Surf & Surrender

by Riley Edgewood

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  QUINN

  I SAID IT. Exactly like I practiced. I didn't stutter. I didn't stumble.

  I'm rather proud of myself.

  Then he steals my moment, and my breath, simply saying, "No."

  It…doesn't compute at first. "What?"

  "No." He takes the last step down to the floor, though even now I have to look up at him. He must've grown at least two inches in the past few years.

  Not that I'm noticing. And I definitely don't have the urge to go to him, to lightly run my fingers over the bruise on his cheek. To…do other things involving touch.

  Fuck. Okay. Deep breath.

  The room smells sharp, like resin and sawdust, and a little toxic. But Sawyer took off his mask, so it's safe; the scents must be residual.

  "What do you mean, no?" I wish the shock of seeing him would wear off already. But it hasn't. Not even a little. I recognized the top of his head the moment he started to stand from behind the counter. But I chickened out and looked away. Now we're standing here in this dusty, narrow, mostly empty room, and there's nowhere else to look. "Sawyer?"

  He doesn't repeat himself, just stands there with his hands in his pockets, his face impassive.

  There was always a stillness in Sawyer, and I'm discovering he never lost it.

  But if he thinks he can stand there all calm and nonchalant and I'll give up all easily, he's truly forgotten the girl he once knew.

  "Who's the guy behind the counter?" I ask, angling my head toward the door behind him, redirecting the conversation for a second, needing to get my bearings. "I haven't seen him before."

  "Rajesh."

  "Rajesh," I try the name out, liking it immediately. I love the way it shapes in my mouth, the way it sounds.

  "He's gay."

  I laugh. "So? I can't like his name?"

  "Just so you know he won't go for you."

  "Jealous?" I want him to say yes. I want to make him jealous. Even after all these years. I want to affect him the way he affects me. Even though he shouldn't. He shouldn't affect me at all.

  "Just trying to keep you informed."

  "Funny. I didn't think that was something you cared about."

  The gauntlet's thrown.

  And his face is back to impassive.

  "Sawyer. Come on. I want closure. I want to move on."

  "From what I hear, you've had no trouble in that department."

  "Fuck you." The words slip out quietly, tight with the pain his own words sliced into me, cutting right though the thrill of wondering if he was jealous, wondering if I still affected him. "You don't get to judge me."

  "I'm not judging you, Quinn. Jesus. I know I don't have that right." He runs a hand through his hair, making a thin layer of sawdust rise in the air. "But don't come in here on some moral high ground like I owe you so much when you've been having a fine time without me." Something in his expression flickers. Hurt? Anger? I can't read him anymore and I hate it.

  I also want to take a bite out of the angle of his strong, strong jaw. I hate that almost as much. My body's betraying me, making my anger—my years of anger—seem less and less significant.

  "Those two things aren't as connected as you seem to think," I say, letting my face shape itself in an anger anyone could decipher. "I'm allowed to be both devastated by you and out doing my best to forget you." Just like, I hope, I'm allowed to be both hurt and extremely turned on.

  "Sounds like they're pretty connected to me." He scratches the corner of his mouth with his pointer finger—finally, it's a tell I recognize. He's wrestling with some internal struggle here, too.

  "So either they're connected, which gives me leeway to come in here on some moral ground, or they're disconnected and I'm just a slut who once had her heart broken by you. Whichever way you look at it, you owe me an explanation."

  "I'm not going to give you one," he says. "I'm sorry."

  I recognize this look in his eyes, too, the solid wall of determination. But I also recognize the smaller signs he's trying not to give. The re-tucking of his hands in his pockets, so forced casual. The heaviness in the way he swallows. He is still affected by me in some way. And…maybe it's a physical thing. We've never been lacking there. Which means I have one trick up my sleeve. I just have to figure out if it's worth the risk… "Why?"

  He shakes his head, not giving me anything to go on.

  "I don't understand," I say. "What does it matter to you now? Nothing. You never came back; you never even called. You made it clear it didn't matter to you. But it does to me. Can you just find a small part of yourself that wants to give me something?"

  "There are plenty of things I want to give you." His voice is low, threatening in the most deliciously nonthreatening way, and his eyes go a little wide like he didn't mean to say what he did.

  If I touch him…

  If I let him touch me…

  Maybe I'll get my answer.

  Maybe I'll tumble down the Sawyer rabbit hole all over again—and maybe I'll relive that pain of the crash landing.

  Maybe it'd be worth it.

  All these ifs. All these maybes.

  I need something more concrete.

  One way or another, I'm not leaving here without getting something I want.

  Answers—or a bite of that golden skin.

  Or, if I'm lucky, both. And yes, okay, call it a weakness, call it whatever, but getting to have my mouth on him just one more time? I'm suddenly desperate for the chance.

  I let my gaze drift down his face, over his chin; it lingers on the smooth skin between his jaw and his neck. Even after four years, I know just what he'd taste like if I put my mouth there, if I ran my tongue along the slope.

  Heat simmers in my belly, trickling a little lower.

  I meet his eyes again, swallowing a sudden excess of saliva. I have to be careful here, need to take my time. Misdirection's worked in the past, though he was eighteen the last time I managed it successfully. "You work here? This place is pretty cool."

  He studies me, but I don't think he's got his finger on what I'm doing. Soon, he'll have his fingers elsewhere if I get my way. "Just a standard surf shop."

  Like anything could ever be just standard when he's around.

  I glance up. There's a blue tarp hanging from the ceiling. "What's that for?"

  "Blues out the room. Like the walls. Helps to keep a sharp contrast for the whites of the boards when they're shaped."

  "And this?" I flick my toes against a bucket at the base of a wooden stand that extends like a balance beam with padded rods rising at each end. There's an identical bucket attached to the base of the second leg.

  "A bucket with cement."

  "I can see that," I say, dryly. "What's the whole contraption for?"

  "It's a shaping stand. The cemented buckets keep it from wobbling."

  "So it's pretty sturdy?"

  "Yeah." He's still studying me, still trying to figure out the switch in conversation.

  I still need to figure out how to get it where I want it. "I should probably know these things."

  "Why?"

  "Um, because I surf."

  He laughs. "Barely."

  As though he has any freaking clue about me anymore.

  "Sawyer, Sawyer." I keep my tone light, wagging my finger. "I'm not the same little girl you used to know. I've learned a lot about riding…" I pause, watching the effect my words have. Loving the new kind of stillness that falls over him. "…the ocean."

  His Adam's apple slides up and down his throat when he swallows. I've thrown another gauntlet—and this one's going to work.

  Enjoying the intensity of his gaze on me, I turn and walk to the back of the room, not that far, trailing my finger and leaving a line in the dust along a worktable. I touch one of the white foam boards leaning against the wall. This I actually recognize. It's called a blank, I believe. A canvas that will be shaped into a longboard, and it stands at least two feet taller than I am. Sturdy enough—ma
ybe—to hold the weight of two bodies. Even if one of them is rather tall and Sawyer-shaped. "What's this?"

  "It'll be a longboard. Until I shape it, it's a blank."

  "And this goes on the shaping stand?" As if I don't know. As if any idiot wouldn't be able to figure it out.

  "Yeah." His tone says no shit, Sherlock, but his gaze is appraising.

  My next breath finds the air crisper, somehow. Blooming with tension and a little sweet, too. "Show me."

  "Why?"

  "God, Sawyer. I just want to see, okay? Give me something here." There's a silent battle of wills, and neither of us looks away. But the moment passes, and I win. Biting back a triumphant smirk, I step aside to let him lift the blank. His arm grazes mine.

  He lays the board gently—in a way that makes me yearn to be handled the same exact way—across the stand. When he steps back, I press against it with my hands. Sturdy. "Could I hop up here?"

  "No."

  I smile at him. And then I push myself up, careful in my balance, flipping to sit on it. "Whoops."

  "Get down. You're going to ruin it." He sounds exasperated. And unsure. And like he's starting to get it.

  "Maybe you should help me with that." I shift back, making sure the board wiggles a little and gasping like I might fall. But I go too far and the entire thing starts to slide backward. Panic thrills through my stomach, right before he smacks his hands down on either side of me, catching the blank before it tips me backward. Steadying me while unsteadying me at the exact same time.

  The thrill in my belly accelerates rather than melting away now that I'm safe from falling. It slides a little lower, too, and I realize maybe I'm not as safe from falling as I think.

  He's careful to keep his hands far from my legs, while not so far that his face is forced to come too close to mine.

  But really, he's just giving me the perfect amount of space to spread my thighs in front of him. My knees press into his T-shirt, skimming his stomach along the way, and when his abs jolt at the contact, I let a small laugh slip out. I sound bold.

  What I am is skittish.

  Energized.

  Starting to long.

  Yeah. Being this close to Sawyer is the opposite of safe.

  "What are you doing?" His voice is rougher than a moment ago, and I'm pretty sure it's not from the exertion of balancing the board.

  "Have you really forgotten my moves, or are you feigning ignorance?"

  "Neither." A moment spreads between us… There's hesitation in his eyes.

  Then there isn't.

  He slides his hands toward me, slowly, along the edge of the board, until his thumbs graze my knees. I close my eyes for a moment to fully enjoy the shocks of pleasure from the contact, and when his calloused palms run up my thighs, his skin scratches my own in the most arousing way.

  "This?" he asks, his green eyes dropping to my mouth, lingering, lingering before dragging back up to meet my gaze. "This is what you want?"

  I nod, not sure if I can trust my voice to come out without shaking. Because it's all I've ever wanted.

  His hands on me. His breath brushing my face. His heart beating so close to mine.

  Oh, fuck it. I'm going for this even if he doesn't tell me what I want to know.

  I came here armed with nothing but false bravado and empty words. They aren't enough to keep me from falling back down the Sawyer rabbit hole. Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling into needing him.

  But…needing him isn't the same as forgiving him, and maybe as long as I hold on to that knowledge, it's okay to give in to how I want him.

  Because right now? I want him so badly my body's aching in a way that almost hurts.

  I shift my hips, slightly, side to side—just enough to have the pads of his fingers digging a little tighter into my skin, just enough to make him swallow again. "Yes," I say. "This. Exactly this."

  "What are you doing, Quinn?" he repeats, but the answer's in the air between us already, more solid than even the board I'm sitting on.

  "What aren't you doing, Sawyer?" I reach down between us, feeling him—already hard, there's the boy I've always loved. Or, the boy I used to love, I mean. Ready in an instant. Just as I remember. I wrap my fingers around him the best I can over his pants.

  Suddenly, his hands are at my waist and he's pulling me off the board.

  But he deposits me on my feet on the floor and he turns away, and my insides start to sink, low. Too quickly, too precariously low. I'm in some real danger here, emotion-wise. He shouldn't still have this much effect on my heart. My body? Maybe. My muscles, my nerves, my everything still remember the techniques he used to train them into feeling the best life has to offer.

  And they all begin to sing when he jerks the worktable away from the wall and shoves things off of it with one sweep of his arm. Papers and clunky tools go flying, crashing, tumbling to the floor.

  "So rough," I say, going for droll and ending up with quivery words. "The board could've worked just fine."

  He turns back to me, holding out his hand, his voice going coarse. "I don't have your catlike balance, honey. If we're doing this, I want something steadier beneath us. I don't want to have to focus on the force of gravity."

  "What do you want to focus on?" But I think I know his answer. And I think it's making me a little weak. And a lot turned on. And a lot…just…everything.

  His answer's so serious, it's like he's never spoken such truth in one word.

  "You."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SAWYER

  I'VE BEEN READY for this moment for years.

  I shouldn't be playing along, like everything's fine. Like it's only a physical thing between us. But that's how Quinn's rolling with it, and there's not a person alive who could stop me from following her lead right now.

  "This isn't going to be comfortable," I say. The table I've cleared is dusty. Rough. She deserves more than this. She deserves everything I'd planned four years ago, and more. But there's not much else in the room with us—and I'm sure as shit not about to leave for someplace else and break the moment. Even if I should.

  "You've made it clear I can't have the comfort I want from you." Her words have bite and they grip their sharp little teeth at the center of my chest, yanking. The sting lessens when she says, "I want something else at the moment, and trust me, Sawyer, if you make it comfortable, I'll be disappointed."

  I need to hear her say it. "What are you looking for at the moment?"

  "You." She throws the word back at me, and I wonder if my expression goes as drunk as hers did when I said it.

  I study the table because I can't look at her face, not when I'm pretty sure there are zero guards up across mine. Let her see too much and I'll spook her. Or intrigue her. I don't want the first, won't allow the second.

  I also can't put her on this disgusting table. I can't stand the thought of her perfect skin covered in the muck of the workshop. But I can't fathom the thought of not taking what she's offering.

  I'm hard as a fucking baseball bat, but this is more than that. Years ago, I found the strength to walk away from her. It feels impossible to do again. Even just to grab something to make her more comfortable…

  "Give me a second." My words come out too gruff, giving away more of what I'm feeling than I'd like, and I turn toward the store so she can't see any more of it on my face.

  "Where are you going?" Her voice is husky and confused and it takes everything I have not to turn around and slam her on to the table to satisfy the want I hear mixed with everything else.

  "Give me a second," I repeat.

  Walking with a boner is difficult and kind of painful. But walking into the store with a boner is going to be worse. Fuck.

  Quinn's stare drives heat into the back of my neck as I take the steps toward the door. I clear my throat and adjust myself at the same time, hoping she won't catch it, but she giggles and that heat jumps up to my ears. At least my work pants are a looser fit than jeans. Still kind of wish I had on bo
xers. Because even letting my dick go upright, no longer against the grain, so to speak, boner against material is an uncomfortable sort of tickle at best.

  I pull the door open, quiet as I can, but Rajesh must be watching it like a hawk because he sees me immediately. But eye contact's good. When the door shuts behind me, he says, "Haven't heard anything breaking or crashing, so I guess you're still alive."

  "Guess I am." I take the three steps necessary to a stack of the beach towels we sell, grabbing a couple. The shop's still empty other than Raj and…I should probably ask this guy's name, but, yeah. Not at this exact moment.

  "That's all you're going to tell me?" Rajesh cocks his head to the side, disappointed.

  I don't care. "Yep."

  I turn back toward the workshop, thinking I've made it without notice. But before the door shuts behind me, Raj's guy whispers something about a pitched tent.

  We don't sell camping equipment.

  My brief flash of embarrassed irritation falls away, though, when I find Quinn waiting for me, one eyebrow raised in the sexiest little expression. "Thought you might be ditching me in here," she says.

  "I was gone like five seconds."

  "Felt like eons." She doesn't say anything about the last time I left her, but it's sitting heavy in the air between us anyway.

  I hold the towels out. "Just wanted to grab these."

  "Why?" She leans back against the table, all forced casual.

  "For the table." I clear my throat. Shit. Everything's stilted all of a sudden.

  "Wow." Now she looks puzzled.

  "What?" I close half the distance between us. Even with the different tension between us now, I want her more than I've ever wanted anything.

  "It's…thoughtful," she says, also thoughtfully.

  It kills me that she seems surprised I'd think of her. It kills me that she doesn't remember the way my every thought was always for her. Or maybe she's rewritten her memories. I can't blame her for it if she has.

  We really shouldn't be doing this. I really should walk away. But the way she's looking at me? Batting those long lashes and licking her lips with little darts of her tongue… It's a wonder I have room left for a single thought in my brain.