STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (4 page)

Getting in her face, she says, “You work for me, you assist ME! Therefore, if I refer to you as Mauve, the color of your stupid Persian-pattern name, then you will answer to it. Don’t think I don’t know you need this job. I can see it in your eyes. Now, we can either have a nice working relationship, or I can make your life a living hell. It’s up to you . . . Mauve.”

Paisley’s jaw ticks and I can see the minute muscles of her neck flex in frustration. Talking back is on the tip of her tongue, everyone can see it, but instead of slapping Bellini like she deserves with a verbal onslaught of profanity, Paisley turns to me.

Heart-stopping grey eyes and luscious lips.

Fucking. Gorgeous.

So gorgeous my heart rate picks up, and the palms of my hands begin to sweat. I’m a relatively slick man, but my anxiety kicks up a notch from the way her steely eyes are piercing me.

There is no denying her beauty. The heart shape of her face frames her in an angelic light, the pink of her pouty lips beg to be kissed, and the length of her eyelashes speaks trouble. From the scroll of words that dance underneath her right collarbone, to the soft wave of her jet-black hair, she’s no doubt in my mind the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

“Mr. King.” Her voice shakes as she speaks to me. A part of me wants to think her voice is wavering because she’s nervous around me, but I realize I’m wearing a leopard-print Speedo and holding a beach ball. There is
no
way she finds this attractive. “Would you like anything to drink?”

I clear my throat, surprised at how nervous she actually makes me. “Uh, I’m good. Thanks.”

She nods and walks away without another word.

Wow, real smooth, fuck-stick. No introduction, no “how are you”, just an “I’m good.” I mentally kick myself in the crotch for my lack of finesse.

First impressions are a real thing, and by the way I’m dressed, and my smooth-operator introduction, I’m striking out.

“Shall we get started?” the photographer asks.

Irritated, I grab Bellini’s hand and force her to sit on the bench. She squeals, flops around for a good minute, sliding around on my slicked up skin while bitching about it, and finally settles on my lap, holding the beach ball in her hand and smiling for the camera. No doubt the tense set of my jaw is evident, but I can’t help but hate every minute of this.

From behind the photographer, I glance at Paisley, trying to gauge her reaction to the photo shoot. What does she think of this sham of a relationship? Is it believable to her like everyone else? I sure as hell hope not, because I know one thing is for sure: I need to get to know Paisley. There is something mysterious in her eyes, something vulnerable. I want to know her story, where she came from, and who the hell she wants to be.

“Look at me and smile,” Bellini hisses in my ear.

Not wanting a meltdown, I do as she says and stare into her blue eyes, picturing them as murky, rodent-infested pools of blue.

In all honesty, she is a pretty woman, so it’s too bad her beauty is only skin-deep. Her heart and soul are the ugliest I’ve ever met, no contest. I have no clue why she is such a heinous human being though.

Because she’s rich? Because she’s able to afford expensive things and brag about it? How does that make her better? It really doesn’t.

I’ve made some money from my swimming career and have invested it into one elaborate thing: my Malibu beach house. All other income has been invested into funds that accrue fantastic interest—thank you, Sal, my CPA. But like I said, my house is my one luxury. Almost every morning, I rush to the ocean for an open-water swim and then dry off naked on my deck. I have privacy. I am secluded. It’s my welcomed escape from this crazy world. It’s the one place I told the camera crews they’re not allowed to go. I wouldn’t sign unless that was in the contract. To my surprise, they agreed to my terms.

Other than my house, I am a normal man. I drive a Jeep Wrangler, I wear normal clothes you can pick up at any mall, and eat normal food like every other American, only in large, calorie-packed quantities.

I don’t understand Bellini and her need for luxury. To me, it is a waste of money and only drives someone to be completely obsessed with possessions.

“That’s it. Reese, slide your hand up her thigh just a little.”

I do as I’m told and Bellini giggles in my ear. “Oh Reese, be careful, you know I don’t believe in sex before marriage.”

I would rather cut off my own dick.

Another reason why I would never be with Bellini. Not because I’m some sort of sex fiend and need someone on my cock all the time, but I believe in knowing your partner completely before going forward with the next step in life. Love isn’t just about connecting spiritually, it’s about connecting physically as well, making sure you’re compatible.

“Don’t worry, dear, you won’t see me knocking at the flaps of your underwear.”

She pinches my skin on my back, causing me to yelp and flinch.

“Oh, did you get a splinter from the bench?” she asks, feigning innocence.

“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath, snapping her attention.

She grips my chin and forces me to stare at her. Flames dance in her eyes, and for a second I’m almost terrified the exorcist is going to pop out of her mouth and choke me to death. She leans my head forward so it looks like she’s telling me a secret but what she whispers is anything but innocent.

“Say that to me one more time and I promise you, Reese King, you will never see the deep end of a pool again, got it? Stroke me with your thumb letting me know you understand.”

I don’t move. This bitch needs me just as much as I need her, so I turn her head so she can hear me this time.

“Try me, Bellini. You and I both know you need me in this show just as much as I need you, but where we differ is, I’m willing to give it all up just to distance myself from your self-centered ass. You, on the other hand, thrive and survive off your ill-gotten fame, so it looks like I’m calling the shots here. So turn your pretty little head toward the camera, smile and get this over with, because I’m two seconds away from calling it a day.”

She pulls away from me and gives me a disgusted look before considering every word I said. Right then and there, I learn that, in fact, I do have the upper hand. I will use that to my greatest advantage.

Ten minutes later, the photographer is calling it, happy with the pictures he was able to capture. The crew starts to pack up, and I’m able to get Bellini off my lap. Thank God she was covering up the leopard-print Speedo.

“Here you go,” comes a soft voice from the side. I turn to see Paisley handing me a robe with a gentle smile. “Figured you might want to cover up after being exposed for so long.”

“Thank you.” I smile sincerely at her. I hold out my hand and properly introduce myself. “I’m Reese King.”

“Paisley Maccaro. I’m Miss Chamber’s and your new assistant. If you two need anything, just let me know, I would be happy to help.”

Assistant, so she was going to be around . . . a lot. I liked that idea.

“I’m good for now, but I will be sure to let you know.” Ashley walks by, and I flag her down. “Ashley, please grab Paisley’s number for me. Just in case I need to contact her.”

“Sure thing,” Ashely replies, not pulling her gaze away from her electronic lifeline.

“All right, well, I better see if Miss Chambers needs anything,” Paisley says shyly.

Before she can leave, I say, “We’re going to brunch tomorrow, you should join us.” She gives me an odd look, and I check my eagerness to be near her at the door. “I mean, so we can talk about what we are going to need in the coming weeks, with the Olympics closing in.”

A small smile escapes her. “Not a problem, I will be there.”

“Great,” I say, a little too excitedly. “I’ll be sure to text you the details.”

“MAUVE,” Bellini screams, startling Paisley.

Before I can say bye, she takes off quickly to provide whatever asinine thing Bellini needs help with.

I tie my robe tight across my waist and turn toward Ashley; she is not to leave the studio without getting Paisley’s information. That’s for damn sure.

**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 hard
not
to 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.

“True.” I take another bite and quickly chew before saying, “Sorry if it sounds like I’m ungrateful. I guess I’m still trying to accept that I have to work my way back up to the top again. All that hard work in college was for nothing.”

He puts his hand on my thigh and says, “At least your grandfather got his Pez dispenser.”

“Heaven forbid.” I roll my eyes, just as I get a text from a weird number.

Hey Paisley, it’s Reese King. I wanted to make sure you have my number.

I smile to myself, set my burrito carefully down on the coach, wipe my fingers, and text him back. My stomach flutters into somersaults.

Paisley: Hey Reese, thank you. I will be sure to save it.

I pause, not knowing what else to say, so I just click send. Not the most riveting conversation ever, but what is a girl supposed to say to the Sexiest Man Alive?