Page 195 of Surfer's Paradise

God, she was fucking beautiful like this. She was flushed, eyes heavy, lips parted like she was already halfway gone. Her hair was down tonight—dark, silky, wild. He reached up and wrapped a fist in it, not yanking, just steady. Like a tether. Like a reminder.

Her breath caught as he pulled, tipping her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat.

“Open your mouth,” he said, low.

Her lips parted without hesitation.

Good girl.

He loved looking down on her with her mouth open, anticipating. The power thrummed through his veins, slow and thick. She trusted him—completely. Gave him everything. And that made him want to ruin her in the most reverent way possible.

He leaned in, and spat in her mouth—slow, dripping. Making her feel it. Taste it.

“Swallow,” he ordered, his voice rough silk.

She did. Of course she did.

He kissed her hard after that. No hesitation. No gentleness.

And when he dragged his mouth to her throat, he didn’t hold back. He bit her. Not to hurt. But enough for her to feel it tomorrow. Enough to mark her, just for a little while.

Once. Again. Lower now.

She gasped, thighs tightening around him.

“You like that,” he rasped against her neck.

She didn’t speak—just moaned, breath hot against his ear.

He held her there, one hand still fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip like he was staking claim, then under her ass, dragging her to the very edge of the counter. She gasped as her hips met his cock, still behind his jeans.

He groaned at the contact, burying his face in her neck.

“This right here,” he whispered, grinding into her, breath hot against her ear. “Every time I walk through that door and you’re here… fuck.”

Rosie’s fingers slid into his hair, fisting there, tugging. “I like when you lose your mind,” she whispered.

That made him pause. Just for a second.

Then he grinned—slow, feral, something dangerous in his eyes. “Good. ’Cause I’m about to ruin your night.” He leaned in again, kissed her hard—claiming and deep. She melted into it, because there was no other choice.

Then he lifted her clean off the kitchen counter, her thighs instinctively locking around his waist, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His grip was possessive—one hand cradling the back of her head, the other under her legs, firm and commanding like she belonged nowhere else but in his arms.

He carried her straight to the bedroom they now shared, every step steady and deliberate.

Rosie felt it—the shift in him. The quiet fury. The heat. The focus.

He threw her down on the edge of the bed with a reverence that made her chest ache, then crossed to the nightstand. Opened the drawer.

She knew what was in there. Her breath caught when she saw the rope.

Soft black silk. Thick enough to hold.

And with practiced care, he took the rope and wrapped her wrists—looping, twisting, tightening. Firm, never cruel. Always watching her face. Her breath hitched as he pulled her arms above her head, tying the ends to the headboard slats. She could move—but only barely. She could breathe—but now every breath was his.

“You trust me?” he said, dragging his thumb along her stomach, his mouth hot against her ribs.

She nodded, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.

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