STROKED LONG (27 page)

Chasing after Bodi, I meet him at his truck. The bags are loaded, and he’s holding the door open for me. He holds out his hand to help me in but I cross my arms over my chest instead and stare him down.

“What was that?”

He actually looks shocked. His eyes widen, he shifts his stance, and his hand rubs the back of his neck. “What was what?”

“Bodi, you can’t tell me that you don’t realize what you did back there? You completely shut off, snapped at poor Clark, and then stormed out of the store without even getting your change. At least Clark will have some money to get his Crunch Wrap Supreme from Taco Bell tonight.”

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to rub the back of his neck and avert his eyes.

“Hey.” I poke him in the stomach. “Bodi, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to talk to me.”

Sighing, he says, “Can we talk about this in the truck?”

Knowing he’s a private person, I don’t put up a fight. I allow him to help me into his truck and wait for him to climb in on his side.

Turning toward me, he grabs my hand and links our fingers together. “You’re too good.”

“What?” I ask, slightly confused.

“You’re too good for me, Rubes.” With the hand that’s not holding mine, he pulls on the bill of his hat, clearly struggling with his words. “You have everything in place in your life, you know. You’re a do-gooder, people love talking to you, hell, you stay late at work just to help kids color between the lines. You’re sweet, caring, kind, easy to talk to, and a fucking ball of sunshine.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Yes.” Pulling on his hat some more, he mutters, “Fuck.” Sighing once more, he looks up at me with what looks like desperation in his expression. “Hearing you talk about buying yarn so you can spend your nights knitting for Special Olympic athletes . . . fuck, Ruby, you make me feel inferior.” He’s not mad; his voice isn’t angry whatsoever. He’s more pensive.

“I make you feel inferior. Uh hello, Mr. Gold Medals.”

“That’s not—”

I stop him before he can finish his sentence. “Bodi, you do more for the community than anyone I know.” The man does not understand his worth. “Has it become so routine that you’ve forgotten everything you do? Have you forgotten the countless hours you spend at the club, teaching kids how to swim? Have you forgotten all the hours you’ve spent working on the foundation, the money you’ve donated to different scholarships? Have you become so accustomed to those weekly random acts of kindness that you can’t see the good in them anymore?”

He bites his bottom lip, not seductively, no, in a little boyish charm kind of way that melts me right on the spot. “I guess it has,” he answers honestly.

Squeezing his hand, I try to reinforce his character so he gets it through his head. “You’re a good man, Bodi. Don’t downplay your character because you’ve forgotten who you are.”

He nods and those blue eyes peer up at me from under the shadow of his brim. A tiny smirk crosses his face. “Maybe you can teach me how to knit so I can help you with some of those scarves.”

I try not to laugh, but it happens anyway. The image of big, muscular Bodi holding some knitting needles is too much of an image to handle.

“What’s so funny?” He pokes me, and the light in his voice makes my heart sigh.
The man is simply too adorable.

“You want to learn how to knit?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, why not? It’s better than sitting around watching senseless television. At least I would be doing something for someone other than myself.”

“And here you felt inferior. It’s thoughts like those that make you the amazing man you are.”

Rolling his eyes, clearly unable to take a compliment, he asks, “Want to go out to dinner or take something back to your place?”

“Are you coming over?” I tease. “I was unaware. Not sure if my place is ready for visitors.”

Glancing over at me, I see a different expression again. The man’s mercurial mood strikes again.
Sexy
Bodi is irresistible. “Yes, I’m coming over, and I plan on making you come on my tongue at least twice tonight.”

Sweet Jesus, my thighs are quaking.
My
Bodi Bear is back.

***

“There is no way you can sing.”

He arrogantly shrugs, chopsticks in hand, a pile of steamed veggies in the other hand. When he offered to pick up Chinese food, I was bowled over with excitement to watch him dab in some General Tsos, maybe a little Sesame Chicken, but nope. He ordered steamed veggies—
gag
—and boiled chicken—
puke
. I, on the other hand, showed no mercy to my hips and went with sweet and sour chicken with fried rice, naturally.

Getting him to dip his pinky nail in my sweet and sour sauce was a task on its own, and there was no way he was eating one of my chickens. This is where you would expect me to say I batted my eyelashes and begged him to try just one teeny tiny bite and he did.

Nope
.

The man knows how to hold his ground. I even pulled my shirt down lower, you know, show off the old melons—or how I like to pronounce them, mell-oons—but he was not tricked. Maybe if I pulled out the nipple he would have been more eager to take part in the Chinese taste test I was offering. Noted for next time.

“You’re telling me that you can sit behind a microphone and sing a little ditty and sound good while doing it?”

“No.” He shakes his head with a mouthful of steamed veggies. “I would never sing into a mic in front of people. Now in the shower, that’s a different story.”

Makes sense, Bodi doesn’t seem like the type of person to sing the national anthem before a sporting event.

“But in the shower, do you sound good?”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a total boyish move but for some reason it turns me on. What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe because I’ve seen him wipe his mouth after going down on me . . .

Don’t go there, Ruby. I will only end up salivating and dry humping his leg that is extended in my direction.

“Depends.” He shrugs.

“How does it depend? You either sound good or you don’t. You can either sing or you can squawk. Which one is it?”

“Depends on the acoustics of the shower.” He plucks a giant piece of broccoli from his carton and pops it in his mouth, smiling and chewing at the same time.

“Sooo . . . you can’t sing.”

“Everyone can sing.” He points his chopsticks at me. “You don’t have to sound good to sing or even be able to talk in order to sing. There are some very beautiful videos I’ve seen of deaf people using sign language to sing a song.”

Yeah, I’ve seen some of the videos. Along with military coming home to their loved ones, signed-out songs will make me weep like a baby until I’m drowning in my own tears. Real gut-wrenchers.

“I’m well aware. What I’m asking is if you can carry a note or not.”

“Who’s to judge if someone can carry a note?” His demeanor is casual, teasing, instigating.
This is playful Bodi. I haven’t seen much of him in person, only in text. He’s annoying, but I still adore him.

“Everyone,” I practically shout. “Everyone with ears is allowed to judge.”

“And those without ears? Can’t exclude them, Rubes.”

Sitting back, tired and exhausted from this conversation, I say, “Wow, you really don’t want to get any tonight do you?”

“I’m not worried about that.”

Cocky bastard. Who is this Bodi, and what has he done with the shy, awkward man I used to know?

“You should be.” Stretching and yawning, I say, “You should actually get going, it’s getting late.”

A questioning brow is raised at me as he studies my serious expression. At least I hope it’s serious, as the boy needs to learn a lesson: don’t poke the bear.

“Get going, huh?” He studies me and then nods his head. “All right.” Tucking his carton closed, he meticulously cleans up his food around him, makes quick to my kitchen where he stuffs his leftovers in the fridge, and then washes his hands . . . three times. Does he know I notice those little tells of his? While he dries them, he turns to me and says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Rubes.”

Neatly he puts my dish towel back on the oven handle, strides toward me, his muscles flexing under his tight shirt, and leans down to peck me on the forehead.

Peck me . . .

On the FOREHEAD.

Pulling away, he says, “Have a good night,” and moves toward the door.

Is he kidding right now? He’s just going to leave? I sat next to him the entire dinner, my boobs on full display. Does that not count for anything?

Furious for my boobs who worked their little nipples off all night, I stand and place my hands on my hips. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Turning around, a full smirk on his arrogant face he says, “I thought you wanted me to go home.”

“You know I really didn’t want you to go home.”

“Kind of seemed like it.”

“Yeah, and kind of seems like you’ve broken out of your shell a little and are now pressing your sarcastic luck.”

Moving forward with purpose in each of his steps, his eyes are focused on mine as his body eats up the space between us. “Well, I wouldn’t want to press my luck when I have more important things to press.” His hand travels to the small of my back and pulls me into his body.

Not going to lie, a percentage of the time I’m around him, he smells faintly of chlorine. I’m convinced it’s engrained in his veins. I’ve actually grown fond of the smell, but the cologne he’s wearing tonight? Holy hell, it makes me want to lick him and whip my clothes right off.

“What more important things do you have to press?”

Lowering his head, he presses kisses along my neck, sending chills scattering all over my body. The hand not gripping my lower back travels up the back of my thigh to the curve of my ass where his fingers slip inside my panties, gripping my ass with great force. Sweet Jesus, my clit is already pulsing.

His lips suck on my neck, right in the crevice of my shoulder and collarbone, his breath hot and heavy, and in that moment, I don’t care if he leaves his mark. I almost hope he does so I can claim him as mine. So he can claim me as his.

Repeating my question,
needing
to know the answer, I ask, “What things do you need to press?”

His lips trail up my neck to my jaw and then back to my ear where he nibbles on my lobe and says, “I need to press my tongue against that sweet little clit of yours.”

With those simple words I’m a pile of mush in his arms, liquid heat being held up by this strong man whispering dirty things in my ear.

“Do you want that, Rubes? My tongue slowly flicking your clit?”

Who the hell wouldn’t?

“Yes,” I answer breathlessly, like those women in soap operas about to be thrown onto the silk sheets of their lovers’ beds.

The hand inside my panties slowly cups my ass and reaches under until it hits my wet center, his fingers easily sliding in. A groan rolls deep from within him just as his teeth start to nip at my neck.

“Fuck, Ruby. You’re so damn wet. Just for me.”

“Only for you,” I answer honestly. There is no one else. No previous boyfriend has turned me on like Bodi does. And not just because his body is cut and contoured in all the right places, but because his heart is pure. He’s gentle, cautious, slightly broken, yet so real I can’t help but be turned on when I’m around him.

“I need to taste you,” he says, pushing me against the edge of the sofa. He turns me around quickly and lifts up the skirt of my dress, while bending me over the cushioned arm so my head is on the seat of the sofa. He doesn’t take his time working my panties off and spreading my legs.
Playful Bodi is gone. Hello, Mr. Sexy Bodi.

I’m exposed, everything out in the open, sticking up in the air and I couldn’t care less. All I can focus on is the pounding sensation driving from the center of my body to the tips of my toes. Right now, with Bodi so close to me, a light breeze could probably get me off.
That’s
how turned on I am.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Bodi kneel on the floor. His hands move from the backs of my knees, up my thighs, lightly grazing my skin, causing an electric current of lust to jolt my entire body.

As his hands get to the top of my ass, he shifts my stance so I’m wider and more open. With his hands splayed across my ass, his thumbs part my lips and his head dives forward. Within seconds, his mouth is on me, licking my clit with long leisurely strokes.
Holy shit.

Heat boils inside me with each lick. His tongue works from long flat strokes to short quick ones with the occasional kiss, lighting me up all over. Soft cries come out of my mouth, turning to loud moans whenever his teeth nibble on me. My neighbors must think there is some kind of porn flick being filmed in my apartment from the hideous sounds coming out of my mouth, but I can’t help it. Bodi does this to me. He makes me lose all my inhibitions.

With his thumbs still spreading me open to his tongue, one of his fingers expertly eases inside me, moving in and out with each flick of his tongue, and that’s all I need.

My stomach bottoms outs, my toes curl into my rug, my entire body goes numb, almost limp, as every nerve ending in my system focuses on one thing and one thing alone: the roaring orgasm that consumes me. I cry out Bodi’s name as he continues to pump forward, licking me up and down until I can’t take the pleasure anymore and collapse backward on him, sending us both to the floor. My bare ass on his chest.

Chuckling, he rolls me to the ground and languishingly kisses my lips. I can taste myself on him and I don’t mind it. His strong body rests on top of my small one and his erection presses into my leg. From the strain in his neck, I can tell he’s holding back. I
don’t
want that.

“Bodi.”

“Hmm?” he asks, trailing kisses across my jaw, one of his hands working its way under my dress.

“Roll over.”

“Why?” His lips now trail down to my chest.

“Because . . .” Oh God, why did I become shy all of a sudden? It’s just Bodi. Say what’s on your mind. “Because I want to suck your cock.”

Like a spring, his head pops up and his eyes study me, questions running through them, wondering if I’m serious.