Page 172 of Surfer's Paradise

“Rosie…” he warned, voice rough, low.

She didn’t stop.

She didn’t say a word.

She just kept kissing him. Worshipping him. Telling him without speaking that she knew how to love him through his silence. Through his pain.

And he let her.

Isaac’s hands gripped the sheets, knuckles straining, his jaw locked tight as Rosie moved down his body like she knew every damn nerve ending. Every place he held tension. Every place he broke.

Her mouth—God, her mouth.

She wasn’t in a hurry. No rush. No show. Just purpose.

She kissed down his chest, soft lips and slow breath. Traced her fingertips through the ink across his ribs, over old scars, until he flinched—not from pain, but from how deeply she saw him.

His throat bobbed as he exhaled, fists still clenched at his sides.

“Rosie,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she whispered, her eyes flicking up to meet his, full of intent, full of heat. “Let me.”

And he couldn’t say no. Not when she touched him like that. Like she was claiming him. Like she was healing him.

“Fuck, baby—” He hissed through his teeth, the sound turning guttural as she kept going.

Everything in him wanted to hold back. To slow this down. But she was wrecking him with every kiss, every soft scrape of nails down his thighs, every second she looked up at him like he was something worth worshipping.

He wasn’t.

Not even close.

But with her?

With her, he could pretend. Just for tonight.

Isaac couldn’t breathe.

Not properly. Not when she kissed him like that—slow and certain, like she knew exactly how close he was to coming undone. Rosie was on a mission. Not just to make him feel good. But to make him feel… known. Like his body was hers to take care of. To worship.

She pressed another kiss just below his navel, her breath warm on his skin.

“Rosie,” he ground out, his voice already fraying. His hand fisted in the sheets, the other tangled in her hair. “Jesus—”

She didn’t stop.

Her lips brushed the ridge of his abdomen, tongue tracing a path lower. She knew what she was doing. She was slow about it, maddeningly slow, kissing each inch like it deserved its own kind of reverence. Like she could taste the tension pulsing through him.

Isaac’s hips jerked just slightly, instinctive. His muscles locked down tight, his jaw clenched.

“Fuck. You’re trying to kill me.”

Rosie glanced up with that wicked glint in her eyes—blue, sharp, hungry—but her touch stayed gentle. Careful. She nuzzled against his hip bone, breathing him in, and he swore the earth shifted under the bed.

Every nerve in his body lit up.

Then her hands slid to his thighs, parting him a little more, grounding him with her palms before her mouth moved lower again, warm and slow. Her tongue flicked lightly—exploring, tasting, teasing—just enough to drag a desperate, low groan from deep in his chest.

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