Page 119 of Stroked by (Stroked)
What once used to be his smooth beard rubbing against my sensitive skin is now a smooth, freshly shaven cheek. It’s a different sensation but still erotic. Nipping lightly, his teeth bite down on my hardened peak as his tongue plays with my barbell.
The combination of his hot breath on my prickling skin and his hand and mouth working in tandem, makes the dull ache in my pussy become an electric throb in my clit. A pounding sensation encompasses me and all I can think about is getting him inside me.
“More, Reese. I need more,” I say breathlessly.
He doesn’t hesitate. Setting me gently down, he pulls his pants down and frees his cock. I make quick work with my shorts and panties only to be bent over a chair by Reese. His cock runs the length of my arousal, casually slipping inside me until I cry out to him. From my cue, he plunges forward. With no hesitation, he holds on to my hips and pounds into me endlessly, hitting me hard and deep. Releasing my hip with one hand, he snakes it around the front of me and pinches my nipple with his forefinger and thumb.
Like a bolt of lightning hitting me dead center, my body erupts in orgasm, tightening around Reese’s cock as he pounds away, releasing his own orgasm at the same time.
Sated, his chest slumps over me, and he kisses my shoulder tenderly, every now and again moving his hips forward, trying to soak up every last twitch and spasm.
“Not the smartest idea we ever had,” I say. “Someone could walk in.”
“It would be worth it,” he says right before kissing my cheek and pulling out. “Hold right there, baby. There are some paper towels over here.”
After-sex stuff is so not sexy but Reese handles it with a gentle and nurturing hand. I don’t feel embarrassed at all and am extremely grateful for having him in my life. He might be rough and talk dirty and need to take me in the moment, but he’s always a cuddly teddy bear after, such a stark and extraordinary contrast.
Once everything is taken care of and we’re dressed again, I cup both of his cheeks and stare him in the eyes. “I’m so proud of you. You looked amazing out there.”
“Is that right?” he asks, a little wiggle to his brow.
“Yes.” I refrain from rolling my eyes at him. “I would even say sexier than Bodi Banks.”
His jaw tenses and even though he knows I’m joking, he still gets pissed. It’s hard not to make fun of him.
“So not funny,” he grits out, making me chuckle.
“You’re ridiculous.” Moving my hands to his chest, I pat his pecs and say, “Do you have time for lunch?”
He shakes his head, sending disappointment through me. “No, I have a lot of press and interviews to do plus I have to keep my body warm and ready for the race tonight. But after, how about I come to your place for some room service? I’m sure Hollis wouldn’t mind distracting Melony for me.”
“Sounds good to me.” I chastely kiss his lips.
Catching me off guard, he leans down, squeezes my ass and then gives me a deep kiss, causing a groan from him. Pulling away, he rests his forehead on mine. “You’re so fucking hot.”
With a smirk, he pulls away, entwines our fingers, and walks us to the door. He steps out and pulls me with him. One quick kiss and a wink, he lets go and says, “See you tonight.”
“Good luck,” I call out.
Glancing behind him, he smiles at me and then turns back around. I watch his backside retreat, wondering if there will ever be a time I’ll get tired of having him around. Probably not.
Sighing from infatuation, I gather myself and turn to go back to the hotel, only to come face to face with a pissed-off Bellini.
“You lying-face whore bag. There is no Clyde.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
**BELLINI**
I knew I couldn’t trust that garbage can of a woman with her dreadlock hair, nasty tattoos, and lying dick-sucking mouth.
From the moment she walked up to me and introduced herself as some ninety-year-old women’s throw blanket, I knew she wasn’t trustworthy.
Not just because she paid “professionals” to scribble all over her body, and not just because she has eyes the color of Satan’s asshole—yes, Satan’s asshole is silver—but because she wears tank tops. You can never trust someone who wears tank tops as everyday outfits. Who shows off that much skin, that many times in a week? I will give you three guesses: strippers, whores, and prostitutes.
You might think I’m a priss for wanting Fiji water only. A lot of people say all water tastes the same. Those people are the ones who suck on Sour Patch Kids day in, day out while scratching their crotches in front of the elderly. They have no taste buds for the finer things in life. I know the difference between Pellegrino, Aquafina, Arrowhead, and Fiji water. There is a distinct taste. Fiji water doesn’t taste like skank breath.
So, when I started realizing the water crap-face was giving me wasn’t Fiji, I did my very own research. While she was staring down at the pool, watching man-fish flop around, I kicked her purse, opening it up to my view. I didn’t burglarize, so don’t think I took anything out of her satchel, as if I would want to stick my hand in it anyway. But I did notice she had an empty Fiji bottle in there and it hit me. She’s been scamming me out of the purified glory of refreshing water from the South Pacific where blue lagoons and palm trees kiss you in the morning with their beauty.
