Page 10 of Stroked Hard
She shifts, her hand on her hip, definitely on the defensive. “Just tell me why you’re here.”
Looking around the parking lot and then back to her, I clutch my food bag in my hand and lean forward. “I live here, fudge nuggets.”
Her eyes widen and then scowl. “Don’t call me fudge nuggets.”
“What do you prefer? Love handles?”
“No.” Her scowl deepens.
“Sausage snuggler? Kissy kibbles? Juicy cakes? Licky lovestick?”
Irritation is boiling out of her now. “Are you deranged? What makes you think I want to be referred to as sausage snuggler or licky lovestick?”
“Does that mean you like kissy kibbles and juicy cakes?”
I receive the deepest eye-roll I’ve ever seen just before she pushes me out of the way and starts maneuvering her boxes into the recycling bin.
“I’m going to take that as a no.”
“Take that as a go to hell,” she mutters under her breath.
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “That’s a little hostile for someone who was just staring at my crotch for ten minutes.”
Standing tall, she says, “I was not staring at your crotch.”
“Hey, it’s okay. No need to be embarrassed. I have the kind of crotch worth staring at. Just try to keep it under five minutes next time. It gets a little awkward if your staring is any longer than that.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up. I take a quick glance, because fuck, I’m a man, and then direct my attention back to her stormy eyes. I know I’m not making friends, but shit, I like the fire I see.
“Where do you get off—?”
“Lately in my hand with an image of you in my mind, but I would love to make that dream a reality.”
“I can’t take you.” Turning back around, she huffs and begins struggling with the boxes again.
Being the gentleman I am, I set my food down, hoping my burgers don’t get cold, and lend her a hand. As I reach over to open the dumpster, she swings a flattened cardboard box up at the same time, knocking me in the corner of my eye with the edge of the box, sending me backward into a pile of trash outside the garbage dumpster.
I can feel the trickle of blood running down my face just as the shock wears off and pain takes its place. My eye waters. Rotten garbage—that’s probably been out in the steaming sun all day—surrounds me, and the sweet sound of Melony’s laughter fills my ears. Through my swelling eye, I see her with her hands over her mouth, trying to hold back her giggles as she attempts to look sincere with regret.
“I didn’t know you were into assaulting men lending you a helping hand.”
“I didn’t assault you,” she says still giggling.
I point to my face. “My eye begs to differ. I’m actually . . .” I pause and start to sway back and forth. “I’m feeling . . .” I don’t finish my sentence, instead, I roll off the stank mountain and onto the asphalt in front of me. Don’t worry, I have to take a shower anyway. I lie there flat, pretending to have passed out, hoping Melony will play naughty nurse and try to take care of me.
What I don’t expect is for her to walk to up me and toe me in the side. “What are you doing down there?”
I don’t move. Act like a possum; act like a possum.
She fucking toes me again, this time a little harder, nudging my body. “Hey, stop messing around and get up. I think you’re lying on pee.”
I don’t smell pee, so she’s lying. I don’t take the bait. I continue to play dead.
“Hollis,” she warns. Note to self, bedside manner is not her strength. Her foot pushes me harder, rocking my body back and forth. “Are you seriously going to make me squat down?”
Fuck yes, I am.
Huffing with irritation, she squats next to me and pushes my shoulder with her fingers. Hergentleconcern is overwhelming.
