Page 50 of Stroked Hard
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.
