“It is. I’m surprised it wasn’t overcast this morning. Once I heard the weather report, I knew I had to head out to the beach.”
“Do you surf?” I ask, wanting to know more about her.
She tilts her head back, taking in the sun. From the column of her neck, to her chest, I observe every word and saying painted on her skin. Little sayings and phrases I’ve heard before float through my brain, sparking my memory, but I can’t quite place them.
“I do surf,” she answers me. “Waves were a joke today, though, so I didn’t even bother dragging my board down here. I never want to be one of those surfers riding two-inch waves and fist-pumping the air for nailing something a toddler can ride out.”
“Wave snob,” I joke. She just shrugs her shoulders, accepting my name-calling.
We sit in comfortable silence, taking in the sun, feeling the heat radiating between us. From the corner of my eye, I watch her chest rise and fall to the rhythm of her heart. Her skin glistens in the light, and her lips are barely parted, making me wonder what they taste like, what they would feel like gliding across my body.
Fuck, I want her.
I want to fucking taste her, to nibble my teeth across her hardened nipples, to feel the weight of her breasts in my hand, to feel the tight confines of her pussy. Just from our short interactions, my body has already begun to crave her.
But, I just don’t want her physically. I want to know more about
her
. What’s her background, why is she an assistant for Bellini and me? Does she have family? What’s her story? What do her tattoos mean? Does she have hidden tattoos, ones I can run my tongue across and worship until she’s writhing under my body, screaming my name so her voice echoes against the walls of my house.
Fuck, I’m hard and having a difficult time hiding it in my board shorts, so I bring my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I lean my chin against my knees and stare out at the ocean. I’ve always been able to be smooth around women, but with Paisley, I feel like I’m back in grade school, trying to figure out how to approach her, how to strike up a meaningful conversation.
“So, you surf. What else do you do in your spare time?”
“Hmm. If I told you I paint would you be impressed?”
“I would.” I could totally see it, Paisley as an artist makes total sense. She seems very artistic.
“Well, I don’t.” She chuckles, throwing me off.
There goes
that
image of her painting naked, her ass crack peeking past the stool she’s sitting on, and a good amount of side boob exposed with every rise and stroke of her hand.
“I do color though.”
“Those adult coloring books?”
She shakes her head. “No, those things are way too complicated for me. The spaces are tiny, practically impossible to define, you’re bound to color out of the lines.”
“And why would you subject yourself to such ridicule?” I tease.
“Exactly. Oh, hell no, I refuse. So, I end up coloring little kids coloring books. I’m going to tell you right now, the
Frozen
coloring books can stop. I’m one Olaf away from writing Disney a letter.”
“They just can’t let it go, can they?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face.
“Clever.” She chuckles. “Ana or Elsa?”
“I’m more of a punk rock Ariel fan.”
“A what?” She crinkles her nose in confusion.
“Oh, come on.” I shove her shoulder with mine. “You haven’t seen those pictures trending all over Facebook? Artists drawing the Disney princesses in all different get-ups. There’s been the book nerds, the hipsters, the average woman, the punk rock chicks. Ariel dressed up in tattoos with long black hair, fucking boner worthy.” It doesn’t escape me that Paisley is a close relative of Punk Rock Ariel.
“Ah.” She gives me a sideways glance, looking up through her lashes. “You like tattoos, huh?”
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I ask, not talking about my own ink, but about hers.
Electricity bounces between us, heat starts to develop, and all I can think about is pushing her down on her towel and exploring her body, tracing every single one of her tattoos until they are memorized.
She clears her throat and lies completely down on the towel, closing her eyes. I take that moment to scan her body once more, appreciating every curve, every defined muscle in her stomach, the little dip in her hips where her bathing suit bottoms caress her. Her chest is full, her breasts propped up from her position. What I wouldn’t give to slip her top off right now, just for a small fucking peek.
“What hobbies do you have other than swimming?” she asks, covering the sun from her eyes and squinting while she looks up at me.
Drawing my eyes away from her body, I answer, “Not many. My life has been one long session in the pool. My days off usually consist of me out here, on the beach, soaking in nature, listening to the waves crash and little punk teenagers fawn over a hot woman in a miniscule bikini.” I raise my brows at her.
“Damn kids.” She laughs and shakes her head. Pausing, she studies me and says, “You know, you’re different than I expected.”
“What does that mean? What were you expecting?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. You have this persona about you on the pool deck, a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, so I presumed you were like that in real life, but you’re not.”
“Shit, am I forgetting to act like a prick? All right.” I straighten up, lower my sunglasses, and blatantly scan her body. “Do you make a good living selling hot dogs?”
“What?” She sits up, completely confused.
“Because you sure as fuck know how to make a wiener stand.” I give her a side smirk and wait.
She studies me, and then starts laughing, a rich, sultry laugh that has my dick hardening in seconds. “Oh my God, please tell me you’ve used that on a woman before.”
“Only one.” I wink. “And from the way you reacted, I’m going to chalk that up as a fantastic pick-up line.”
“Yeah, have fun with that one.” She continues to shake her head, laughter in her eyes. “Seriously though, you’re nothing like I expected. You’re sweet and down to earth.”
I hold my finger up to my lips and “shush” her while I look around. “Don’t let people hear you, you will ruin my image.”
“Your secret is safe with me. But why portray yourself as a different person?”
I look out at the ocean and consider her question. I’m not a dick in real life, but that’s not how I’m portrayed in the media. Fuck if I care, though.
“I don’t portray myself as anyone else but me. The general population knows me as Reese, the Olympic swimmer, they know of me as the guy who shaves his beard right before I dip myself in the pool, as the man who is laser focused on the pool deck to the point I don’t show much emotion. The media plays up rivalries and shortcomings that irritate me, so during interviews, I only want them to be over. You only see what the media shows. They don’t see me going to hospitals to talk to sick patients. They don’t see me at swim camps for kids with disabilities or hanging out with wounded war veterans. They see me as Reese King, The Silver Stroke, the short-tempered man who can accomplish everything except earning a gold medal.”
There is sorrow in Paisley’s voice when she asks, “Is that why you’re doing the reality show, to show a different image of yourself?”
Quietly, I say, “Yeah something like that.” Knowing full well the reality show is a load of crock I signed up for out of pure desperation during a low point in my career, when I was panicking about life after I hung up my goggles and swim cap.
Seconds span between us before Paisley grips my hand resting in the sand and says, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think of you as The Silver Stroke or Reese the swimmer.”
Connecting our eyes, I ask, “Yeah, how do you see me?”
She bites her bottom lip, contemplating her answer. A smile spreads across her face before answering in a teasing tone, “Reese the underwear model, of course.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Oh, how could I forget? How fortunate for me.”
“You know I’m kidding.” She nudges me. “You’re way more than that, and I’m so happy I get to work with you. You’re an awesome guy, Reese.”
“An awesome guy, huh?” I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Why does that seem like something a middle school girl would tell her crush?”
Slyly, she says, “Maybe because you were a middle school crush to a little black-haired girl.”
Fuck, yes!
“Have some
Teen Bop
cut-outs of me?”
From the shift in her body, I can tell she’s feeling uncomfortable from her confession and my teasing. Clearing her throat, she says, “Uh, it’s hot, I think I’m going to head back. I’m also hungry for lunch.”
She sits up next to me and grabs her bag. She snags a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses and puts them on. She looks like a goddamn pin-up girl.
I can’t take my eyes off her and panic sets in. I don’t want her to leave, so I do something completely unexpected. “Come back to my place for lunch.”
If sunglasses weren’t covering her eyes, I know they would be speaking a thousand words just from the small drop in her jaw and the rise in her brow. I don’t know what possessed me to ask her back to my place, besides the fact that I’m infatuated with the woman who is also my assistant and my fake girlfriend’s assistant.
I’m so fucked.
“I don’t know,” she says, clearly uncomfortable by my invite. “I have some, umm, tuna back at home calling my name.”
I scrunch my face at her and shake my head. Without thinking about the consequences, I stand up and reach out my hand to her. With a quick pull, I help her stand on her feet and try not to drool over the way her breasts bounce with her movements.
“You’re coming to have lunch with me. I’m having some healthy pasta salad and grilling out. You can wear your bikini too . . . if you want.” I wink at her and start walking toward my house. From behind, I can hear her gathering her things to follow me.
I sigh in relief. I need more fucking time with her.
“Hold up,” she calls out.
Halting in my tracks, I turn to see her unsteadily walking through the sand, her arms full of her beach gear. Like the gentleman I am, I grab her bag for her and link her arm with mine. The shocked look on her face is adorable, so fucking adorable that all I want to do is push her back up against the sand and ravage that sweet mouth of hers.
But I have time to make that happen.
***
“Your place is amazing,” Paisley coos, now wearing a white crochet cover-up, if that’s what you want to call it. To me, it’s a fucking tease because it barely skims the tops of her thighs. There are slits on either side that go up to her waistline and the holes in the crochet netting are big enough that I can still see her entire body. The sleeves just fall past her elbows, pulling tightly on her toned arms. All the cover-up does is make her that much more enticing.
Now that we’re inside and the sun isn’t reflecting off her skin, I can’t help but continue to stare at her while she observes my house. Gracefully she glides across the floors, her hips swaying with every movement, whispers of her hair blowing in the light breeze coming through my open sliding glass doors that lead to a private pool.
Although she has an athletic build, it doesn’t hide her feminine curves.
“Did you decorate yourself?” She turns before I can stop taking her in. Once again, her cheeks flush from my blatant perusal.
I clear my throat and run my hand through my hair, slightly embarrassed that she caught me staring. “Uh, I did. It’s not much, but it works.”
She nods and crosses her arms over her ample chest as she looks out the back of the house. Spanning the rear of the living room are sliding windows that pocket into the walls, providing a wide-open feel to the outdoors. It’s my favorite part of the house. I added sheer white curtains so when I close them, I have privacy and a breeze.
Needing to clean some of the sand off me—I can feel it in my crack—I say, “Make yourself at home. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Oh, okay. Can I start making some of the food?”
“No, just get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” I answer matter-of-factly before I head to the shower.
Taking no time to let the water warm up, I jump in and start running my bar of soap over my body. I want to clean up quickly so I can get back to Paisley in her see-through cover-up.
I lather my hands, collecting a generous amount of suds before I run them over the length of my body, under my arms and then slowly moving them down to my cock. The minute I connect with my arousal, I press one of my hands against the tile of the shower.
“Fuck,” I grumble, applying more pressure and letting the water bounce off the top of my head, not able to stop. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve been with a woman and the one sitting in my house—right down the hallway—is testing my will.
Flashes of Paisley’s perfectly round ass run through my mind as my hand continues to stroke up and down my length. Paisley has me practically panting at her feet with need. If I’m going to get through lunch with her in that outfit, I need some sort of relief.
Not caring how long it takes, I envision her in her two-piece, her breasts floating against her chest as she walks toward me, her hips swaying in a hypnotizing rhythm. I think about what it would feel like if she snuck into my bathroom right now and caught me jacking off to visions of her in my head, what it would do to the wafer-thin control I have over my feelings for her. Would she climb in the shower with me? Would she assist me in my release? Would her lips find the tip of my arousal?
I would fucking beg her to join me and then peel off that tiny red suit of hers, one string at a time, until her entire inked-up body is revealed to me.
I bend my head even more and groan to myself as my balls tighten.
“Fuck me.”
I expand my fantasy and picture her falling to her knees in front of me, those beautiful grey eyes staring into mine. With the lightest lick of her lips, she would let me know she was ready to take me in. From above, I would tortuously watch her open that delicate, fuckable mouth of hers take my cock, licking and sucking until I couldn’t fucking take it any longer.