Page 196 of Surfer's Paradise

“I trust you,” she whispered.

Isaac’s voice darkened. “Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.”

He kissed her then—deep, hard, filthy—with the full weight of everything he’d held back for too long. The rope creaked softly with her movement, but she didn’t pull. Didn’t fight.

She gave in.

To him.

To this.

To all the ways he loved her—feral, rough, and fiercely loyal.

And as his mouth moved lower, slow and unrelenting, Rosie knew exactly what she’d surrendered to.

And she never wanted it to stop.

Rosie lay back, breath shallow, arms stretched above her, wrists bound in silk. The rope didn’t hurt. It wasn’t supposed to. It grounded her. Held her in place, tethered to something steady and solid and safe. Tethered to Isaac.

Her thighs trembled when he ran his hands up them again, slow, measured—-gripping her and dragging her closer to the edge of the bed. He bent, kissed her thigh, then dragged his lips higher.

But not all the way.

Not yet.

Control was in the pause.

It was in every breath he withheld, every place he didn’t touch. In the slow strokes of his thumb along her skin. In the way he looked at her like he could already feel her coming undone again.

“Isaac,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

He met her eyes. “What do you want, baby.”

She bit her lip, hips shifting. “Your tongue.”

“Where?”

“My pussy.”

“Good girl.”

He bit gently at the inside of her thigh and groaned like he was starving. Like this was his. His hands pressed her thighs open wider, possessive and sure. And when his mouth reached her center, everything inside her unraveled.

“Isaac,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, half a prayer. “Baby, I love you.”

She gasped when his tongue found her clit—his stubble scraping the inside of her thighs, his lips soft right after. He dragged his teeth along her skin and then soothed the sting with his tongue, a rhythm of pressure and relief that made her arch into him.

Every kiss lower stole her breath.

Every flick of his tongue sent heat spiraling through her.

She moaned, back arching, rope pulling tight above her as his tongue moved with purpose—slow at first, teasing, then deeper, hungrier. He alternated pressure and pace, reading her body like he’d always known it, like he’d always been meant to.

She couldn’t reach for him. Couldn’t bury her hands in his hair or pull him closer. She was spread out and trembling, and all she could do was feel—every hot, slow, reverent movement of his mouth as he ate her pussy.

Like she was his.

And she was.

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