Page 11 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Oh yeah? What cat video?”
“Uh . . .” I look to the sky, trying to think of one damn cat video to describe to Jonathan, but not a single one comes to mind. Out of all the time I spent watching those videos, letting them consume my out-of-work hours, you would think I could remember just one. “Oh!” I point my finger to the sky, remembering one. “It was a video of cats getting scared by cucumbers. Funny shit.”
“You insult me. You really think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”
I cross my arms over my chest and give him a look of indignation. “You think you’re so smart? Okay, how am I lying?”
He nods at my chest. “Your right nipple gets hard every time.”
“No it doesn’t!” I look down at my right boob to see that Jonathan is annoyingly correct. My nipple is in fact hard. Shocked, I glance up at Jonathan who is laughing.
“So what are you not telling me? Who’s texting you? A new boy I don’t know about? Or is it still Mr. Man Bun who believes he’s saving the whales by not showering for ten days.”
“He was conserving water to help protect clown fish and their delicate environment,” I point out.
Jonathan laughs out loud. “Oh yeah, he wore that dumbass shirt that read ‘Saving Nemo. One Shower at a Time.’”
It was a dumb shirt. I couldn’t disagree with Jonathan on that point. That worst part was the man wore it every day with a pair of ratty jeans. He was actually quite gross. His only good quality, going down on me. Probably the best I’ve ever had. Dude had a magic tongue. It was fat, but also pointy at the end. He was able to flick me in just the right way that had me gripping his damn man bun for dear life.
“So, are you going to see him?”
“What?” I ask, confused from my daydreaming. “Uh, yeah for brunch tomorrow,” I answer before I can think about what I’m saying.”
“Oh, come on, Paisley. You can do so much better than him. I thought you were done with Mr. Man Bun.”
“What? I am. I’m confused.”
Irritated, Jonathan turns to me and his face grows serious. “Who are you going to brunch with tomorrow? Don’t make me look at your phone.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I ask, casually pushing my phone farther into the crack of the couch.
“Because . . .”
“Good argument,” I shoot back.
“Paisley.”
“Jonathan.” I stick my chin up, not breaking under his tight stare.
“Fine.” Before I know what he’s going to do, he lunges at me and reaches around my back, down into the crack of the couch.
“What are you doing? Get off me.”
“Give me your phone.”
I palm his head and try to push him away but his stiff neck keeps him in place, not budging. From behind, I can feel him rooting around for my phone.
“Get out of here.” I struggle against him, unwrapping my feet from their crossed position as I try to push them against his chest and move him across the couch.
Thanks to my daily workout routine, I’m able to get a good enough push on him to send him back on his side.
“Ha!” I call out in victory, only to be shamed by him holding my phone up in the air with a smile on his face. It’s my turn to lunge at him, but he puts up a leg force field, too difficult for me to penetrate before he can look at my phone.
“Why are you texting Reese King?” Confusion is written all over his face when he invades my privacy.
“I’m his assistant as well,” I respond, straightening myself up from the little rumble we just shared. “He wanted to make sure I was going to brunch with them tomorrow morning.”
“Why would you need to go to brunch with them?”
