Page 41 of Whispers on the Water

“I’ll be fast,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“If I’m gonna be late, at least make it worth the trouble.” Those seem to be the magic words because he lets out a low growl and uses one hand to pull my pajamas and underwear down.

There’s no joking now. Before I even have time to adjust my hips, he thrusts into me.

My eyes close, mouth splitting open with a gentle moan. His lips clash against mine, but his tongue is gentle as it explores my mouth.

“Sam. My Sam,” he says. I’m murmuring an incoherent agreements, and he lets loose. His hips are pounding his hard length into me at a frenzied pace.

“Oh. Oh! Greg, yes!” I tighten around his cock. Hearing him say I’m his is the biggest turn-on. With eager movement, I reach down, rubbing the bottom of his balls as he slides out in a way I’ve learned gets him off almost immediately.

But he grabs at my wrist. “I thought you said make it worth it?” He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the palm. I’m fighting not to glare. He’s not going to be fast. Though I suppose that’s my fault for teasing.

His movements turn slow. Painfully so. This man will be the death of me if he continues at this snail’s pace. I move my hand to where we’re joined, finding the spot between my legs to rub at my own clit. But he’s there again, bringing my hands back up and pinning them above my head. “Tsk, tsk, Samantha. That’s my job.”

With more power, his hips pumped into me. Deep. Grinding our bodies together like his only job in the world is pleasuring me. Fucking me into oblivion.

Every thrust made me relax into him more. Take the control, my body tells him. He responds with growls and grunts and kisses, all mixing together until I’m a puddle of nothing beneath him. It has become one of my favorite feelings: surrendering to him, letting him care for me, both in the bedroom and in our lives.

But the desire is building in my gut, and the contentment shifts. “Harder, Greg.” I arch my spine, meeting his plunges with a smack of my hips against him. But my pleading falls on deaf ears. So my fingers go to my head, digging into my scalp, gasps of babbling spilling from my mouth.

Still, he set our pace, controlling my building orgasm like a maestro in front of an orchestra. Pulling me into the crest. His breath is hot on my neck. “Come for me, Sam.”

The words are like a tinder to an open flame, and I’m ready. I’m so ready, I might literally die if he doesn’t let me come. He takes the cue and swings my legs up onto his shoulders, driving into me. The satisfying slap of his balls against me, and I feel my release bloom over his cock in a rush of pleasure.

But Greg’s not done, and I’m not going to wait for it any longer. I force my hand back to the bottom of his balls and press two fingers into the velvety skin, massaging.

He screams out, holding his cock inside me, buried to the hilt. Finally, his orgasm bursts into me, a long exhale on his lips. “Oh, god, Sam. Jesus.” His arms are shaking, but he doesn’t move.

To be honest, I’m not ready to let him go, either. I cling to him, enjoying the trembling of his body. It lets me know how truly satisfied he is. “Now I’m really late. You just had to have me?” I ask, a fake tone of annoyance in my voice.

He kisses my forehead, a gesture so tender and full of affection, my heart swoons. “It’s my fault you look this good in the mornings? The woman I love, right here, looking at me like that? Yeah, this is on you, my dear,” he says, his eyes sparkling.

Sitting up, I hug my knees to my chest. He’s so casual with his declarations of love, while I’ve yet to confess my own feelings out loud. Each day, it becomes harder to keep them to myself. Attempting to deflect from the weight of his words with humor, I respond, “Well, I did have my Wheaties this morning.”

He laughs, heading to the dresser to pull on some jeans, skipping underwear. I secretly adore this about him, the casualness of his attire, the comfort in his own skin. Watching him, I bite my lip, my thoughts wandering.

He seems oblivious to the effect he’s having on me as he pulls a white t-shirt over his head. “That reminds me, we’re out of bread.” I stopped correcting him weeks ago when he referred to his apartment as ‘ours’.

I’ve been spending most nights here, though I still make an effort to stay at Tilly’s a few times a week. “I’ll grab some on my lunch break. Are you running errands again today?”

He nods, returning to the bedside. “I’ll be in Tamarindo today, so don’t wait up.” I nod, swallowing any questions about his job. We’ve skirted around the topic, both unready to delve into it. Somehow, I feel it might open up a can of worms, and I don’t want that. I want to keep living in domestic bliss while ignoring anything that could disrupt it. Because in some way I know, once this thing between us ends, and I have a horrifying suspicion that eventually it will, I’ll be the one scraping my heart off the proverbial asphalt.

Tilly often teases me for looking for problems where there aren’t any. Greg is wonderful and truly loving. That’s maybe the only downside to finding myself with a serious boyfriend. Tilly and I don’t spend nearly as much time together. “I think I’ll stay at Tilly’s tonight then.”

“You sure?” he asks, now slipping on his socks.

“Yeah, we need a girl’s night. She’s still not totally over that boy.”

“He’s not exactly happy either,” Greg says, his face twisting into a frown. The two men have become fast friends. I’m more than thankful since Tommy has become somewhat of an outcast. I know staying out of their little spat has helped them both heal. I’ll do it forever if I must.

He leans in for a quick kiss before playfully chiding me, “You’re late, lady!” He exits, leaving me to get ready.

Rushing out fifteen minutes later, I jog in my swimsuit to the surf shack. I’m the first one to arrive for work, but I find a man waiting outside. “Benito?” I ask, nearly certain that this is the guy I’m supposed to teach to surf. Or at least keep from dying while he flails around.

“Uh, yes. Sam?” he asks. He has dark hair that’s pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. The man is shorter than me but built like a boulder. Broad shoulders are tucked into a skintight shirt. His accent suggests he’s more of a local than a tourist, but I give him my biggest customer-approved smile before I nod.

“You have trunks?” I ask. He doesn’t, so I quickly open the front door and hurry to our loaner stack of swimwear. I fetch something that I’m positive will fit; I haven’t been doing this for eight years without gaining an eye for size. “Go ahead and get changed, and we’ll head out.” He gives me a timid nod and passes by without so much as a glance at my body.

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