Free STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) by Meghan Quinn

“Delicious.”
    From the pace my teeth are working at, you’d think steam is coming out of my ears, but thankfully it doesn’t when I swallow and wash everything down with my drink. Once my mouth is clear, I smile at Reese who is studying me intently.
    “All done.” I feel the need to open my mouth and lift my arms in the air to show him all food has been consumed, as if I was on a reality show where eating food was the contest.
    “Did you even taste it?”
    I snort.
    Yes, you read that correctly. I snort.
    I’m not a snorter. I laugh, I chuckle, I giggle even. I don’t ever snort.
    Snorting is a violent way to force air out of our nose, a human reaction that happens usually uncontrollably when you are nervous and in need for relief somewhere in your face.
    So you snort.
    Needing to check my nose to make sure during my vicious exhalation of air out of my nose, I didn’t accidentally lose any mucus, I casually—like a professional—run my finger under my nose in the most offhand, yet smoothest way possible.
    “You didn’t shoot anything out of your nose if that’s what you’re checking for,” Reese says, leaning back in his chair, observing me.
    Immediately, heat flushes my cheeks, sweat forms over my upper lip—I can feel my ears turn red from embarrassment—and all I want to do is crawl into a hole from complete mortification.
    “I uh, had an itch.” I make a point to use the tip of my finger to itch my nose, rather vigorously. “Funny how skin itches, huh?”
    Funny how skin itches?
    Someone please come punch me in the face and end this miserable moment.
    Reese leans forward and crosses his arms on the table, turning up the heat in my body to lava levels, melting me right in my seat. He points under his nose and says, “Oh, I guess you did shoot something out when you snorted.”
    “Oh my God!” I exclaim, bringing my napkin to my nose, completely and utterly humiliated.
    Clapping his hands together, Reese laughs and says, “Just kidding, but damn was your reaction priceless.”
    What?
    He was just kidding?
    Irritated, embarrassed, and wanting revenge, I lean toward him and without an ounce of thought or concern for repercussions, I flick him between the eyes. As if my digit is a bullet out of a gun, a high-powered flick makes an impression in his forehead, causing both of his eyes to shut out of reaction.
    Holy crap!
    The minute my fingernail connects with his skull, I realize I made a big mistake. I’m not making good decisions today.
    He’s shocked.
    I’m shocked.
    My finger is shocked out of its own betrayal.
    Silence stretches between us. No words are spoken, just two humans who barely know each other, staring at one another, one flick of a finger straining the tension that settles in the air.
    What the hell do I do?
    Flick myself between the eyes as well, laugh like a lunatic, and then tell him I forgot to take my meds this morning?
    Maybe play it off as if there was a bug on his face and I was doing him a favor?
    Salute him, grab my purse, and run like hell?
    Take in the chair next to me, smack him in the face with it, knocking him just hard enough that he will forget this entire morning, then tell him a story about how he fell on the pool deck earlier and that’s why he’s in the hospital with a concussion, unable to compete anymore?
    Stealing the man’s last chance at the Olympics, or saving my image?
    I weigh both options in my head, truly considering the chair idea when Reese clears his throat. “Did you just . . . flick me between the eyes?”
    Fuck.
    A small part of me wishes he imagined the whole thing, but I’m just not that lucky, never have been.
    My hands twist in my lap, my armpits are soaking up every last drop of anti-perspirant I coated them with this morning. I know I have to answer him, but I don’t know what to say. Just say something, anything to cut the tension that continues to build between us.
    I bite the corner of my lip and giggle – an obnoxious giggle I