Page 30 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Did you decorate yourself?” She turns before I can stop taking her in. Once again, her cheeks flush from my blatant perusal.
I clear my throat and run my hand through my hair, slightly embarrassed that she caught me staring. “Uh, I did. It’s not much, but it works.”
She nods and crosses her arms over her ample chest as she looks out the back of the house. Spanning the rear of the living room are sliding windows that pocket into the walls, providing a wide-open feel to the outdoors. It’s my favorite part of the house. I added sheer white curtains so when I close them, I have privacy and a breeze.
Needing to clean some of the sand off me—I can feel it in my crack—I say, “Make yourself at home. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Oh, okay. Can I start making some of the food?”
“No, just get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” I answer matter-of-factly before I head to the shower.
Taking no time to let the water warm up, I jump in and start running my bar of soap over my body. I want to clean up quickly so I can get back to Paisley in her see-through cover-up.
I lather my hands, collecting a generous amount of suds before I run them over the length of my body, under my arms and then slowly moving them down to my cock. The minute I connect with my arousal, I press one of my hands against the tile of the shower.
“Fuck,” I grumble, applying more pressure and letting the water bounce off the top of my head, not able to stop. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve been with a woman and the one sitting in my house—right down the hallway—is testing my will.
Flashes of Paisley’s perfectly round ass run through my mind as my hand continues to stroke up and down my length. Paisley has me practically panting at her feet with need. If I’m going to get through lunch with her in that outfit, I need some sort of relief.
Not caring how long it takes, I envision her in her two-piece, her breasts floating against her chest as she walks toward me, her hips swaying in a hypnotizing rhythm. I think about what it would feel like if she snuck into my bathroom right now and caught me jacking off to visions of her in my head, what it would do to the wafer-thin control I have over my feelings for her. Would she climb in the shower with me? Would she assist me in my release? Would her lips find the tip of my arousal?
I would fucking beg her to join me and then peel off that tiny red suit of hers, one string at a time, until her entire inked-up body is revealed to me.
I bend my head even more and groan to myself as my balls tighten.
“Fuck me.”
I expand my fantasy and picture her falling to her knees in front of me, those beautiful grey eyes staring into mine. With the lightest lick of her lips, she would let me know she was ready to take me in. From above, I would tortuously watch her open that delicate, fuckable mouth of hers take my cock, licking and sucking until I couldn’t fucking take it any longer.
Just like that, I snap. I pump feverishly, my chest rising and falling at a rapid rate until my orgasm takes over my body. Shots of white pleasure cloud my vision, and pure euphoria runs rampant through my body from my toes to the tip of my head as I come in my hand.
My hand slows down and I grumble to myself, fucking satisfied with my shower decision. Knowing I didn’t take too long, I clean up quickly and grab my towel to dry off.
It just so happens, I left my Nike shorts in the living room, where Paisley is. Looks like I have to go get them.
Chapter Nine
**PAISLEY**
What the hell am I doing?
Oh sure, Reese, take me back to your place, show me around your extravagant beach home and then let’s make lunch together after you take a nice hot shower, naked, only a few doors down from where I sit. Sure, what a great idea. Real swell.*Thumbs up*
Yup, I’ve lost all moral sense and have followed one of my bosses to his house to share lunch with him. Did I mention IN HIS HOUSE?
This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. The worst idea I’ve had in a very long time.
All I can hear is Jonathan’s voice in the back of my head, harping on about being professional, about keeping my distance. Why can’t I listen to him?
Oh yeah, because I have a six-foot-two piece of walking sex standing in front of me, wanting to share a towel and talk about the damn weather. Hell, I would have talked about how toilets are made with him if it meant his sun-kissed skin was rubbing against mine, smelling like a combination of salt water and tanning lotion.
I tried to play it cool, act like I could hang and joke, but inside, my stomach was twisting in knots, and I prayed to the heavens above that my finger didn’t end up flicking him again, or my hand get a mind of its own and start cupping the man’s package. But what a glorious package it is. The way his semi-damp swim trunks clung to his powerful legs outlined his crotch, giving me a good idea that his Speedo is in fact . . . not stuffed. Yup, that will be an image that stays in my mind for quite some time.
After a long stretch of silence between us, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was either going to roll over and start dry-humping his tattooed arm, or leave. I chose the latter. Too bad for me—he had a backup plan to continuing our little afternoon soirée.
And of course, his house oozes sex. Everything about it makes me want to take my clothes off and walk around naked. From the white linen curtains blowing in the breeze, to the natural wood furniture and white upholstered couches, to the stainless steel kitchen that overlooks the living area; it is sleek, modern, grown-up, and just flat-out sexy.
Everything about his place matches the man that lives in it. There are dark pieces of art on the walls, rivaling his rebel image on the pool deck, and smooth surfaces scattered around his home, emulating his silky skin.
