Page 67 of Stroked by (Stroked)
Paisley: Are you pouting?
Reese: Yes
I laugh. Such a giant baby. Puffing my hair up and pinching my cheeks. I turn the camera around, angle it high so at least he gets a good shot of my cleavage, and send him a picture of me. Once the picture is uploaded, I wait impatiently for his response. I’m not wearing makeup and I have some dark circles under my eyes thanks to him. Hopefully he still finds me attractive.
Minutes tick by and he doesn’t text me back. Nerves start to set in and I wonder if maybe we weren’t at the point in our new relationship where we send each other pictures.
I’m about to text him again when my phone starts to ring. FaceTime. From Reese.Shit.
A little nervous to see him again, since we are still getting to know each other, I fix my hair quickly and then answer. A vision of Reese pops up lying in bed with one hand behind his head. He’s bare-chested, glorious muscles on display, floating in a sea of pillows.
“Hey baby.” He smiles seductively at me, licking his lips, lips that I want so desperately all over my body. This was a terrible, terrible idea. I should have ditched Jonathan for some more Reese time.
“Hey you.”
“Sorry if I’m bothering you. I just had to see you after you sent that picture. You’re a little fucking tease, you know that?”
I laugh and sink deeper into my bed, holding the phone up. “And here I thought you didn’t like the picture since it took you so long to respond.”
“Had to get ready for bed. Wanted to fall asleep to your sweet voice.”
“Is that a line?” I ask, not falling immediately for it.
“No lines needed with you, Paisley,” he answers sincerely. “You can believe everything that comes out of my mouth.”
“Is that right? So tell me, am I the best you’ve ever had?”
Instantly he answers, “Without a doubt.”
“I better be,” I tease. “So, are you ready for tomorrow? You have some press conferences and an interview with—”
“Paisley, I don’t want to talk about work with you when we are not on the clock. This is our personal time, time to get to know each other.”
My heart melts. I turn on my side and prop the phone up on my nightstand before resting my head on my pillow, staring at the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
“What do you want to know?”
He smiles brightly and says, “Everything.”
Chapter Sixteen
**BELLINI**
“Pocket,” I scream from my chaise lounge that sits in my beheaded room.
Normally when surrounded by the mounted poly-resin taxidermy heads of Prince Harry, Mark Paul Gosselaar, Carnie Wilson, and Masaharu Morimoto, I feel at ease, but their cemented heads decorating the gold wallpaper in my relaxation room is doing nothing for my rising anxiety.
Once again, the world is against me. I have to fly to the cornfields today for Reese’s swim thing in the midst of an absolute crisis.
As the amazing human being I am, I spent the last two days interviewing lesbians under false pretenses. What they thought was an interview to work for Pothead Pizza as an artistic food stylist—aka, come up with stupid flavors—was actually me questioning everything from their personal life to their financial status so I can find the proper match for Mauve. Being so popular and sought after, I barely have time to pray with Pope Francis, and now with my new endeavor, Love for Lesbians, and my religious doggy wear fashion line, something is bound to slip.
And it did.
“Pocket,” I scream even louder, wondering where that Neanderthal is.
Mauve is on her way to the airport now, leaving me without an assistant. If I knew today was going to be the worst day of my life, I would have kept her around to dab a damp cloth over my forehead. Now, I’m left to dabbing one myself by using tongs because touching a wet washcloth is for people with large cuticles, not someone of my pristine perfection.
Breathing heavily and stopping in the doorway, Pocket stands before me—pants unzipped and her shirt hanging over her crotch just enough so I’m not forced to see what kind of hobo underwear she’s wearing.
