Page 173 of Surfer's Paradise

“Rosie,” he warned, but there wasn’t an ounce of protest in his voice. Just need.

She was everything—soft lips, clever hands, deliberate heat. She kissed the base of him, then up the length in a way that made his whole body tense. The kind of slow burn that crawled up his spine and made his eyes roll back.

He glanced down, hand tightening in her hair again, and what he saw nearly undid him.

Rosie, naked and kneeling between his legs, completely focused on him. On making him lose his mind.

His best friend. His girl.

His.

That word slammed into his chest and settled there, heavy as hell.

Her lips wrapped around him, warm and wet, and Isaac let out a ragged breath. His fingers trembled where they gripped her hair. His head fell back against the pillow, a string of curses muttered through clenched teeth.

She hollowed her cheeks, moved slow at first, like she was savoring every inch. Like she had all night. He could barely take it.

“Goddamn, baby,” he gasped, breath hot, broken. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

And still, she didn’t stop.

Didn’t rush. Just watched him. Touched him. Took him deeper. Loved him like it meant something. Like he meant something.

Isaac’s body arched toward her, hips straining, eyes squeezed shut. His hand caressed the back of her head now, no longer gripping—just stroking, reverent, full of something he couldn’t say yet but felt in every fucking part of him.

She moaned softly against him, and the vibration sent heat shooting down his spine.

He was right there. On the edge. A breath away.

“Rosie—fuck—I’m—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And God help him, he never wanted her to stop.

Rosie. His Rosie. Her lips wrapped around him, her hands steady on his hips, her tongue moving like she knew exactly how to pull every last shred of control from his body.

It was her. That’s what wrecked him.

Not just the act, but who was doing it. This wasn’t some random girl in a hotel room, some blur of skin and sweat who wouldn’t even remember his name in a week. This wasn’t part of his usual pattern—fast, hard, forgettable.

This was Rosie.

The girl he’d grown up with.

The girl who used to scribble in sketchbooks on the curb outside her busted-up duplex, while he tossed baseballs with his little brother across the street. The girl who had lived through hell and clawed her way out with paint under her nails and fire in her chest.

And now she was here.

Naked between his legs.

Loving him with her mouth like it was her idea. Like it gave her something too.

Isaac’s heart thundered in his chest. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to get a grip. His other hand still threaded gently through her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

Every slick glide of her mouth, every swirl of her tongue made his muscles tense harder. Made him feel—not just arousal, but grief. Need. Wonder. Something bigger than all of it. Something that had been buried for years but was clawing its way to the surface now.

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