Page 35 of Surfer's Paradise

But it wasn’t working.

Because the truth was, he was fucked up.

The thing with Elodie? It wasn’t serious. He wasn’t dumb enough to get locked into a long-distance, committed relationship with a woman he only saw a handful of times a year.

But he also wasn’t so sophisticated that he could sit in complete abstinence for months on end.

In fact, the one thing he’d wanted to do after his last deployment was fuck a bunch of chicks and shake off the weight of everything.

But the one thing he hadn’t done?

Exactly that.

Instead, he was here.

In bed with Rosie.

Hard as fucking steel.

And there was nowhere to go from here.

His hand stilled in her hair, fingers tensing slightly.

“Rosie,” he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.

She hummed softly, a lazy sound of acknowledgment.

He hesitated, then sighed, shaking his head slightly. Fuck it.

“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me,” he admitted.

She was silent for a second, then—“Define ‘wrong with me.’”

Isaac let out a low, humorless chuckle. “How long you got?”

Rosie smiled against the pillow, and fuck, he felt that.

“Seriously,” he muttered, his hand slipping from her hair to rest on her hip, fingers curling loosely against the fabric of her t-shirt. “I came off rotation thinking I’d go on a fucking bender. You know, drink, smoke, fuck my way back to normal.”

She made a quiet, knowing sound.

“But instead,” he exhaled, “I’ve done exactly none of that.”

Rosie shifted slightly, tilting her head just enough to glance at him. Blue eyes too sharp, too knowing.

“And?” she prompted.

“And,” Isaac sighed, “I don’t know what that means.”

Rosie was silent for a moment, then—“Maybe it means you’re exhausted.”

Isaac huffed a laugh. “Always.”

“Maybe it means,” she said, shifting against him again—fuck, that wasn’t helping—“you’re realizing that distractions don’t actually fix anything.”

Isaac let out a slow breath, dragging his hand over his face.

“Bitch,” he muttered. “You always do this.”

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