Stroked Hard

by Meghan Quinn

  “It’s where I keep my vitamins?” I say more as a question.

  Like a flash of lightning, she reaches out and grabs my eReader off my lap, skimming the back of her hand across my thigh. Christ Almighty, the move sends a jolt to my dick.

  Distracted by the fucking horny sensation running through me—yes, I’m a teenage boy—I don’t register Melony opening my eReader until she starts laughing. With the biggest smile on her face, she looks up at me and says, “All these covers have shirtless men on the front of them.”

  “And your point?” I cross my arms over my chest, looking to defend myself.

  “They have shirtless men . . .”

  I roll my eyes. “Some of the best romance novels start with a shirtless man on the cover.”

  “Aren’t these for women?”

  I scoff at her. “Sexist. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a requirement for who is allowed to read romance and who isn’t.”

  “I’m not a sexist. It’s just . . . I’ve never met a man who reads romance novels.”

  “That’s because in general, men are stupid.”

  “I can agree with you on that point.” She chuckles a little more. “But I would love to hear your explanation as to why.”

  Loving that she’s actually conversing with me rather than shooting me down, I turn in my lounger so I’m facing her head-on, and I clasp my hands in front of me.

  “Have you ever read a romance novel, boobarella?”

  Her smile turns into a scowl from my nickname, making me chuckle. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Answer the question, have you?”

  “Not really. Does reading the first chapter of The Notebook count?”

  The Notebook, God, what a classic. I’m pretty sure almost everyone has read that book. I’m one of those guys who likes to read the book before the movie comes out so I can bitch about the book being way better later on. The book is always better . . . always.

  But that Noah Calhoun, now there is a true romantic. He’s got his shit under control and knows how to woo a woman. If only the male race would all strive to be like him, we might have less violence and more orgasms.

  “The Notebook counts. I love that book, but you need to read more than the first chapter.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  I nod and give her my best shy smile. “You would be hard-pressed to find a mainstream romance book I haven’t read. I’m also very much into the indie scene.”

  “I had no idea men read romance novels.”

  I wink at her. “The smart ones do.”

  “Okay,” she shifts in her lounger, looking like she’s about to challenge me, “tell me why you like reading romance novels.”

  “Easy.” I lean forward and say, “It’s a brief glimpse into the woman’s psyche. For the most part, romance novels are written by women, which is a clutch for us men, because we’re able to take these fantasies of being fucked up against a wall, or fingered under the table at dinner, or eaten out on the counter of the kitchen and turn them into a reality.”

  She slowly gulps. If I wasn’t paying attention, I wouldn’t have seen it, but it’s obvious with that little movement in her throat that my words affected her.

  “I’m a pleaser, Melony. I’m a woo-er. I’m a romantic who knows how to fuck you senseless.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Her eyes search mine. Because I have a long list of things I want to do to you, you fucking gorgeous woman. Kiss you senseless at the end of each day; lather you up in the shower and worship every part of your body; finger your beautiful pussy to the point you scream my name; wake you up in the morning with my mouth between your thighs, or my lips wrapped around your tits. Yeah. I’ve thought about what I want to do to her, but if I keep thinking all these things I won’t be able to walk away from my lounge chair.

  I stand up, gathering my items and then glance down at her. “Because, sooner or later, I will be fucking you up against a wall, fingering you under the dinner table, and eating that sweet pussy of yours on the kitchen counter. Mark my fucking words, Melony, I am going to woo you so hard, you won’t know what hit you.”

  With a parting wink, I leave her with her mouth agape and a confused look on her face.

  My job here is done.

  Chapter Six

  MELONY

  Hollis: Are you going to be rooting for me this week?

  He is relentless. Every day he texts me, and every day, I respond. The question is, why do I respond? Am I really that lonely that I need to engage in his idiotic texts?

  No, I’m not lonely. Well, I might be lonely but I’m also . . . curious.

  Melony: Who’s this?

  Maybe I’m a little curious and also very much interested in bruising the man’s cocky ego. He’s convinced we are going to be married one day. Why he thinks that, I have no clue.

  My phone dings back as I sit on a very uncomfortable airport chair, waiting for my plane to board. I’m on my way to Omaha for the Olympic Swimming Trials because production wants to capture the event for the show, which means, I’m flying in as well. I would be more excited if I didn’t have to spend the next couple days with a random person I don’t know. Yes, Bellini doesn’t like to spend her money on other people, which is why I’ll be sharing a room with a stranger.

  Fantastic.

  Trying to tamp down my bad mood, I read my waiting text message.

  Hollis: Baby, don’t act like you don’t have my number memorized.

  Such a cocky bastard. Time to play with him.

  Melony: Oh, sorry about that, Blake. I must have accidentally deleted your number. I had such a great time last night. We should do it again.

  I smile to myself as the little dots indicating he’s texting back show up.

  Hollis: Nice try, sticky buns. I saw you walking into your complex last night wearing yoga pants, an oversized shirt, and carrying a carton of ice cream in one hand. You were a one-woman show last night.

  Damn him. And yes, like every other night, I was a one-woman show.

  “Attention all passengers traveling to Omaha on flight two-zero-nine. We will be boarding in ten minutes. It will be a full flight so we would appreciate some passengers to check their bags. Please see the desk for details.”

  One thing I don’t mess around with; carrying luggage. I take the risk of it being lost rather than having to lug it around everywhere. Plus, it’s another way I force Bellini to spend money on something other than herself. It’s the little things in life.

  Feeling like I want to play with fire a little, I text Hollis back.

  Melony: It was actually a two-finger show last night.

  Pleased with my response, I take a sip of my mocha latte just as I feel my phone vibrate in my hand. Looking at the called ID, I see Hollis’s name pop up. I’ve never talked to him on the phone. Ever.

  Should I answer? I start to get nervous of the possibility of answering the call. There is so much wittiness I can put out there, and it’s much easier through text.

  Curiosity wins out and I answer.

  I mentally put on my armor before I say, “What can I do for you, Mr. Knightly?”

  “I have a whole list of things you can do for me,” his sexy voice rings through the phone. If this man wasn’t built to be monogamous, I would give him a go in bed. Hell, I would strip down at his front door and beg for a one-night stand. But I know that’s not his way of thinking. That was quite obvious after our little pool talk.

  “I’m sure you do. Let me guess, does it include things like sticking your P in my V?”

  “P in your V?” He laughs and the sounds bounces around my head, making me feel a little weak in the knees despite sitting down. “Are you in front a bunch of kids, or something?”

  “No, I’m at the airport,” I answer, scanning the people around me to see if they’re paying attention.

  Luckily everyone is immersed in their own happenings, not paying my conversation one bit of attention, but I will still keep it PG, just
in case.

  “Ah, I see. You don’t want people to hear you talk dirty to me?”

  “That would never happen, at any point in time.” I lean back in my chair, oddly enjoying the conversation that’s eating up my time before boarding.

  “It’s funny how delusional you are,” he says with confidence. “Believe me, sugar lips, I will have you talking dirty to me before you know it.”

  I scoff at him. “Why? Is that one of the things on your list?”

  “No.” He pauses and his voice turns sultrier, more intense, which only makes crazy things happen in my stomach. “The list of things I would love for you to do for me don’t include anything sexual because that’s a given.”

  This makes me laugh sarcastically. “Oh, okay. So tell me, what’s on this list of yours?” This I just have to hear.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Stop delaying and lay out your list, that’s unless your list is actually all sexual and you’re trying to backtrack now.”

  “One thing you should know about me, Melony. I never lie.” He’s so damn serious in the way he speaks of honesty it makes me gulp. Straight-up gulp like some scared cartoon character.

  “Okay,” I answer, not really sure how to answer to his statement. “Then what’s on your list?”

  “Everything I want to do with you.”

  “Give me some examples.”

  “Easy.” His voice seems light again, almost playful. “Let’s see, the first is obvious. I would take you on a date where I would be sure to ask you a million questions so I can get to know you better. I would ask you to go on a walk with me just so I could hold your hand. I would want you to drive my car just because I think that’s hot, letting your girl drive your wheels. I would want you to curl up into my chest as we sit in the sand and watch the moonlit waves roll in. I would want to cuddle the fuck out of you while we lounge on my couch and watch a movie. I would also like to hold your hand then, too. Hmm, I would like to go for a hike, and hold your hand, go grocery shopping together where we would buy ingredients to make a meal for a date, go to the wine country just so I can take a picture of you in the vineyards, a bright smile on that fucking gorgeous face of yours and the sun beaming down on your soft-as-hell hair.”

  My heart is beating out of my chest, ready to combust on the spot. He speaks of us as if we’re a real couple, as if I would be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Again I have to ask why? Why me? He’s Hollis Knightly.

  Too bad I know it’s not the same.

  Men don’t stick around. They might have the best of intentions at first, but in the end, they always leave.

  I don’t know what to say. He paints a perfect picture that would never hold up in my reality. Because in my reality, men don’t treat women like that; they don’t cherish them, they don’t worship them. Instead, they make promises they never keep, disappointing you year after year.

  “You still there, baby?” Hollis asks.

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat and raise my armor back into its place. He will not penetrate my shield. “That’s a nice list and all, Hollis, but it isn’t real.”

  “It isn’t,” he answers, making my heart fall. Don’t make me explain why. I’m a freaking hot mess right now. “It isn’t real until you finally say yes to taking you out.”

  Oh . . .

  I should have known that was going to be his answer. It would be nice to call Hollis on it and actually see if he would commit to everything he said but that would be giving in and setting everyone up for failure.

  “Not going to happen.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  “Maybe my rejection is starting to click inside that cocky, smart-ass head of yours.”

  He chuckles. “Your rejection is nothing but a ‘maybe’ in my mind. You have no clue how much hope I have for us. It’s consuming, bologna breasts.”

  “Oh my God!” I laugh at his nickname. “Don’t call me bologna breasts.” I say the last part a little loud thanks to my outrage, catching the attention of a middle-aged man sitting next to me who then proceeds to glance down at my shirt. Scowling, I say, “Please roam your eyes somewhere else.”

  Stunned, the man quickly gathers his items and gets in the boarding lines.

  “What?” Hollis asks, confused.

  “Nothing, some perv was just staring at my breasts.”

  “I’m going to fucking murder him,” Hollis quickly responds. “Put him on the phone. I need his name, address, and preferably social security number.”

  “I’m not going to put him on the phone.” I chuckle.

  “Melony, move toward the creep and hand him the phone. I’ll be quick.”

  “No.”

  “Melony!” Even though his voice is rising, I can tell he’s also joking around.

  “Not going to happen.”

  He sighs into the phone. “Fine, you’ve left me no choice.”

  “Oh no, what are you going to do?” I hate that I’m smiling. Damn it, I should have hung up five minutes ago. Well, if I’m wishing to go back in time, I shouldn’t have answered the phone, or any of his text messages since he’s scored my number from Reese who showed zero regret in his misleading request.

  Hollis’s playful voice pipes up. “You’ve left me no choice. You’re grounded. Now come out to Indianapolis so I can spank your perfect ass.”

  And there he is, the Hollis I’ve grown to know.

  “Can’t, off to Omaha.”

  “But you would if you weren’t headed to Omaha, right?” There is teasing hope in his voice.

  “Not so much.”

  “Ouch, that hurts, turd blossom.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re not going to win friends with that nickname.”

  He chuckles. “Oh sorry. You don’t like the word turd, do you?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Gotcha, okay, sorry about that shit blossom.”

  I hate that I laugh. “So not better.”

  “It got me to hear that gorgeous laugh of yours though, so it’s a win for me.” He pauses for a second and then says, “Hey, I do need to talk to you about something serious.” From his tone, I sit up in my seat. What could he possibly ask me?

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  He takes a deep breath and says, “I’ve been having an issue lately that I need to get some help on.”

  “Let me stop you right there. Is this going to be where you say something like your balls are blue and you need someone to assist you with them?”

  “No, but my balls are blue, thanks to you.”

  “Hey, I’m not holding you back. Have fun.” Those words feel sour coming off my tongue. Yes, I don’t want a relationship with Hollis, but the thought of him having that with another woman doesn’t make me feel all that great either. What the hell, Mel?

  “I’m holding out,” he says with such conviction that I actually wonder if he will win out. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. I really need help. It’s kind of embarrassing to talk about.”

  Okay, now he really has my interest.

  Not wanting to show too much interest, I say, “Well, you better spit it out because my plane has started boarding.”

  “Okay, but promise you won’t make fun of me?”

  “I make no promises but I’ll give it a try.” I gather my items around me, sling my oversized bag on my shoulder, and get in line.

  “I’ve been having a difficult time with the cowlick on the back of my head. It curls counterclockwise and I’m a man of tradition, someone who would appreciate their cowlick to obey social standards and curl in a clockwise motion. As you can tell, this is just devastating to me so I’m going to have to ask you to come out here instead of going to Omaha and tend to my cowlick. If your breasts end up in my mouth during that time, I won’t be mad.”

  I should have known. Here I thought he was actually going to talk about something serious.

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “So sh
ould I expect you later tonight then?”

  “Goodbye, Hollis.”

  ***

  Well, this is awkward.

  The middle-aged-boob-staring man is behind me, yelling into my ear as to why I’m not moving through the aisle. How I got in front of him, I have no clue, and I have an elderly lady blocking my access to my seat who I’m pretty sure is dead. She has to be dead. There is no other explanation as to why she’s not moving after every poke I make to her wrinkly sac of a body.

  I speak a little louder. “Ma’am, I’m in the window seat.” The girl sitting next to the dead woman looks familiar as she gives me a questioning look, as if to say, “What the hell do we do?”

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” The girl pokes her, but nothing. We exchange an oh shit look.

  This old person is one-hundred percent dead. Call the coroner, we have a fresh one.

  Feeling slightly skeeved from a fresh dead person sitting in front of me, I say, “Umm, I think I’ll get a flight attendant.”

  Thankfully the girl helping me out says, “I’ll ring the call button.”

  The line of people behind me start to get a little rowdy no thanks to the heavy-breathing pervert behind me.

  “What is the hold up?” he shouts. How is his shouting helpful? It’s not, just like honking a horn in traffic won’t get you anywhere, unless you think your horn has magical god-like powers and will part LA traffic like the Red Sea.

  Hint: your horn does not possess such powers.

  “Someone won’t take their seat,” another passenger offers, stirring the pot with the perv.

  Just great. This is all I need. I look around for help but find nothing.

  The girl sitting next to postmortem Molly suggests, “Maybe you can climb over her?” She shrugs. It is a good option. I’m limber.

  “Let me see. Can you take my bag?”

  “Sure.” She grabs my purse and sets it on my seat then offers her hand for help. I’m mid-step over the elderly woman when the flight attendant makes her way toward us.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Quickly I retreat my foot, nervous that I’ve been caught doing something wrong and I say, “Um, this woman is not moving. We’re not sure if she’s responding.”