Page 9 of Stroked by (Stroked)
Chapter Four
**PAISLEY**
Holy shit I’m tired.
I finally get the chance to sit down on my couch after a long day of running around for Bellini, cleaning the soles of her shoes, waving incense over Pope Francis—who is the cutest and sweetest dog I’ve ever met—and politely removing Buddy Chambers’s hands from my hip every two seconds. The man is foul. Despite the size of his bank account, he apparently doesn’t know what it means to brush your teeth, because gingivitis was prevalent in every up-close-and-personal word he spoke into my ear.
I shiver just thinking about it.
Now that I’m finally home, a burrito from Alberto’s in hand and a large iced tea ready to be consumed, I can sit back and think about how I completely forgot Bellini Chambers was dating Reese King.
The moment I saw him, my stomach bottomed out, a light sheen of sweat took over my skin, and I felt physically nauseated from nerves.
Reese King: Greek god in a Speedo, Bad Boy of the pool, known for his unruly temper when interviewed, his inability to earn a gold medal despite his other accomplishments, and also named Sexiest Man Alive last year.
Yes, you read that correctly,Sexiest Man Alive.
Everything about him captivated me. From the way his body moved with confidence and power, to the deep husky tone of his voice, to the slight crinkle by his eyes that shows his age. From the way he spoke to me, a side of gentle in his voice, I felt myself melting all over the floor, willing myself not to turn into a ball of mush.
He’s dream worthy.
But then, he isn’t your typical swimmer: smooth skin, short hair, and preppy polo made by Ralph Lauren decorating his chest. He is different. He’s dark, mysterious, sports a beard right up until competition where he shaves it before getting in the pool. His wavy hair doesn’t get trimmed very often, only on the sides, and he leaves the top heavy so he can push it to the left, forming a thick faux hawk. His eyes are so soulfully penetrating it’s next to impossible not to get lost in them.
Then there’s his tattoo.
Oh, sweet God, his tattoo.
Most swimmers, or Olympians for that matter, have a tattoo of the Olympic rings somewhere on their body. Not Reese. He has a sleeve tattoo on his left arm that extends around his left pectoral, down his shoulder blade and wraps around his entire arm straight to his wrist. It’s intricate in design, as if someone tore off his skin and revealed a mechanical engine for his arm rather than the fine-tuned muscles he’s created.
It is hot.
Sexy.
He is hardnotto stare at.
Pretty much impossible not to drool over.
And that’s exactly what happened to me today.
Throughout the entire photo shoot my eyes found their way to Reese, taking in his smirk, the flex of his muscles, the way his body moved in each frame, or the strong hold he had on Bellini. There was no denying the immediate attraction I felt for the man, or the way I started to throb with each pass of his eyes over me. It almost felt like he was tracking me, seeking me out. Erotic images flashed through my head the entire time, igniting a burning need deep within my soul.
But, that’s all imagination because . . .
He’s dating the devil. How can he possibly consider being in a relationship with someone like her? I’m not much of a swimming fan, but I’ve watched the Olympics because I enjoy seeing him with his shirt off, streaming through the water. So I know a little about him. He is quiet with his personal life—which is confusing since he is doing this TV show now—he has charities he works with, mainly helping inner-city kids learn how to swim, and he has a reputation of having no friends on the pool deck, only enemies. Especially Bodi Banks, the man who stole the gold from him the past two Olympics. In addition to apparently not getting along with Bodi, he’s not very friendly with reporters either. He often refuses interviews and has been known to slam photographers up against cars and brick walls if they get too close to him. If I didn’t just meet him and see a softer side, I would have gone with the media’s portrayal of him: an unruly bad boy who strokes for silver.
The front door opens then slams shut. Jonathan stands in the entryway, leaning against the front door and blows out a long breath. With a sideways smile, he looks over at me and eyes my burrito. “Get one for me?”
“Of course.” I hold up his burrito.
Dropping everything, he hops over the couch and plants himself right next to me. I hand him the burrito, and together we eat a much-deserved dinner, sharing my iced tea.
“How was your first day on the job?”
“Is that what you’re calling it?” I ask. “A job? More like a first-class ticket to Satan’s den.”
Jonathan cringes, knowing fully well the kind of “job” he set me up with. “Pays well, so that’s good for both our bank accounts.”
I feel guilty from his comment. The last couple months, Jonathan has been supporting me while I tried to get my act together, so I really shouldn’t complain about him finding me a job when he’s been giving me money to buy things like . . . burritos.
