Page 37 of Surfer's Paradise

Fucking hell.

He swallowed hard, fighting for control, but his body wasn’t listening. He needed to stop. This was his best friend. His Rosalie.

And she was grinding back on him, wet and pliant, letting him touch her, letting him—

The dream faded.

And suddenly, he was awake.

His body rocked still against hers, cock hard and throbbing, heat pooling low in his stomach, pulse hammering in his throat.

She was still asleep.

Fuck.

Isaac went completely still, breath caught in his chest. But fingers were still on her skin. His cock was still pressing against her. His whole fucking body was wired, aching, restless. And he needed to get the fuck out of this bed before he did something stupid.

Carefully—so carefully—he loosened his grip and peeled himself away, muscles tight, body screaming for the friction, for the warmth, for the fucking forbidden thing he had just been doing.

He ran a hand down his face, his jaw clenched so hard it ached, forcing himself to breathe.

It was just a dream. A fever dream. It had to be. He’s horny as fuck. He needs to get laid. That’s all. It was a fucking mistake to let her into his bed in this state. That’s what he told himself.

Even if he could still feel her on his hands, on his cock, in the way his whole fucking body burned for her.

Isaac exhaled sharply, pushing out of bed, muscles tight as he grabbed a fresh towel and stalked toward the bathroom.

It was Monday.

He had to work.

And then he had to get this shit out of his system before it killed him.

* * * * *

Isaac stood in the shower until his skin burned. Not because he had time. But because he needed pain to stop thinking about her. Steam clung to his skin, curling around his wrists like a memory. Like restraint. Like the weight of her in his bed.

Not yours.

Not really.

His hands still smelled like her shampoo—vanilla and paint, something soft and completely not combat ready. His sheets still held the ghost of her sigh, that half-sound she made when sheturned into him. His dick was still furious, his chest still tight, and his head?

A fucking minefield.

That dream…

It wasn’t a dream. Not really.

It was a truth his body had stopped pretending not to know.

He leaned his forehead against the tile. Cold. Steady.

He wasn’t in love with her.

Couldn’t be.

She was his past. His friend. His escape hatch. His Rosalie.

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