Page 47 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“There are makeup and hair stylists for that.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“Give me five minutes, and we’ll get started,” the photographer says, cleaning his lens.
I glance down at Paisley and ignore her irritation. “Better get squirting, don’t want to hold up the photo shoot, do you?”
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she says, wetting down my chest.
“Yes, you’re correct. I am. Now don’t forget to rub the water into my skin. I want to look like I’m not onlywet, but glistening.” I put extra emphasis on the word wet, just to grate on her nerves. “Oh, and try not to feel me up too much, despite how much you want me.”
Reluctantly, she sprays me, coating my chest and hair first before rubbing her hand along the contours and curves of my muscles. Her breath grows deeper with every pass of her hand, her eyes grow heavy, and right about now, I would give my left nut to know what she’s thinking, to feel what she’s feeling, to fucking rip her clothes off and see how turned on she is.
Because I’m a man, I peek down at her chest to see if her body is reacting to mine. To my delight, both of her nipples are hard, and she’s licking her lips as she concentrates on running her hand diligently across my broad and defined chest.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her, breaking the silence between us, my gravelly voice pulling her from her concentration.
She startles and meets my gaze, shocked she was lost in thought while smoothing water over my chest.
She shakes her head, a million thoughts running through those gorgeous grey eyes of hers. “Um, I think you’re set.”
“That’s not answering my question. What were you thinking, Paisley?” She doesn’t answer, she doesn’t even look me in the eyes. Instead, she focuses on the water bottle in her hand, peering at it as if it will transport her to another location. “Let me guess, you were thinking about how much you wish we were somewhere private so you can lower your hands past the waistline of my suit to feel my thick, long cock. Am I right, Paisley? Don’t think I didn’t see you staring at my cock when you were at my house. I notice everything you do, especially when it comes to those grey eyes of yours igniting with flames whenever I’m around.”
She clears her throat and takes a step back. “You’re all set,” she repeats.
Happy with her awkward and uncomfortable reaction, I ask, “Are you sure? What about my hair?”
She scans my curls and cringes. I can’t help but smile at her facial expressions. I’m about to ask her to run her fingers through it when she stands on her tippy toes and dumps the rest of the water in the bottle over my head, drenching me.
Stepping back, she bites her fingernail, a regretful look on her face, and says, “All set.” Then she puts a great distance between us, standing back with the crew.
Soaked, I run both hands through my hair, catching all the water and smoothing out my waves, slicking them down so it looks like I just got out of the water. Droplets fall off my chest, and all the spraying she did goes unnoticed from the downpour she just bestowed upon me.
Smirking, I shake my head at her. I should have known better, the woman holds nothing back when it comes to her actions.
“Perfect,” the photographer says, lifting his camera to his eye.
Wanting to get Paisley back, I do what I do best, I pose in a Speedo . . . while she watches.
Casually, I lift my right arm and place my hand behind my neck, gripping it and flexing my bicep at the same time. With my left thumb, I hook it under the waistband of my Speedo and pull it down, just far enough that I’m not revealing anything, but moments away from letting everything hang out. Then I give the camera a sultry look.
“Hold that pose,” the photographer yells, getting shutter happy on me, clicking his camera in rapid succession.
From behind him, I can see Paisley gripping the water bottle, hugging it closely to her chest, and her straight teeth nibbling on her lip, staring directly at my package.
Yup, it is only a ticking time bomb until I have her just where I want her.
***
“Are you going to cry about this the entire time we’re on the phone?” I ask, wrapping a towel around my waist before I take the phone off speaker.
He always calls a couple times before a big race, it’s ritual. I do the same thing when it comes to his competitions, so this post-shower call is not at all surprising.
“I’m just saying, you could have supported me when it came to my dick size.”
I chuckle into the phone. “I’ve never seen your dick, therefore I can’t vouch for it.”
“Want me to come over? Better yet, let’s FaceTime. I’m wearing an elastic waistband, easy access.”
