Page 20 of Issued

I run until everything that keeps me awake and hurting in the early hours of the morning washes away under a heavy fog of exhaustion. My feet pound the concrete of the boardwalk with all the elegance of a sack of wet cement. The graceful steps of ten miles earlier have long since disappeared. My rasping throat is parched. I should have brought a bottle of water, but the thought had been negligible compared to the need to get out of the house.

My head bobbles loosely from side to side with each footfall, and my run takes on a sway that threatens collapse.

I slow to a walk as the warm humidity wraps around me like a blanket, oppressive and oddly sticky. Thick, salty droplets flow down my face, dripping onto the concrete when I stop and lean my forearms against the aluminum railing. My head throbs with every heartbeat, my legs struggling to hold my weight. I close my eyes and focus on the ocean’s lullaby, breathing in its poignant, salty breath. Why haven’t I come out this way sooner? Five miles isn’t too far of a run—or a drive—to come and relax by the water.

As my breathing returns to normal, the pounding in my head subsides. I stand straight and fill my lungs full of the fresh, cool air blowing off the ocean. My legs are stiff, so I raise my right foot and clasp my ankle as my fingertips trail over the patch of numb, bumpy skin.

I remove my hand from my scar. I close my eyes tightly and try to drown out the images of Marco pulling me out of my burning house. The bastard started the fire, claimed it was to destroy some evidence my father had. Then had the balls to tell me he was trying to keep me safe.

My fingers curl into fists. He was so fucking good at covering up the start of the fire that the arson investigator couldn’t find any foul play. And my claims as to what he said, while taken seriously by the precinct, weren’t enough to arrest him, especially once the arson report came back claiming it was an electrical fire.

So much for taking a mental break from the past. I walk to a nearby ledge to stretch my quads and gaze out into the waves, watching the surfers, to keep my balance. I’ve always been in awe of the way people can ride waves the way I ride pavement.

I switch legs, and the river of sweat free flowing down the center of my back like rain on a window pane shifts its course. I drop my foot back down to the ground and clasp my hands together behind my back. While the stretch feels wonderful, the skin around my shoulders is tight. And my face. A slight stinging is present. It’s my fault for not wearing sunscreen. I walk to a bench overlooking the beach and sit, my body still needing time to recover before making the trek back home.

A red-and-blue surfboard in the water catches my attention. Its rider attacks the steep slope, projecting half of the board off the wave’s lip, and then drives it down toward the bottom of the wave without losing momentum.Awesome.The wind brings about a shiver as it cools my overly warm skin, but all of my attention is focused on the surfer. There’s grace in the way he arcs through the crescent-shaped waves. I can’t pick up much detail from where I stand, but his gray-and-blue shorts contrast sharply against the churning blue of the ocean.

Water clings to the muscular length of his arms and chest, and when the sunlight hits it just right, the droplets sparkle. Briefly, Mother Nature transforms him into a dancing Adonis sprinkled in starlight, and my insides clench hungrily while my mouth goes dry.

I don’t know how long I stand there watching him. Long enough for the sweat to cool. When Mr. Gray-and-Blue Board Shorts rides the wave in before jumping off the board into the water, I can’t help but feel as if the show ended far too soon. The surfer turns his board around and hops back on to paddle out to the next set of waves.

Shitballs.

Even from this distance, the gray-washed details of the dragon tattoo stand out.Jim.My pulse rate starts to jackhammer, and my legs clamp together as that wild ache for him returns. Seeing him, muscles bunching and body in confident motion leaves my knees weak. I roll my eyes and sigh.

Jim paddles harder as a large wave reaches him. Popping up to his feet, he carves through the water. He performs a bottom turn and when he reaches the crest of the wave, he gets the fins free just long enough to let the tail of the surfboard slide down the face of the wall of water.

My jaw drops, and the corners of my mouth turn up. The way he controls the board, the precision of each trick, the flex of each muscle. Breathtaking. I could sit here and watch him all day. I gulp, my throat dry from both the run and the sight of my—err—husband.

With the board tucked under his arm, he jogs through the shallows of the water. He drives the blue-and-red board, the colors swirling to create a tribal design, into the sand. His head shakes, drops of water flying in all directions as they leave his dark brown hair. His palms run over his face and come to rest at the back of his head. His chest expands, and then every muscle goes rigid when he faces my direction.

The expression on his face is like those on marble statues. Vacant. Cold. Faintly superior. A low groan rumbles in the back of my throat when he tucks the surfboard under one arm and propels himself closer. Each step deliberate, hitting the sand with a domineeringthunk.

My fingers snake around the railing as a throaty moan escapes my lips. I’m a hot mess. And now I’m practically dripping with need.

“Need something?” He stares into my eyes, unblinking, as if locked onto a target. Or fighting to keep from looking elsewhere. Like my traitorous nipples. I can feel the fuckers jutting out.

Hell, what do I say? Um, yeah, I need you between my legs. Uh, nope.

“Did you... lock yourself out?” He drops his board to the ground and steps forward, closing the distance between us until only the metal railing separates us, and my lungs halt midbreath.

“No. I went for a run. And I took a breather. You know how it is.” My gaze skates from his sinful mouth down the curves and ripples of his abs to—

Crap.

Unable to look away, I take in the bulge straining at the seam of his shorts and swallow tightly. God, could I fit that thing in my mouth?

“Yes.” He turns toward the ocean, away from me.

Did I just say that out loud? “Um. I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, yes... I know how that is. Do you surf?” A wicked grin is plastered on his face. He’s already OCD, and I don’t need him to tell me he’s a mind reader too.

“No. It’s not a big thing in New York. Neither are the waves for that matter. Unless you head east to Montauk. But the traffic is killer, even on a bike.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to compose myself.

Jim chuckles, but then his knees buckle and a hand flies out to grab a bar of the railing to keep from falling. Heat rushes over my skin as my fingers touch his—a small gesture to let him know I’m there if he needs me. “Are you okay? Can I do anything to help?”

When he tilts his head up to face me, his eyes narrow and a vein in his neck bulges out. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

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