Page 200 of Surfer's Paradise

“Good.”

Her wrists flexed against his grip.

“You wanna let go?” he whispered, working her rhythm now, precise, controlled. “Come again for me.”

She made a sound that didn’t even have a shape.

But he didn’t let her.

Not yet.

Isaac watched her unravel beneath him—watched her eyes flutter, her lips part, her breath catch in her throat like she’d forgotten how to speak. Her fingers were locked around his forearms, holding on, grounding herself. And him? He was trying to memorize everything.

Every soft noise she made.

Every pulse of heat between them.

Every curve, every arch of her body that seemed to beg for more, even as she pretended she didn’t need him.

She did.

And hell if he didn’t need her just as much.

Her skin was flushed, slick with heat, her chest rising and falling fast as he kissed down the slope of her throat, tasting salt, perfume, her. His hands mapped her hips, slow and reverent at first, then tighter—possessive. Like if he didn’t hold her properly, she might slip away again.

Not this time.

Not again.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low, gravelly. She opened her eyes, and it just about undid him.

Rosie. His Rosie. But different now.

She wasn’t just the girl he knew. She was this—burning, brilliant, soft and powerful all at once. She looked up at him like she wasn’t sure whether to kiss him or kill him.

It did something to him.

“You always do this to me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

She swallowed. “Do what?”

“Make me forget who the hell I am.”

She laughed, shaky and breathless, and he caught her mouth with his—deep and slow. The kind of kiss that said I’m here, I’m real, I’m yours. He felt her melt beneath him again, her arms around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist like she couldn’t help it.

God, she was soft. And sweet. And wild.

She whispered his name like a question, like a prayer.

And Isaac, who had no idea what the hell he was doing when it came to love, knew only one thing:

He wasn’t letting go.

Not now.

Not ever.

Isaac’s hands framed her face as he hovered above her, sweat slicking the small of his back, every muscle tight with restraint. Rosie lay beneath him, flushed and gasping, her fingers tangled in his hair like she needed to hold onto something solid—something real.

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