Page 101 of Riptide

“Shall we go over the dry land practice first?”

He chews his lip, but then nods to himself. “No pop-up drills, lets just do it. I remember what we went over. I’m ready.”

His confidence is a little shaky, but I admire it all the same. When we first started to do this, he was convinced there would be some kind of way he would understand the physics of it. I just laughed and said he’ll never find the perfect formula for surfing; it’s more about feeling than mathematics.

We wade in together, water curling around our ankles, shins, then thighs. He shivers a little when it hits his waist, glancing over to see if I’m still close.

“Ready?” I ask, and he nods once.

Once we’re far out enough, I straddle my board and rest my arms on top, and he does the same.

Checking around us, I call out to him. “Wave’s coming.” I point to his left. “Not a big one, but it’s clean. You want it?”

I see him swallow, but I know it’s his already.

“Okay,” I coach him. “Same thing as pop-ups. Angle a little, paddle hard, keep your eyes forward, then you’ll feel when it’s the right time.”

He lines up, paddles, and then he fucking catches it. Elation bursts in my limbs for him as I watch him ride the wave for at least three seconds, carving slightly, then falling and popping right back up again with the widest smile I’ve ever seen.

Suddenly, a memory flashes into my mind of me and Jared, from when we were about fourteen, maybe. One of our first trips together and he stood on his new board for the first time. I remember laughing so hard I almost wiped out when I tried it too. I think about the way we collapsed in the sand together after, sunburnt and buzzing, already arguing about who stood the longest. The ocean always felt bigger when he was in it with me. For a while, remembering all those good moments hurt too much, but now, as I watch Foxx rush to paddle out to me again, I just feel full. My heart pitter patters in my chest, and I realize I’m grateful to have those memories with him, that I still get to make new ones with my family and my boyfriend.

And I still get to honor a friend. For the moments we didn’t get to have. The waves we didn’t catch. The ones I’ll ride for both of us now. Because healing doesn’t mean forgetting—it means remembering without drowning. And maybe, finally, letting the tide carry me forward.

“Did you see that?” Foxx beams as he reaches me.

“You were incredible,” I say, splashing him with water.

Foxx shakes out his hair, and then nods behind me. “That one is all yours.”

With the perfect swell behind me and my board beneath me, I think he’s right.

I’ve got salt on my skin again. A man at my side who sees me in a way I never thought I’d let anyone see me. Foxx isn’t the reason I started healing. But he’s the reason I kept going. We met in the pull of a riptide, all force and breathless wanting, and we didn’t fight it. We let it take us somewhere new, because what we’re building is now full of peace and slow mornings together, nothing like the life I used to chase. This is real.

It’s mine.

And for the first time in a long time, I want it all.

***

It’s early evening, warm and golden, the kind of light that makes the salt in the air shimmer. We walked back from being at the beach with sand still clinging to our ankles, split a platter of grilled snapper at the corner restaurant, and now we’re here—sheets half-tangled, skin sun-warmed, limbs lazy and stretched across the bed like we’ve got all the time in the world.

He kisses me like he’ll never get enough, and that kind of attention is intoxicating and only makes me want him more. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. He kisses his way down my throat with single-minded focus, palms flat against my chest, grounding himself. And I let him. I let him crawl over me. I let him roll his hips against mine, hard and slow, his body already telling me exactly what he wants without words.

I slide my hand down his swim shorts, fingers wrapping around him, already slick, already straining. He groans, “Fuck yes,” into my ear, and my body erupts into a million nerve endings all begging for him.

“Baby,” I whisper, slowing my strokes just enough to bring him back into his body.

His eyes find mine. “Yeah?”

“Let me fuck you.”

It’s not a question, because we’ve talked about it already, but haven’t revisited it until now.

His breath hitches, eyes flickering between mine, and I can see how quickly his mind tries to reach for control, to stay in charge of the rhythm like he always has done. But then something shifts. His expression changes, the tension around his mouth eases, and his hands curl gently into the sheet on either side of my head like he’s holding on just to steady himself through the yes that’s already forming in his chest.

“You don’t have to,” I say gently, dragging my knuckles along his jaw. “We don’t have to rush this. You know that, right?”

“I want it,” he says, not looking away. “I’ve wanted it with you.” Those dark brown eyes burn into me like a brand, as I swallow past the euphoria of him admitting that to me. He wants me to have control and, fuck, have I been craving it. To see my man submit for me, even though I have no doubt he’ll still try to top from the bottom.

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