STROKED LONG Read Free

and made quite the donation to start a foundation in honor of her mom, who used to volunteer here.”
    “Oh, how wonderful.”
    Eva and I know each other from school. When she was getting her master’s, I was completing my bachelor’s, but we were part of the same dorky art clubs and became good friends. Something tragic happened to her parents when she was young, but I never went into great detail about it with her, because frankly it’s none of my business. But I do know she and her brother donate as much time here as possible.
    Yes, her brother . . .
    Sigh.
    Bodi Banks, Olympic royalty, masterful swimmer, gorgeous human being, and the most closed-off and quiet man you will ever meet.
    The man is incredible.
    I’ve spoken two sentences to him the entire time I’ve known Eva, and they didn’t generate much conversation.
    One being: “You’re Bodi Banks, the swimmer.”
    Well, duh, Ruby, he knows who the hell he is. You try coming up with something intelligent to say when a beast of a man is standing in front of you, his denim blue eyes staring through you.
    Second time: “So you like swimming, huh?”
    Another classic question coming directly from a bumbling idiot.
    He politely grimaced at me, yes, grimaced , and walked away. It was humiliating. But, I always tell myself, it could have been worse. I’ve been known to throw a little fun punch here and there, so the fact that I held my fist at my side instead of saying, “So, you like swimming, huh?” while tapping his shoulder is a feat in itself.
    Point to me!
    But yeah, Eva’s brother is one of those mythical men you read about and follow on Instagram, wondering if he really does exist or if someone is Photoshopping your average Joe to make all women salivate over a little IG newsfeed.
    Let me state for the record: he’s real. He’s so real I may have accidently poked him during my first encounter when I pointed out who he was . . . to him.
    “You’re Bodi Banks, the swimmer.” *Pokes finger to chest*
    I’m awkward as hell. At least I didn’t poke his nipple and then make it hard. Lord knows if that happened, I would have laughed and pointed at the hardened tip while restraining my fingers from flicking it once more.
    “Do you think you’re up for it?” Rita asks me, pulling me out of my Bodi Banks-induced reverie.
    Shoot, what did she ask me? I think back to a few moments ago. Foundation, something to do with Eva, and then all that comes to my mind are images of Bodi’s abs. Miles and miles of delicious, contoured, deep, succulent abs. Like a pack of buttered biscuits sitting on his stomach, waiting to be licked up by any willing and capable person.
    “Sure.” I smile, not wanting to disappoint Rita, hoping I didn’t just sign myself up for crayon melting in the hot sun kind of fun. It’s on the schedule for next week and I’m dreading it.
    “Fantastic. Come with me.” Rita pulls on my arm and guides me out of the arts and crafts room and straight into an empty classroom next door where Bodi is sitting on a counter, his feet dangling just inches above the floor, his head down, looking at his phone.
    When he hears us come in, he looks up and his blue eyes penetrate me once again. Hopping down from the counter, he adjusts his hip-clinging jeans and walks toward us, a confused look on his face.
    I ignore his facial expressions and take him in. He’s wearing a forest-green Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His grey jeans are modern in their fit, clinging to his body all the way down to his white Nikes. His hair is covered by an Oakland A’s baseball cap, the brim barely curved. He’s casual, but mouth-wateringly sexy.
    Plus . . . he smells like heaven. As if God cried into a pail, blessed it with every magical and mythical creation, and swirled it altogether with His mighty finger only to douse it all over Bodi. He’s blazing sex, and those dark, soulful, clouded eyes spur on my need to get to know him better, despite my