Page 82 of Ride the Wave

I quickly drop my hand to my stomach, tearing my eyes from his.

‘You know what I think?’ he says suddenly.

‘What?’ I ask, my voice clipped and distant as I wallow in the shame of forgetting myself for a moment there. I’m usually so good at keeping my shit together.

He exhales. ‘I think you need to change your flight.’

I blink at him. ‘What?’

‘Your flight home, the one that’s booked for tomorrow,’ he clarifies, the corners of his mouth lifting into an easy smile, ‘I think you need to call up your editor and change it.’

A nervous laugh escapes from my throat. ‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because you need more time to get whatever it is out of me that you need…’ he lowers his head to kiss me gently on the lips, my heart thrumming ‘…and I think you need more time to do some thorough research.’ His hand slides over my stomach, his fingers drifting along the top edge of my thong, toying with the lace. ‘And… I don’t want you to go.’

I feel dazed as he leaves a trail of soft kisses along my jaw.

‘Thoughts?’ he prompts, his breath warm in my ear and sending shivers rolling down my spine. ‘Don’t leave me hanging here.’

I swallow. ‘Obviously, I’d like to stay here a bit longer. For many reasons.’

‘Course, many reasons,’ he murmurs. ‘If that’s what you want, then change the flight.’

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know,’ he repeats, his fingers sliding beneath my thong.

Oh my God. My breath becomes erratic as his thumb drags over my clit, his lips finding my earlobe and giving it a gentle tug with his teeth.

‘I guess… I guess I can ask if I can change it,’ I croak as he lifts his head to gaze down at me.

‘Ask?’ he says lightly, his thumb stroking me, the pressure beginning to build between my legs already. ‘That’s not like you, London.’

‘Tell, I’ll tell them,’ I say desperately, reaching for him and dragging his mouth to mine so I can kiss him hungrily as his fingers slide into me, causing me to gasp at his lips, my muscles clenching round him.

He’s breathing as hard as I am and when he pulls back to look at me, the heat in his eyes flares, as though watching me like this is enough for him.

‘Fuck, you’re so wet; say that’s for me,’ he says hungrily.

‘It’s for you,’ I rasp before I emit a quiet moan as his thumb presses on my clit, tightness and pressure building between my legs.

How is he so good at this?How is anyone so good at this? How the fuck am I supposed to write an article about him and not mention this insane talent? Fuck the surfing; this is surely what people will want to know about: that Leo Silva might just be the sexiest man on the planet and has the ability to give mind-blowing orgasms in a matter of seconds.

You can’t be real.

‘What’s that?’ he asks.

As the pleasure intensifies and my brain turns to mush, I realise that my thoughts have accidentally slipped out my mouth.

‘I’mwhat?’ he persists, gazing down at me intently, his thumb and fingers driving me to oblivion. Oh God, how the fuck does he expect me to think straight?

‘You can’t be real,’ I manage to repeat breathlessly.

A muscle in his jaw twitches before he utters, ‘Funny, all this time I’ve been thinking the same about you,’ and dips his head to kiss my neck, his thumb increasing the pressure and ache of my clit, winding me higher and higher until I can’t hold back any longer.

The pleasure boils over and floods mercilessly through me, and his mouth is there to capture the loud moan he coaxes from my lips, my body arching and trembling, my hips grinding up against his hand.

Trailing a couple of soft kisses along my cheek, he watches me as I catch my breath.

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