Page 197 of Surfer's Paradise

“I love you too, Coco,” he said, sliding two fingers inside her, slow but firm, curling just right—and her back arched, her mouth dropping open.

He loved this part. Loved it.

The power of it—not just in her body yielding under his hands, but in how completely she trusted him to take her apart.

* * * * *

Rosie was heat and haze and helplessness. Pleasure throbbed through her like a current, a build she couldn’t control, made sharper by the fact that she couldn’t hold him, couldn’t anchor herself to anything but the sound of his breath and the rasp of his voice said against her skin.

He was relentless.

And she was coming undone, piece by piece, strung out beneath him, tied up and adored.

She didn’t need her hands to know—this man was hers.

He licked her like he was starving. Like she was the only thing that could possibly satisfy the heat inside him. And his hands—they didn’t just hold her, they commanded her, anchoring her to the bed, to him, to the here and now.

He teased with his tongue, then pushed deeper, firmer, dragging pleasure through her like a current. His stubble scraped the insides of her thighs. His mouth was relentless.

And just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, his fingers joined the rhythm—slow, then fast, curling inside her with a pressure that shattered her.

“I thought about this,” he said against her, voice guttural, vibrating through her core. “So many fucking times. Wished it was you under me. Wished I could taste you instead of pretending with someone else.”

“Isaac,” she gasped, nearly sobbing.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his pace unforgiving now. “You hear me? Say it. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she cried out, her back arching, her body breaking apart.

She couldn’t breathe.

Or maybe she was breathing too much—too fast, too shallow. Each inhale hitched on a moan, each exhale caught on a tremble. Her arms pulled against the rope securing her wrists to the headboard, not to escape, but to feel the tension. The restraint. The way her body arched for him.

She needed him like oxygen. Needed the weight of him, the heat, the rough hands, the wicked mouth.

Isaac twirled his tongue around her clit—slow and deliberate like it was the only thing he had to do in the world. And it wrecked her.

She gasped, toes curling, her breath catching in her throat.

“Still with me, Coco?” he rasped, voice hoarse with hunger.

She nodded, helpless. Couldn’t form words. Her whole body was already alive—sensitive, expectant, begging.

He gripped her thighs tighter, calloused fingers digging into her skin as he opened her wider to him. His eyes flicked up, dark and locked on hers.

“You’ve got no idea,” he growled. “All those nights. All those women. I still only saw you. Always you.”

Rosie made a sound—something between a sob and a moan. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned. She didn’t know how to hold all of it.

He dragged his mouth up her inner thigh, open-mouthed and wet, biting just enough to make her hips buck.

She whimpered. He growled.

“Don’t move unless I say,” he warned, rough and low.

And God help her, that made it worse. Or better.

She didn’t even realize she was shaking until his tongue finally found her.

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