most delectable way possible. He is a tease, a bad influence, a poor decision when it comes to protecting my career, but why, for the hell of me, can’t I stop running my fingers across his skin?
Because I’m a masochist, because he’s everything I would ask for in a man. Kind, sweet, caring, sexy, athletic, rugged, and all alpha. He’s my kryptonite, a combination of everything I’ve ever wanted, I’ve ever dreamed of.
Taking a chance, I glance down at his torso, where his hardened length is pressing against the towel that barely hides his bulge. One shift to the right and I would be on the receiving end of a giant cock staring up at me.
Holy shit.
I look back up at him, and I’ve been caught. His grin widens, and his eyes darken.
“Fucking do it, Paisley. Take if off.” His voice is so heavy, so gritty that my pussy clenches from the sound of it.
The heat coming off him is palpable. His arms surround me, blocking me from moving away, and his eyes bore down, willing me to do what he’s asking, but should I? Every nerve ending radiating with lust is begging me to.
He leans his head forward some more and barely caresses my lips with his, running them along my jaw, sending chills all the way down my body until he reaches my ear once more.
“I’m about to explode, Paisley. End this misery for me and take my towel off.”
I can’t stop myself. The power of his words—of his body—of the electricity sparking between us—is too strong. My fingers dig all the way in his waistline and I remove his towel. I drop it on the ground but stare straight ahead, too scared to look down because of what I might do.
I don’t have time to react though, his left hand flies to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, and his lips fine mine, pressing deeply.
Everything fades into black the moment his mouth meets mine. He’s demanding, needy, desperate,everylast emotion I’m feeling.
One hand props him up against the door as his other grips me tightly on the back of my head, as if he lets go, I’ll disappear. He’s completely naked in front of me—no shame—fucking my mouth with his tongue, letting me know how much he wants me.
I want to explode, right then and there. His deep kisses are throwing me into a downward spiral, arresting my breath, seizing my heart, and occupying every inch of my skin with desire-filled chills. He’s consuming me with just his mouth to the point that I feel myself evaporating, our bodies molding together as one.
“Jesus,” he mumbles, “you taste so sweet.”
From the back of my neck, his hand travels along my jaw where his thumb strokes my cheek tenderly. Seductively, he removes his lips from mine and then traces his thumb along them, his stare full of heat.
“Touch me, Paisley. Run your hands up and down my chest. Explore my body. I know you fucking want to.”
He is right. I want nothing more than to trace every ridge and divot in his abdomen, to feel his taut and toned skin under my fingers, to know what it’s like to grip his length in my hand, and make him lose all common sense by the pull of desire.
My entire body is tingling, there is a rapid thump in my core, begging me to proceed, to just take one peek down below, just this one.
Not answering him, I take a deep breath and glance at his erection, standing tall and thick, ready to be stroked.
Fuck me.
Losing all abandon, I float my hands behind his head and pull him closer to me, mingling our mouths together once more. He groans, pleased with my decision, and wraps his hand in my hair once again, yanking on the sensitive strands so my mouth is pulled open. He proceeds to crush his lips against mine, feeding off my intensity.
His hair is soft, thick, the curls wrap delicately around my fingers, while his beard is a complete contradiction, rough and unforgiving against my chin and my lips. I welcome the burn, the small abrasions, the rough to my soft.
I get lost in him, in his touch, in his aggressive mouth, in the little groans escaping his lips.
Needing more, I continue to let him take over my mouth while I move my hands south, to his erection that is pushing against my thigh. In one swoop, I capture his length in my palm, causing him to freeze in place and then melt against me.
He’s rigid, yet soft. His girth is thick, unyielding, and his length has me questioning the tiny Speedos he wears in a pool daily.
“Fuck . . . fuck,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing heavy.
Unsure of what I’m doing, but knowing I need to taste him, I slide down his body and drop to my knees. He’s propping his body against the door behind me, his feet spread now, welcoming my new position.
