Page 33 of Stroked by (Stroked)
He can only read the visible tattoos, I don’t plan on taking my clothes off for him to inspect every last inch of me, but to be honest, if he asked me to, I would be stripping right here, right now, in the middle of his state-of-the-art kitchen.
“These are all words that have touched your soul?” he asks, running his finger along the tattoo on my right forearm.
“Yes, in one way or another, these words have helped me through my life; they’ve inspired me to be a better person, to strive for more.”
He nods and steps back, giving me some space, space I don’t want. “I can relate. I have a saying I carry around with me everywhere I go and tape it to my locker before each swim meet.”
“Really?” I ask, curious to find out we are similar in a way. “What does it say?”
Without skipping a beat, he answers, “Every champion was once a contender that refused to give up.”
“Rocky Balboa,” I say, holding up my right arm and pulling up the sleeve of my cover-up, so he can see the small saying etched on my inner bicep.
His hands automatically go to my arm, and he reads his saying that is scrawled across my skin, his fingers carefully caressing the ink. “No fucking way.” He laughs. “Damn, I think my heart just skipped a beat.”
His heart just skipped a beat? How about mine is about to pound right out of my chest from the light caress of his fingers along my arm.
There is a fire in his eyes, a passionate fire, full of heat, yearning . . . wanting. The feeling is mutual. An addictive pulsing runs through my body, settling in my core. Beat after beat, our silence surrounds us. His chest falls in rhythm with mine, our breathing syncing as one as his hazel eyes continue to bore down on mine, looking for answers as to what this burning sensation is flowing between us.
I clear my throat and take the first look away. His gaze is too strong; I’m bound to do something stupid. “So, these peppers need to be chopped, huh?” I ask, turning quickly so my back faces him. My hands rest on the counter, and I take a few deep breaths, trying to still my heart from exploding out of my chest.
Not the smoothest of transitions, but at least I didn’t have to face him anymore; I just get to feel his stare beating down on my back.
From behind, I can sense his body retreat from mine. I peek over my shoulder to see him casually pace the kitchen, his hand running through his hair, tension evident in his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Cut them up into little squares. I’ll grab the cheese and start working on that.”
It’s awkward.
Incredibly awkward. I can feel my armpits start to sweat and my ears heat from embarrassment.
Why I’m embarrassed, I don’t know. It’s one of those reactions I’m prone to. Some people might get angry, or laugh it out, whereas I get embarrassed and my ears turn a bright shade of red.
Should have listened to myself earlier, I should have left when I had the courage to leave. But then Mr. Muscles just had to take off his towel in front of me, giving me the smallest of peep shows.
In silence, we work on our respective foods. I chop, not paying attention to what I’m doing, and to the side, it sounds like he’s doing the same.
Nonchalantly, I look over at his cutting board. He has a sharp knife in his hand, and he’s cutting a block of cheese like a professional chef, in perfectly symmetrical cubes. The peppers on my board look like they’ve been half mutilated by a spork.
Cringing, I turn back to my peppers and try to concentrate on what I’m doing, which is pretty much impossible with Reese King standing next to me—shirtless, his shorts riding incredibly low on his hips, and smelling like some damn piece of heaven dropped from the sky. Earlier, when he turned around, I was able to check out the dimples right above his ass. I envisioned sticking my tongue in them, just for the hell of it, testing the depth with my fingers, maybe even doing a little nipple play with those dimples. You know, placing my nips right in there just for the hell of it.
“What are you doing to those peppers?” Reese asks me, mirth in his voice.
“Um, cutting them?” I ask, knowing full well it looks like I’m shredding them like pulled pork.
“Let me show you how it’s done.”
Like any other normal person, they would have asked the pepper mutilator to step aside so they can take the helm of the cutting board. Not Reese. He’s not like every other normal human being. I should have known that by the deep V in his waistline.
Instead of sliding me to the side, he steps behind me and wraps his arms around my body. His six-foot-two height towers over my short frame. His head ducks down to mine, where his lips speak directly into my ear. The warmth emanating off his body breaks through my thin cover-up and spreads over my skin. Without any control over my body, my back rests against his chest, giving him a better view of my frontandthe peppers.
His arms encase me, and his right hand wraps around mine that is holding the knife. Together, he forces us to pick up the pepper, so we are working in tandem, exercising our ability to chop vegetables . . . in the most intimate way possible.
I don’t think I can breathe. There is an inferno raging in my stomach, my clit is pulsing uncontrollably, and my mouth falls into desert mode, drying out completely.
With a rugged voice, he says into my ear, “You have to cut the pepper lengthways first.” He demonstrates, using my hands as well. “Then, you start cutting little squares.”
As if we are one, our bodies are fused together and we chop, not saying a single word to each other, just completing the task at hand.
