Page 103 of Surfer's Paradise

His lips pressed to her temple, fingers smoothing slow, steady lines down her arm. And as the exhaustion finally pulled herunder, she let herself believe—just for tonight, just for this one moment—that she was safe.

Chapter 19

The alarm sliced through the silence, an obnoxious, piercing blare that made Rosie want to die on the spot.

She groaned, burying her face into the pillow, her entire body protesting.

Everything hurt.

Her head, her stomach, her fucking soul.

Isaac let out a low, guttural noise, shifting beside her.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his face, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

Rosie peeked one eye open, just enough to watch him move.

He looked as wrecked as she felt—hair messy, eyes still dark with sleep, voice rough and gravelly—but still, the bastard was already pulling himself up, already stretching, already moving.

Of course he was.

He was Isaac Rayleigh. A goddamn machine.

He let out a long exhale, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and dragged himself into the bathroom.

A second later, she heard the shower turn on.

Rosie groaned, rolling onto her side, curling in on herself.

Nope.

She wasn’t moving.

She wasn’t doing a single goddamn thing.

Her body was cement, her skull splitting, her stomach still raw from the night before.

A few minutes later, the shower clicked off, and he was back.

Clean. Fresh. Wearing only a towel.

Rosie cracked one eye open again, immediately regretting it.

“That’s offensive,” she muttered, glaring at his perfect body.

Isaac smirked. “What is?”

She waved a weak hand at him. “That. All of it. At six in the goddamn morning.”

He chuckled, low and deep, stepping closer to the bed.

Then, without warning, he crawled over her, pressing her into the mattress, bracing his weight on his elbows.

He was too warm, too solid, too him.

Rosie’s breath hitched, body betraying her.

Isaac smirked against her cheek.

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