Page 69 of Surfer's Paradise

With excruciating control, Isaac slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. He grabbed a clean set of clothes, padded to the bathroom, and turned the shower on cold—because fuck, he needed it.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, stepping under the spray, letting the water hammer against his shoulders, trying to shake off the hunger still sitting deep in his gut.

Because that’s what this was.

A hunger. A fucking need.

And it wasn’t going away.

Not after last night.

Not after knowing exactly how she felt, exactly how she sounded, exactly how she tasted when she fell apart in his arms.

Not after years of pretending she was just his best friend.

Isaac braced his hands against the tiled wall, breathing hard.

Fuck.

Twenty minutes.

He’d give himself twenty minutes to get his shit together, get dressed, get out the door.

And then he’d figure out whatever the hell this was later.

When he stepped into the kitchen ten minutes later, towel-drying his hair, he stopped short.

Rosie was there.

Bare-legged.

In his fucking t-shirt.

Drinking coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His entire body tightened.

Her long, dark hair was still messy from sleep, her glasses perched on her nose, legs crossed at the counter like she had no idea she was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

The air between them changed instantly.

Tense. Charged.

She looked up at him over the rim of her coffee cup, blinking once, twice, her lips cherry-red and slightly swollen from last night.

“Morning,” she said.

Isaac didn’t answer.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t fucking hesitate.

He was on her in two strides, closing the gap, picking her up effortlessly, her coffee sloshing in the mug as she let out a surprised gasp.

Her thighs wrapped around his waist on instinct, her fingers gripping his shoulders, steadying herself.

“Good morning, baby,” he muttered against her mouth before he crushed her lips with his.

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