Stroked Hard

  “I’m fine, but thanks for the advice. See ya.” She starts jogging away, that pert little ass bouncing with each movement and the next thing I know, my aching muscles are propelling me forward, catching up to her attainable pace . . . if I wasn’t so fucking sore.

  Eyeing me from the side, she looks me up and down and asks, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Wanted to go for a run. It’s a free country, you know.”

  “This is my time to relax, Hollis.”

  “Good, me too. I’m so glad we get to relax together.”

  Frustrated—it’s all over her face—she sticks her earphones back in her ears and continues to run through the walking paths in the apartment complex that lead to the beach. Keeping in time, I run next to her despite my screaming muscles.

  Fuck, why am I so stupid? Am I really that desperate?

  I eye her from the side and unanimously agree that yes, I am that desperate. She is worth the pain. Call me a pussy, but Melony captivates me. I need to be around her. When she’s near, I’m fucking happy. I forget about the stress I have mounting on my shoulders, the guilt I have for destroying Holly’s life, and the pressure from the diving community to bring home another gold medal. Instead, I get lost in her hair, her eyes, those fucking lips. And her mind. Shit, I love sparring with her, seeing how feisty I can make her, how much fun I can have pressing her buttons. It’s goddamn addicting. I know there is physical attraction there, but if she really hated me, really wanted nothing to do with me, she wouldn’t put up with my shit. She’d firmly shut me out, and never allow me the interaction we have now. I just hope she’ll eventually let me in fully. Isn’t she lonely?

  She’s mine.

  That is why I’m currently jogging next to her, pain ricocheting up my legs with each step. Yup, I’m so fucked.

  We make it to the beach in silence and that’s when the pain really starts to hurt. Running in sand is the FUCKING worst. Yes, let’s run on unstable ground, ground that sinks in with each point of pressure. SO fucking smart . . . said no one ever.

  I suck it up for about five minutes until I can’t take it anymore. I puss out, but for good reasoning, I’m literally on the edge of losing my shit, I’m so damn sore.

  Thankfully, when I stop, Melony does as well despite her not wanting to run with me earlier.

  “What’s wrong?” She pulls out her ear buds and I cringe, hating that I’m going to have to show weakness to this strong, confident woman.

  “I’m sorry, honey bunny, but Big Daddy is sore.” I grip my waist and catch my breath for a second.

  “What? And don’t call yourself that?”

  I smirk. “Don’t like that name, princess?”

  “No. It’s creepy.”

  I wink. “It will grow on you.”

  Not putting up with me, she turns away and starts to run again. With all the fucking force left in my body, I take after her and grab her arm to halt her. She looks surprised when I reach her.

  Wincing some more, I say, “For the love of God, don’t take off again. I want to go after you, but I can’t.”

  “Are you really sore? This isn’t one of your perverted things you do to get attention just so you can say something like ‘would you like to come over to my place and massage my dick? It will make me feel better.’”

  “That would make me feel better,” I say much to her chagrin. She starts to move away so I hold out my hand, practically begging with my eyes. “I’m kidding. For the love of God, please don’t move.”

  “You’re really sore.”

  “I really am. That’s what I get for hiring my sister as my coach. Fucking steps leading up to the platform today just about killed me, especially after spending an hour in the weight room.”

  “Sounds treacherous.”

  “It was.” Looking around, I say, “Fuck it’s hot.” Without even thinking, I grab the back of my shirt and pull it over my head, exposing my heated skin. My shorts sit low on my hips thanks to my wallet, exposing the waistline of my underwear. I watch as her heated gaze glances over my body. I don’t say a word, I just let her take me all in.

  Stare all you want, baby. All I ask is you commit it to memory. Or better yet, get greedy with those hands of yours.

  Carefully, she licks her lips as she stares at my abs, her eyes trained on the divots. Well, fuck, the sore muscles are all worth it now.

  Stealing her words, I say, “Hey, baby, my eyes are up here.”

  Immediately her face flushes as her gaze snaps up to mine. She has no words, nothing to cover up her blatant staring. I’m about to tease her when I hear a familiar trickle of a bell sounding through the salty air.

  My ears perk up, my stomach growls, and my body turns to see a familiar childhood icon: the ice cream man.

  With a sultry, yet mischievous smile, I say, “Let’s ditch this workout and get some ice cream.”

  There is indecision in her eyes. Looking out to the ocean, I can see her loyalty to the workout she had planned. My hope for an ice cream with this girl falls. She’s still guarded, still keeping herself at a distance despite everything I’m doing.

  I’m just about to truck it home when she says, “Okay, but you’re buying.”

  Well, shit. I want to give my dick a high five I’m so damn happy. I did not see that coming. I saw the exact opposite actually, but hell if I’ll say anything.

  Fucking ecstatic, we walk toward the ice cream truck and ask, “It was the no shirt that swayed your vote, wasn’t it?”

  Looking me up and down, she smirks. “The no shirt might have had something to do with it.” Fuck me, she just made my day so much better. She must sense I’m about to make a huge deal about her little confession because she points her pink painted finger nail at me and says, “Make some kind of stupid joke and I will be sprinting down this beach before your tired and old ass can catch up to me.”

  “Old?” I raise my eyebrows at her. “’I’m not old.”

  “You’re not young.”

  “To hell I’m not. I’m twenty-eight. I’m still two years from entering my thirties.”

  “You’re practically thirty,” she jokes, a brilliant smile on her face. Shit, if she smiles like that while poking fun at me, I’ll let her tease me all she wants.

  “And what about you, smart-ass. How old are you?” I nod at her and watch her eyes take a quick glance at my chest again.

  Note to self: never wear a shirt around Melony. She seems to be less ornery.

  “None of your business.” She’s defensive and walks a little faster than me, causing me to laugh out loud, then painfully jog to catch up to her where I slip my hand into hers. I hold my breath, wondering if she’s going to pull away but all she does is look down at our hands for a brief second, as if she’s in awe.

  Fucking point for me.

  “Come on, pumpkin, tell Big Daddy your age.”

  “Why do you insist on calling yourself that name?”

  I shrug. “Why not? But don’t change the subject. What’s your age? You’re older than me, aren’t you? Just say it, you’re older. It’s okay, sparkle nips, Big Daddy likes cougars.”

  “Big Daddy is going to get punched in the nuts if he calls me a cougar.”

  “First, thank you for acknowledging my name. Second, you are a cougar.” I say the last part with too much excitement, drawing the attention from the people around us, causing Melony to detach herself from me.

  Damn it.

  She can’t get away that fast though, so instead of holding her hand, I wrap my bare chest and arms around her body, encasing her just right so she’s forced to look up me.

  From the shock in her eyes, I can tell she wasn’t expecting such an approach, but she’s not backing down, so I’m fucking riding this little hug out.

  In a deep, sexy voice, I ask, “Tell me your age, baby.”

  Sighing, she turns away, smirks, and then says, “Twenty-five.”

  “What?” I step away. “You’re younger?”

  “Of
course, I am. Do you really think I would be older than you?”

  I shrug. “I was kind of hoping you were. That way I could call you my cougar, brag about it at the pool.”

  “You wish I was yours,” she says in a flirtatious way, turning away with a smile and stepping up to the ice cream truck. Fuck yes, I wish she was mine. From a short distance, I can hear her talking to the ice cream man who can’t be much older than the both of us. And his ability to stare at a pair of breasts is his shortcoming and the reason why he’s going to find a Popsicle shoved up his asshole if he doesn’t take his eyes off my girl.

  Yes, my fucking girl. She has yet to agree to that title, but fuck it, she will at some point.

  Wanting to showboat, I walk up behind Melony, circle my arms around her exposed stomach and kiss the top of her head. She stiffens for a second before I say just loud enough for the tit observer to hear, “Hey baby. What’re you getting?”

  Looking at me from the side, she just shakes her head and says, “Chocolate crunch bar for me.”

  “Chocolate?” I scoff.

  “Yes, it’s the best.”

  Pushing a stray hair behind her ear, I tsk at her. “My poor baby, she doesn’t have good ice cream taste.” With my eyes trained on Melony, I order, “One Strawberry Shortcake Crunch bar for me.”

  “Strawberry?” She laughs. “That’s a girl ice cream.”

  “What the fuck ever, that shit’s good.”

  She puts her hand on her hips as I pay the man and she asks, “Aren’t you on some kind of diet?”

  Grabbing our ice creams, I open mine and take a huge bite. Fuck, that’s good. I needed sugar so bad and thankfully it came in the form of ice cream, my favorite. I answer her with my mouthful. “Diet of champions, baby.”

  “I hate you.”

  This stops me from our departure from creepy ice cream dude. “You hate me? Shit, that hurts. Why the hell do you hate me?” She hates me?

  “Not like that,” she says softly. “I just mean, look at you. You’re so . . .” She bites her lip, wavering with her words.

  “You can say it, baby. I’m hot.”

  This grants me a giant eye-roll.

  “Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

  “No.” Her short, clipped, and rushed denial makes me think differently. Please, I see the way she looks at me; she absolutely thinks I’m hot.

  Changing the subject, I ask, “Do you want to make another bet?”

  “Another bet?”

  “Yeah, like we did at Reese’s place. I kind of liked winning.” To remind her, I link our hands together again. Hand in hand, we stroll down the beach toward our complex, eating our ice creams. I couldn’t have asked for a better night.

  “You’re pushing your luck, Hollis.”

  “Big Daddy.”

  “What?” she asks confused.

  “You can call me Big Daddy.”

  Chuckling, she shakes her head. “Never going to happen.”

  “All right, we can play around a little, how about sex god?”

  “That’s a name that needs to be deserved, not just handed out lightly. How do I know you’re a sex god?”

  “Come back to my place and I’ll fucking show you,” I answer seriously. Her eyes widen from my tone, which is so adorable and sexy that it sends a jolt straight to my dick, awakening the neglected bastard.

  “I’ll pass.” She tries to say this casually, but by the gulp in her throat and the hitch in her voice, I can tell she’s being anything but casual. She wants it just as much as me, so why the fuck does she keep denying the chemistry between us?

  We finish our ice creams, toss the sticks in the trash, and head toward our complex, enjoying the night air, the light breeze, and the setting sun. It’s a gorgeous night, one I want to capitalize on. I wasn’t kidding when I said the next time I walk Melony to her door, I was going to kiss her.

  That’s what’s going to happen tonight.

  We are a block away and I decide to make my move. Removing my hand from hers, she glances up at me, giving me the perfect opportunity. Speaking quickly, I say, “Last one to the apartments gets to choose the good-night activity.”

  Without looking back, I take off. My muscles scream at me, but it’s all about deception. Hopefully she didn’t listen intently to what I said. I’m thinking she might have understood my gibberish until I see her fly by me, sprinting at full force.

  If I wasn’t so happy right about now, I would feel a little insulted that she’s trying to win so badly.

  We get to the complex, and she starts waving her hands in the air in excitement as I jog up slowly behind her.

  “Man, for being an Olympian, you’re slow.”

  “An Olympian who had six hours of training,” I add, making sure to clarify why I’m so damn sore.

  “Whatever, I won.”

  “Yes, you did, but good thing for me, I said loser gets to pick.”

  Her face falls flat and she goes to argue when I see her mind processing a few minutes ago when I challenged her. Recognition hits her and irritation ensues her.

  “You tricked me.”

  “Precisely,” I answer with no shame, grabbing her hand and leading her to her apartment. “I knew I was a sore motherfucker and there was no way I would be able to beat you. Hell, I barely was keeping up with you on the run. So, I changed things around. It’s on you that you didn’t hear me properly. I can’t possibly take the blame for you.”

  “Who’s to say I even agreed to this? We didn’t shake on it or anything,” she counters defiantly.

  She’s got a point, but I have an even better one.

  Squeezing her hand, I say, “Excellent assumption, sparkle butt. Unfortunately, when you partake in said challenge, that means you accept the terms of the bet. It’s common courtesy.”

  “I don’t follow the rules,” she answers, her eyes just about devouring me.

  Shit, I don’t want to play by the rules either when it comes to her. Right about now, I would do pretty much anything indecent in public just to have my lips on hers.

  Too bad for her, I’m not going to let her get away with not cashing in on my bet. I have plans for tonight, and I will be seeing them through.

  Chapter Twelve

  MELONY

  Why the hell am I letting Hollis hold my hand . . . again?

  Didn’t I go over this last time? Get it together, Mel. Hand holding is intimate; it’s forming a bond. It’s not what I should be doing.

  But here I am, listening to Hollis jabber on about winning his so-called bet and holding his hand while he walks me to my apartment.

  I blame it on the lack of shirt, and the way his long fingers run through his thick hair. I also blame it on the absurd amount of time I spent on the Internet last night, looking at pictures of him while blaming it on my raging libido . . . the whole time.

  I’m just going to say it. I’m horny. Yup, I’m that person. I haven’t had sex in a very long time and my vibrator just isn’t doing it for me anymore. Combine that with Hollis pestering me constantly and I’m struggling, I’m struggling terribly. Especially when he said what he’d like to do to my boobs. They wrote me a letter the other day, asking if I would finally squeeze them, flick them, pull on their little nipples with my teeth. Internally, I was saying—no, chanting—Yes, please, yes, please. Right. Now. So, I ran.

  Regardless, I’m struggling so badly that I wouldn’t be opposed to giving in to Hollis. If he made a move on me, asked to go inside my apartment, I don’t know if I would actually say no.

  At least, I’d put up a pretty huge fight.

  Still holding my hand tightly, Hollis says, “You might not play by the rules, but I do, baby, and to hell if I will get away with you cashing in on our bet.”

  His smoldering gaze eats me alive, the sun finally disappearing, leaving the moon and street lamps as our only light, casting an almost sinister look on him. Sweet Jesus, he’s hot.

  He’s so effing hot.

  The scr
uff.

  Those eyes.

  Those abs.

  His cologne.

  Even after a little jog he smells like heaven. How is that possible? How can a man smell that good? When I perspire I swear I smell like a cat peed on me. Not Hollis, nope, he smells like a freaking man carved out of Irish Spring soap, with a touch of sex.

  Not like the gross sex smell that permeates the room after penis twists and turns inside vagina. The kind of sex smell that leads to sex. Leg-humping smell, lose-all-control smell, the smell you inhale that makes your leg bounce, your tongue hang out, and a disgusting amount of drool slop around your chin. That smell. It’s the only way I know how to describe it.

  That’s Hollis. I literally want to stick my head in his armpit and take a deep breath, maybe rub my cheek in it, bury my nose deep in the depths of that pit . . .

  Christ. I really am horny. And I hope he doesn’t realize this.

  Instead of answering him, I allow him to walk me to my door, too scared I’ll say something stupid if I open my mouth. Something like, “Take your pants off. Sparkle Nips wants a pony ride.”

  Sparkle Nips . . .

  I kind of like that one only because I like the image of it all, but I’ll never tell him that.

  “Giving me the silent treatment again?” he asks, nudging my shoulder, smiling down at me wickedly.

  “No,” I answer even though it’s a lie. “Just trying to figure out what you plan on doing to me with your win.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He winks, making my entire body heat up.

  That’s what I’m afraid of. It is obvious.

  Walking up the stairs to my apartment, it almost feels like I’m walking the plank to my inevitable doom. This entire latter half of my day has been a ticking time bomb since Hollis interrupted my much-needed, planned-out exercise. When I got home from dusting Bellini’s face with powder, I needed some kind of energy release thanks to the built-up tension Hollis has caused within me, and I was going to do that with a nice run along the beach. What I didn’t need was him interrupting me and throwing me for another loop.