Stroked Hard

  “How come I’ve never seen him with you?”

  “Because he lives like a fucking king in my condo. He has his own bed and litter box.”

  Melony stops her pursuit toward the pool and turns to face me. “He has a litter box?”

  I take a sip of my beer and nod. “Yup, and he’s so classy he actually doesn’t even bother trying to eat his own shit. Imagine that.”

  “What a wonderful thing to put on his résumé,” Melony teases. Kicking off her sandals, she holds her skirt close to her body and bends down so she’s sitting on the side of the pool, feet dangling in the water.

  Not even waiting for an invitation, I lower myself next to her so my shoulder bumps with hers, my feet dangling in the water as well. The view in front of us is fucking incredible. There is a cut-out in the trees toward the ocean so all you see are waves for days. Not going to lie; I’m kind of jealous of Reese right about now. He has the perfect romantic setting with his backyard. Right now I have a balcony. Looks like I will have to woo Melony borrowing my buddy’s pad. No problem there.

  Nudging my shoulders with hers, I ask, “Thanks for letting me drive you today.”

  “It was just a car ride,” she says, splashing her foot around in the water. Her toes are painted an orange-pink color, almost neon. I fucking like it.

  “It was a moment you gave me that I could spend with you.”

  Leaning back just slightly, she turns to me and gives me a disbelieving look. “Are you really that desperate for pussy?”

  “I’m desperate for your pussy, Melony. I’m also desperate for your mind too. I want to know what goes on up there.”

  “But you don’t even know me.”

  I laugh. “That’s the point of dating, you get to know someone. So, what do you say, should I pencil you in for Friday? We can go out to dinner, maybe take a walk somewhere, and then go back to my place where I can lick that sweet pussy of yours until you scream my name. Sounds like a great night to me.”

  “I don’t do that kind of stuff.” She turns away from me, her gaze on the water in front of her, avoiding any and all contact with me.

  “Yeah, well when I’m done with you, you will. That’s for damn sure.” Changing the subject, I say, “Now tell me what you know about Reese and Paisley.”

  Tilting her head so her hair falls to the side, she peeks up at me through her eyelashes and smiles. “I was hoping you could fill me in with some information. I don’t know much. I just met her.”

  My eyebrows rise in surprise. I point to my chest in fake surprise. “You want me to tell you what I know. Well, well, well, looks like I might have some information you’re looking for. My, have the tables turned. What are you willing to do to get the information?”

  “If you think I’m about to suck your dick for some measly gossip, you’re wrong.” She stands and I quickly join her.

  “Wow, that’s kind of aggressive. I wouldn’t have my dick shoved down your throat for gossip, I would shove it down there if I want you to stop talking.” I wink at her. Unfortunately she rolls her eyes and starts to walk away. I chase after that. “I was just looking for a kiss, maybe a little nip slip. If my hand happens to catch your breast as it falls out of your shirt, I wouldn’t mind that either.”

  Stopping in her pursuit toward the house, she places her hand on her hip, her eyes playful. I fucking like this fiery Melony. This is the Melony I met that first go-around. “How do I even know you have good gossip? You could be harvesting some bullshit news about how they both like the color blue and then I have to pony up to you.”

  “Do they both like blue? I pictured Reese more of a green type of guy,” I say, pondering.

  “You’re so annoying.” Taking off again, I follow her.

  “Test me, I bet you I have something good.”

  “You have nothing,” she counters.

  “What if I do? What if I tell you a juicy tidbit, would I get something in return?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, causing her cleavage to lift slightly. Fuck, I want to bury my head in those breasts. “What would you want? And don’t say my breast in my mouth, because that’s not going to happen.”

  What do I want? What a fucking wide open door. Well, let’s see. I want her to let me take her on a date. I want to take a fucking picture with her so I can look at it when I need a fix of her gorgeous face. I want to be able to hold her at night, fuck her to sleep, and then wake her up with my tongue eating her pussy. I want to be able to call her and talk to her for hours without one ounce of awkward silence between us. I want to watch her glossy lips slide over my rock hard cock . . .

  Fuck, I want her lips all over my damn body. I want MY lips all over hers. I want her to trust me, to believe me when I say I’m a one-woman man. I want her to open up and be willing to allow me to woo her, to pull a Noah Calhoun on her ass and build a dream house with her.

  I fucking want it all.

  But that request might be a little much for a little swap of gossip so I make my offer small.

  “If you are pleased with my gossip, in return, all I ask is for you to let me hold your hand on the drive home and to walk you to your apartment.”

  “That’s it? You’re not going to try to kiss me? To ask to come in, to try to stick your penis in my vagina?”

  I chuckle, a deep rumble that vibrates through my chest. “Although my penis being inserted into your vagina is a fantasy of mine, I swear, all I want is to hold your hand and walk you back to your apartment.”

  Suspiciously, she quirks her lips to the side, as if she doesn’t quite believe me.

  Motioning with my fingers over my chest I say, “Cross my heart. That’s it, but you have to promise that you will follow through with your end if I have good enough gossip. You can’t lie.”

  There is a pause as she assesses me. “You have nothing.”

  “Test me. Shake on it and I’ll divulge what I have.”

  I hold out my hand, which she studies. With a sigh, she shakes it and I revel in the second I get to hold her hand right before she disengages our connection.

  Looking behind her, to make sure Reese is still in the house, she turns back to me and says, “Okay, spill.”

  Chancing a glance into the house as well, I see Paisley has finally arrived so I have to make this quick. Reese has told me very little but there is one detail I do know that I believe will secure my victory.

  Rubbing my hands together, knowing I’ve got this in the bag, I lean forward and say, “Are you ready for this?”

  “Just get on with it,” Melony says exasperated, but also a little giddy to see what I have to tell her.

  “You can’t tell her I told you this. That would be breaking the gossiping code.”

  “There is no such thing and stop delaying, just tell me.”

  “Promise you won’t tell.”

  Rolling her eyes, she says, “I promise I won’t tell.”

  “Wow, so convincing,” I say sarcastically. “I don’t believe you. Pinky promise with me.”

  Irritated, she asks, “What are you, a twelve-year-old girl?”

  I wiggle my pinky at her. “Pinky promise, pineapple puss.”

  “Fine.” She wraps her pinky around mine and we shake on it. “Satisfied? Now tell me and this better be good for all the trouble you put me through.”

  Smiling brightly, I lean toward her, taking in her fresh, flowery scent and say, “Reese would chop off my dick if he knew I told you this, but the first time they were intimate, she gave him a blow job on his welcome mat. Didn’t even make it into the house.”

  I knew the minute I gave up a juicy fact, Melony’s eyes would widen with surprise. She knows it’s good gossip. I know it’s good gossip. It’s solidified: I fucking own the title of gossip king. And you know what, I will wear that title with pride because it’s given me the chance to be closer with Melony. Sorry, Reese and Paisley, I will buy you a fruit basket to make it up to you for throwing you under the bus for my own benefit. But I don’
t feel bad because the look on Melony’s face was all worth it.

  Without a word from her, I say, “Now how do you like to hold hands, linked fingers or unlinked? I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

  She swallows hard and answers, “Unlinked.”

  When she looks up at me, I see the vulnerable girl she tries so hard to hide. I want you, too, Melony. I want to hold you, too.

  Chapter Ten

  MELONY

  A blow job on a welcome mat. Who knew that was going to be my undoing?

  I was so convinced Hollis was all talk. I mean, how could I not? Ever since I’ve known him he’s been full of bullshit, constantly spouting off random crap. Did I really think he had some good gossip? No, I didn’t. I would have bet a date with him on it. Thankfully he only asked to hold hands, which seemed innocent.

  That was what I thought until we said our goodbyes and Hollis led me out to his car. For some reason, the tension between us has grown to exponential lengths. And I’m not talking about awkward tension; I’m talking about sexual tension.

  That one little victory on his end has changed everything. I notice all his perusals now, the way he licks his lips when he stares at mine. The way he intently watches me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way his breath hitches whenever I draw near him. I see all the signs. He’s not all talk. He actually likes me.

  And that fact terrifies me more than anything.

  So giving in and letting him hold my hand for the drive home scares me. Will he want it to lead to something else? Will I?

  I can’t even handle that thought right now. I don’t want anything with him. He talks a great talk of future promises and the kind of people we could be. You know, the kind that are madly in love and can’t get enough of each other.

  The only problem with that is I don’t know what love is. I don’t plan on trying to figure it out, and I have no intention of ever being in a relationship with a man.

  “Are you okay?” Hollis asks as he opens the door for me. “You seem a little tense.”

  “I’m fine,” I answer curtly. I settle in his Prius as he shuts the door on me. I buckle up and stare straight ahead. I can’t look at him. I’ve exchanged too many glances with him tonight. My mind is on overload, and I don’t trust myself. Who knows what I might do?

  For some reason, he cautiously gets in the car, as if he might startle me, puts his seat belt on and starts the car but doesn’t start driving. From the corner of my eye, I see him glance in my direction, trying to gauge my mood.

  With a deep sigh, he puts the car in drive, looks to the side for oncoming traffic and pulls into the road . . . without holding my hand.

  Anxiety flushes over me.

  Not that I really wanted to hold his hand, but why isn’t he holding it? He said he was going to. He told me multiple times throughout the night when Reese and Paisley were consumed with each other that he couldn’t wait to match our palms together, to slowly rub his thumb over my knuckles, to have the privilege to walk me to my door. Yeah, he said privilege. What man says that?

  A liar!

  Because right now, when he’s supposed to cash in on his promises, he doesn’t. This is why I don’t get serious with men because they can’t even follow through on even the simplest things.

  Melony, I can’t wait to see you, sweetie.

  Melony, your birthday present is in the mail.

  Melony, I’m going to fly you out to Florida to spend the summer with me.

  All lies. My father, the king of over-promising and under-delivering. Why did I expect anything else from Hollis?

  The silence in the car is eerie, uncomfortable, awkward as all hell. What was supposed to be a fun night with friends has turned into a melodramatic disaster with a man I never even wanted to get “involved” with in the first place. If that’s what you want to call our minimal interaction.

  We come to a stoplight. The car lightly hums beneath us and once again, I can see Hollis checking on me, assessing me. Assess all you want, fucker. You’re a liar and this will be the last interaction we have.

  “Melony,” he breaks the silence, startling me slightly. His voice is serious, trying to pull my attention but I refuse to give it to him. “Look at me.”

  No.

  I can’t.

  “Melony, fucking look at me.” The timber of his voice rumbles through me. “Do not make me ask again.” Why does his demand slightly turn me on? Is it because it’s the first time I’ve seen a bit of an alpha man in Hollis? He’s supposed to be Mr. Romantic, a bit of a girly boy. Where did this side come from?

  Curious I turn to look at him and I’m greeted with a smoldering, angry Hollis. His brows are cinched together, his blue eyes a darker, fiercer shade, and his chiseled jaw with the perfect amount of scruff is set tight, pulsing right below his ears.

  “Yes?” I ask, holding back my gulp.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Well, besides the fact that you’re a liar?

  I hold my tongue and notice the change of color in the light. Nodding toward the intersection, I say, “Go, it’s green.”

  His jaw ticks as he says, “Fuck that,” and pulls the car off to the side, parking along the curb. He turns in his seat, his built frame taking up all the space in the front seat of the car.

  Shit, he’s intimidating when he looks like this. It’s intimidating but it’s also turning me on. What is wrong with me?

  “Tell me what’s wrong, or else we’re going to sit here all night, which I don’t mind. It’s not that far of a drive from my pool. I can easily sleep here and get ready for practice quickly.”

  Knowing he’s telling the truth, I haven’t really seen him budge on anything, I give in. “You lied to me. I don’t like liars and I don’t put up with them.”

  The strong set of his jaw and the furrow in his brow relaxes as he takes in my words. Quickly his anger turns into confusion and concern. “When did I lie to you?”

  God, the next words coming out of my mouth are going to sound so childish. Which probably is the truth, but it matters to me. Keeping promises matter to me.

  “You said you were going to hold my hand on the way home.”

  His concern morphs into a cocky grin, and I instantly hate that I even said anything.

  His voice turns into liquid velvet as he says, “I’m sorry, baby. I wasn’t sure you actually wanted to hold my hand given the cold-bitch vibe you were shooting my way. I wanted to respect your wishes.”

  “Whatever.” I fold my arms over my chest and look out the passenger side window. “Just take me home.”

  “No way in hell until you wander that little hand over here.”

  I look to the side to see Hollis holding out his hand, palm up, waiting for me to join him in an awkward connection.

  “I’m over it, just drive.”

  “Nuh-uh, lactose lips.”

  His stupid names crack me every time. “Lactose lips?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Fuck, I don’t know. Not my best. Just hold my hand.”

  Giving in, I link my hand with his, our palms touching, our fingers wrapping around to the back of our hands, his fingers reaching farther. Briefly, he looks up at me and smiles, a gut-twisting, ovary-clenching, heart-pounding smile. The kind of smile that says I just handed the world over to him.

  “Now that wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  “You ask me?” I counter.

  With the most genuine look on his face, he says, “Like a fucking dream, baby.”

  And then, as if he didn’t just rock my whole world those five little words, he pulls out onto the street and drives us back to the complex, our hands never parting.

  We stay in silence as we drive. I look out the window, enjoying the palm trees that wobble up to the sky, looking like they were plucked out of a Dr. Seuss book, all the while trying to ignore the heat that’s starting to build in the pit of my stomach.

  This was such a bad idea. Such a bad, bad idea. God, Mel, what were you
thinking?

  To me, hand holding is so much more intimate than making out. Don’t agree with me? Think about it. You could be at a bar, plastered to the wall, one shot away from taking your clothes off and offering up your nipples as garnishes to the bartender, and all of a sudden, have an urge to run your hands sloppily through the hair of the guy next to you, only to follow it up with some very unattractive tongue-on-tongue action. You’ve seen those chicks, the ones with their thongs hanging out the back of their pants because they’re constantly giving themselves wedgies. Drunk make-out sessions are a twenties mistake. But have you ever heard of drunk holding hands? Not really. You don’t go to a bar, get wasted, and hold hands with another person. Holding hands is meant for someone you’re intimate with, someone you have a connection with.

  What does that say to me? Am I “drunk” holding hands with Hollis? Or do I actually have some kind of intimate connection with him? Crap, is that what all his texts and phone calls have been, ways to be intimate?

  Could it be?

  No.

  No. He’s too cocky, too arrogant when he talks, always joking about my boob somehow falling in his mouth. That’s not imitate. That’s just . . . perverted.

  Yes, Hollis is a pervert who wants to hold hands.

  Great! I’m holding hands with a pervert. Christ, might as well be drunk, making out with my thong hanging out the back of my shorts.

  Before I can torture myself even more with my inner diatribe, we park in the apartment complex, closer to the condos rather than my apartment. How convenient for Hollis.

  He releases my hand briefly, grabs his keys, and walks around the front of his car. Like the gentleman he is, he opens the door for me and once again holds out his hand.

  A deal is a deal—at least that’s what I tell myself. Once again, I take his hand in mine and allow him to help me out of the car.

  He locks up then leads me toward the apartments. We zigzag through cars in the parking lot, never breaking our connection while the sounds of crickets fill the cooling night air.

  “You can actually see the faint sign of stars up above,” Hollis points out, using his other hand to show me while leaning in close. God, why does he have to smell like walking sex? It’s making me feel dizzy, almost drunk. I blame the stupid pheromone crap they put in cologne now. “It’s rare I see them anymore with the city lights.”