Page 36 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Want to get dinner tonight?” Jonathan asks. “I’m feeling like some pizza.”
“How can you even think about dinner? It’s not even seven in the morning.” I find a parking spot that’s not as close as I was hoping, but I settle since I have about two minutes to meet everyone at the pool. Surprisingly, this was the place to be in the morning. I have no clue why. Venice Beach is a few blocks down, so if people want to swim, they should just go to the ocean.
Gathering my coffee, keys, and purse, I work my way out of my car as Jonathan continues to speak. “Just trying to schedule some time with my favorite girl. You’ve been working a lot. I miss you.”
“Are you trying to get me to pay?”
“Maybe.” He laughs. “Come on, you owe me some pizza. It’s the least you can do for me getting you that job.”
“Ah, yes, I can’t thank you enough for helping me land the opportunity of a lifetime. Every time Bellini points at her mouth and shouts for a Tic Tac, I praise to the heavens above for the blessed chance you’ve given me here.” My sarcasm is heavy.
“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart.” I know there is a smirk on his face.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait,” he says quickly. “What about dinner?”
“You know I’ll have dinner with you. Now I have to go. I’m almost at the pool.”
“Okay, make good decisions today.”
If only he knew.
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up just as I turn into the pool area where the water in the pool is being sprayed around by flailing arms and kicking legs. There are a few athletes on the pool deck, conducting some dryland training while everyone else is in the lap pool and coaches are calling out instructions.
There are eight lanes in the pool and at the very far end, three lanes are still, with only one athlete hanging on the edge of the pool, listening to a coach instruct him while pointing at the clipboard.Reese. Instant recognition. Not hard due to the unforgettable tattoo cascading from his shoulder blade.
Scanning the perimeter, I don’t see Jasper or Bellini and wonder if I have the time wrong or if they decided to sleep in a little longer. Moving past the swimming club gathered at one end of the pool, I watch Reese intently as his coach kneels down to talk to him. From his schedule, I know Reese has been out here for at least an hour already and is going on hour number two.
Even though I berated myself last night for letting things get out of hand yesterday with Reese, I can’t help but watch him intently, taking in the way his muscles shift ever so slightly with his movements: his back flexing, showing off his countless hours in the pool. Memorizing. Taking a seat on the bleachers near his lane, I listen carefully without being detected, not wanting to intrude.
“This last set is going to push your limits, but I included it because we need to test your strength and endurance. You’ve been smooth all morning, let’s keep that up.”
“Okay,” Reese gruffs out.
“We’re doing fifties with fifteen pushups at each end. Freestyle. Pyramiding down. We’ll start with a set of five and work down from there.”
I have no clue what they’re talking about—as I don’t speak swim—but from the hard set of Reese’s jaw, I can tell he’s not too excited about the workout he’s about to do.
“Start on the block and listen to my signal. Go on my count.”
I watch Reese’s long and sturdy body hop out of the pool and stride to the block. He adjusts his swim cap and looks at the pool. The minute his eyes meet mine from across the deck, his face brightens and his gaze sharpens. From the light smirk that blesses his features, I know he’s happy to see me.
He snaps his goggles in place, adjusts his swim jammers that ride incredibly low on his waist—like dangerously low—and gets in position. Bending over at the block, he grips the edge, his feet positioned askew, and his head angling down toward the water.
“Take your mark,” his coach calls through a mini megaphone. Reese’s arms tighten just before a beep sounds, sending Reese flying through the air and straight into the water. I’m angled so I’m staring down the length of the pool and he’s coming right at me. I wait in anticipation to see him pop up out of the water.
After a few seconds, his head emerges and his strong arms stroke through the water while his powerful legs kick behind him. Fluidly his legs, torso, and arms work together, propelling him forward at a pace I’d never be able to keep up with. I would be flopping around in the water, begging for him to wait up. His hands enter the water with precision, barely making a splash as he glides toward me.
Just when I think he is about to flip under the water to turn around, my mind plays games with me because it almost seems like slow motion as his arms straighten and his chest pops out of the pool. With his foot on the edge, he climbs out, water streaking down every sinew in his body, down to his waistline where his jammers cling to the bulge in his crotch.
Fuck. Me.
It’s like he’s giving me my own personal erotic show.
He stops right in front of me. Droplets of water decorate my tennis shoes and as he planks over the ground, getting into a pushup position. He gazes up at me and winks just as his coach starts counting in rapid succession, setting the pace for Reese’s pushups.
I’ve never been one to stare at another human being while they’re exerting themselves, because sometimes, humans are not the most attractive when they’re working their body weight up and down, coming inches from touching the ground. Butthat’snot the case with Reese King.
