Page 153 of Surfer's Paradise

Her cheeks flushed, her breath catching.

His hand dragged slowly down her bare stomach, drawing circles lower and lower until he found her wet pussy. “Did I touch you like this?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “Did you want me to?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He exhaled like that was the only answer he needed. And then—

“Did you ever touch yourself… thinking about me?”

Her eyes flew open, startled.

His voice was a whisper now, hot against her breast. “Tell me the truth, Coco.”

Her breath hitched.

“Did you ever imagine it was my tongue or my cock between your legs?”

“Yes.”

“God, Rosie,” he said, kissing her hard. “You don’t know how hard that gets me.”

His hand slipped lower, and her hips arched into him, desperate, needing.

“You know,” he said against her skin, “you’re not hiding from me anymore.”

Rosie gasped as his hand slid between her thighs, parting her, finding her soaked and trembling. Her hips bucked into his touch, helpless.

Isaac watched her face, eyes hooded, dark. “That’s how long you’ve wanted me, huh?”

She opened her mouth to argue—but he pressed two fingers into her, slow and deep, and her retort died in a moan.

“Take your clothes off,” she said softly.

Her voice didn’t shake.

He didn’t ask if she was sure. Didn’t smirk like he usually would. He just obeyed.

Slowly.

First, his fingers hooked under the hem of his t-shirt, dragging it up and over his head. His tattoos shifted with the motion—black ink over tan skin, alive in the light. She’d seen them before. Countless times. But never like this. Never with this ache in her chest. Never while she was lying here, naked, wanting him.

Next came the button of his jeans. The zipper. The soft drag of denim down thick thighs. He kicked them off at the ankle.

Only his black boxer briefs remained.

Rosie sat up slightly, propped on her elbows, lips parted.

She’d seen this man dripping wet out of the ocean, shirtless in the summer heat, bruised and sweating after long runs. She’d seen him at his rawest, his messiest, his funniest, his most guarded.

But this? This was something else entirely.

He was beautiful. Strong, lean muscle wrapped in reckless skin. Tattoos trailing down his arms. That V at his hips, cutting hard into the shadows. He was healing—slowly. The bruising on his side from the accident still dark, but his body hadn’t lost an ounce of its power.

And he was hers, in this moment.

He slid the waistband of his briefs down, revealing the full length of him. Hard already. Beautiful. Her breath caught.

She didn’t move.

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