Surf & Surrender

by Riley Edgewood

  "For a newbie, you've cut straight through the learning curve," I say, my words coming out uneven between choppy breaths. But every time he thrusts, my breasts are shoved against his chest and my nipples are aching and thrilling and my legs wrap around his waist and my hips are rising so he has even deeper access. And he takes it, pausing for the briefest moment to angle higher on his knees…

  "I've imagined this exact moment with you so many times, Quinn, it's almost been choreographed for years. Plus…I've watched a few…um…tutorials."

  "Porn, you mean?" I laugh, and then he's slamming into me—and I mean slamming, like so hard I'm going to have the best bruises ever tomorrow—and I'm moaning and making noises I didn't know I was capable of, but I'm tightening around him and my stomach is closing in on itself, unable to handle the fireworks racing through me, down me, all the way to my feet. I wrap my legs around him and buck my hips harder and harder, needing that force, that friction between us and I think I stop breathing for a second because oh holy hell there's just too much to feel right now to remember something so trivial.

  He pauses again, and my heart's beating so fast I wonder if it's going to punch straight through my chest. But while I appreciate the moment to breathe, which I do, pulling in huge bursts of air, I'm already impatient and aching for that same sweet roughness. I rock my hips and he pushes back, holding me still with his weight, laughing a little. "One second, honey."

  He frees one of my hands and licks his fingers—and then his palm—simply saying, "Getting rid of the sand," when I raise a questioning brow. And then I get it because he's reaching between us to slide his now-sand-free fingers over me, through me, spreading me and pulling my skin in a way that's somewhere between painful and a tickle with an entire continent of silky sweetness in between.

  He shifts his hips again, sliding slowly halfway into me and then back out, slowly halfway into me and then back out—and just as I'm about to beg for more, he thrusts hard and fast and all the way in, rocking me so hard I fly.

  This time he doesn't stop.

  Even when I beg him to slow down because the shape of the orgasm forming under my skin is almost frightening in its intensity. I never knew what this could be like, doing it with someone I love. And now I never want it any other way.

  Despite my begging, he grins a wicked little grin and keeps driving into me, pulsing his fingers against me, biting my neck, my chest, my everywhere, and when I come this time I scream so loud he covers my mouth a second before jerking rigidly into me one final time of his own.

  Thrills ripple through me from the center of my belly to the center of my legs, skipping like stones down my thighs and out my arms and up my neck, and there's not a spot on my body that isn't quivering and spent and deliriously, deliciously happy.

  I think, maybe, as I lie beneath him, holding him, panting, that I've just experienced an orgasm four years in the making. My body's been waiting for this. To feel him, to be with him, to have him completely inside of me. To let him complete me the way he just has. To know I've done the same for him… It's beautiful. And perfect. And like nothing I've ever imagined possible.

  Sawyer collapses on top of me, his weight almost too heavy for me to breathe—but when he tries to slide off, I tighten my legs around his back and wrap my arms across his shoulders to hold him in place anyway.

  Because I love this.

  Our hearts hammering furiously against each other. His forehead pressed against mine, sweaty—not sure which one of us, probably both—and he's breathing as hard as I am and when I shift my hips a little to let him slip out of me, he does so with a shaky giggle. I instantly pull his mouth to mine again because after all the rough, hot sex, that giggle was the smallest sign of his innocence, and I love him so much right now I feel it everywhere. Running through my veins. Beating in my heart. Tingling in my palms and in my stomach.

  We missed the pinks and golds of the sunset, but now the sky above us is a swollen bruised purple and over Sawyer's shoulder, the first few stars are beginning to shimmer and I wouldn't change a single thing.

  "This is the night we should've had four years ago," he says, his breath washing over my face.

  "This is the night we should have every night from now on," I say.

  "Maybe we should take it to the tent," he says.

  "That requires moving."

  "True."

  So we lie here for a while longer. Eventually I roll out from under him, though, needing at least one full breath. He watches me and when I tilt my head, questioning his expression, he says, "I could lie here and watch you for the rest of my life."

  "You'd probably get hungry."

  "Yeah," he agrees. "And it'll be too dark to make you out in a few more minutes."

  "Speaking of getting hungry," I say, pointing to the cooler he retrieved earlier. "How's a PB&J sound?"

  "Almost as good as having you one more time."

  I raise both brows this time. "Already?"

  He glances down and I follow his gaze. Semi-hard. Wow.

  Even more surprising is the light pulsing, spiraling down my stomach and resting between my legs. Already.

  "But we can eat first," he says, grinning. He rolls to his side and I admire his perfectly shaped, albeit pale, ass before he sits up.

  By the time he turns around again, though, I'm already in the ocean. Rinsing off.

  He drops the sandwiches and jogs out to join me. "You know," he says, splashing in to me. "Sharks come out at night."

  "They do," I say. "But I needed to rinse off. I managed to get some sand, it turns out, in a few…un-sand-welcoming places."

  He dips under and rises again dripping wet, pushing his hair away from his face, and he's so unbelievably sexy I can't do anything other than stand here, the water lapping at my waist, and stare. Ocean droplets slide lazily down his chest and trim stomach. Water clings to his lashes and shimmers in front of his eyes. Eyes, I notice, that are studying me as intensely as I'm studying him.

  I wade toward him, needing to touch him, to lean into his chest, to have all of him against all of me. He wraps his arms around me and I listen to the thumping of his heart. "Want to know what my fantasy is?"

  "Tell me and we'll do it."

  "Ah, we need a wall for it, unfortunately. The tent just isn't sturdy enough."

  "You have to tell me now." His voice is husky

  I grin into the space between his ribs. "Over the years I…I always had this fantasy of you…taking me from behind, me pressed against the wall."

  "Jesus. Let's get out of here and find some place with a wall."

  I laugh.

  "Sorry about the, um, awkward flipping you to your back earlier," he says. "I'll get the hang of this with a bit more practice. I'm a quick learner." It's sweet that he's feeling vulnerable about this.

  "Sawyer, you started my night off letting me ride your face and ended it slamming into me to build a second orgasm. I'd say you've got nothing to worry about."

  "What do you mean ended it?" He smirks down at me, jutting his hips against me so I'll feel his now full erection.

  I smile up at him. "I love you, Sawyer. And I'd like to help you out here… It's just that right now? I might be willing to leave you for a PB&J."

  "Too bad there won't be any left." He scoops me up, tosses me out farther into the water, and by the time I resurface and swim to the shore, he's already scarfed down an entire sandwich, wrapped himself in a towel—and is waiting for me, holding out one of each.

  I grab the towel first, wrapping it around my chest, and then the sandwich. Which is gone in about three bites. So I go for a second, and so does he. We eat in silence, smiling at each other, the only sounds coming from the shushing of the waves and the squelching of the sticky bits of peanut butter when we peel our tongues from the roofs of our mouths.

  I pull a beer from the cooler and toss him one, too. He tugs me onto the blanket with him, sitting down and settling me between his legs. He sweeps hair away from the side of m
y neck and presses his lips gently against me, murmuring, "I love you."

  I press the side of my face into his chest, looking up at him. "I love you, too."

  He kisses me and we clink our beer bottles and we sit and watch the ocean and the stars.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  QUINN

  AFTER A WHILE, I remember what else I've planned for the night. I push myself up, off the blanket. Sawyer reaches out for me, but I say, "I'll be right back—gimme a sec," and walk to the back of the tent, pressing the button at the end of a cord hanging there.

  The twinkle lights I've hung across the top shimmer to life. Just like the ones he left for me four years ago. He watches me, without smiling, but his eyes soften in the corners and I know it means as much to him as it does to me. "These aren't the same ones you had, so it's not exactly the same this time, but I figure it's close enough?"

  "You're pretty fucking cute, you know that?" He stands to meet me, pulling me against his chest. "Why don't you show me what's inside that tent now? Or let me show you how good I plan on making my word for another round. And another after that, if you're still game."

  "No question I will be," I say, scraping my teeth against his chest. "I already am. And as for inside, there isn't much. Just an old radio with a ratty red bow."

  His grip around me tightens. "I can't believe you set it up the exact same way."

  He leads me toward the tent, and I say, "We'll have to be careful because of all the sand…it could get really uncomfortable."

  "Maybe I'll clean you with my tongue, first," he says, his voice a little gruff like he's imagining doing just that.

  And so I let him.

  And so, in turn, he lets me.

  At some point we find a faded country music station on the radio—the same one, I imagine, I found four years ago—and we spend the rest of the night exploring each other's mostly sand-free bodies with twinkle lights flickering above us.

  It turns out he was right. By the time we could go in for a fourth round, I'm too sore. I'm too tired. I'm too…sated. So I tell him we can save it for the morning. And I fall asleep against his chest while he runs his fingers through my hair.

  Except in the morning, I wake with dried saliva halfway down my chin, feeling about as sexy as a pile of crumbled dirt, and Sawyer's not even beside me anymore.

  I find him drifting in the ocean, eyes closed, chest up toward the sun. The gentle swell of waves lifts him more fully from the water, and I could stare at his body all day. He seems so…relaxed. Different from that stillness in his soul, it's like…he's let go of a stress long carried. And I grin because I have too.

  We found each other again and we don't have to hide anything, and I am his and he is mine.

  And together? It turns out? We are freaking starving.

  "I'll take you for breakfast," he says, drying off while I slip into the extra dress I brought. Skipping the underwear and twirling them around my finger before tossing them at him. He holds them out delicately, studying them and licking his lips. "Then, I'll take you to my house. To my bedroom. Hell, to the stairwell if we can make it that far."

  "Maybe just to your car," I say, smiling. "After we eat, of course. You're taking me to Stack'em High, I'm assuming?"

  He steps into his jeans and pulls on his shirt from last night after shaking out the sand. "Like I'd ever take you anywhere else."

  "I don't know. Someday I might get sick of pancakes." I hand him one of the throwaway toothbrushes I packed and use the second one for myself.

  "Yeah, the day the ocean freezes over."

  It's true.

  I follow him to the restaurant because I'm guarding in Kitty Hawk later today, which is where we're eating. I'll leave my car here and he can drop me off later…after his house…or stairwell. Oh, God. Maybe I don't need pancakes. Maybe I'll just take a bite of Sawyer. And let him take one of me. And another. And another…

  But when we slide into a booth next to each other and my order comes, I'm forced to reconsider. I wonder if I'd be able to realistically choose Sawyer over pancakes if I could ever only have one of them again. I mean, I probably could. It's just… Fluffy pancakes. Butter. Real maple syrup. There's no better combination in the world.

  Then Sawyer slips a hand up my leg, under my dress—like all the way up my leg and then between them both—and, yep, I could walk away from pancakes on the spot.

  "I'm starving," he says, with a wicked grin.

  I point to his plate. "Your omelet awaits."

  "That's not what I want." He slides his hand away from me and he licks his freaking fingers and I swear to God I squirm in my seat because I'm instantly throbbing for him.

  "Jesus, Sawyer," I hiss, grinning. "Stop doing that!"

  "What?" He shrugs, his eyes twinkling. "We have a lot of time to make up for and," he licks his finger again, "you're tastier than anything they offer on the menu."

  I lift a hand, catching our waiter's eye. "Check, please!"

  But then I catch someone else's eye. Erika Covington. Perfectly coifed (faux) blonde chignon, pink blazer, poised as always, sitting with her grandchildren, and staring at me with disdain. I have no doubt my mother will be the first person she calls as soon as she's left the restaurant.

  Which means I have to call my mom first. With a not-so-gentle reminder that she's not allowed to get upset when I'm spotted with Sawyer.

  "I'll be right back," I say, sliding over Sawyer's lap and out of the booth. "I left something in my car." Not a lie. My phone. It slid off my console when I braked a little too hard on the way here, and I forgot to grab it.

  I find it on the floor tucked under my surfboard and I almost hit the call button, but then screw it. I don't feel like speaking with her, so I text her instead. Out with Sawyer, saw your friend, Erika. Sure she'll call you to gossip, but if you so much as breathe a word of the things you're not allowed to say, I swear to God I'll carry out every single threat I promised.

  Not that my mother would ever mention Brock to Erika. Erika comes from super old money, and discussing anything about finances would simply shock her, oh, the drama—excuse me while I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out—but I don't want the image of me sitting with Sawyer to spur my mother into going to the authorities like she threatened for so many years.

  And…now that I have my phone in hand, maybe it's time I get Sawyer's phone number. I smile to myself and hop out of my Jeep and discover Jess standing on the sidewalk in front of me, skateboard in hand. He's scowling. I wave.

  "I know you're here with my brother." He shoves his skater cap lower across his forehead.

  "Actually, I'm on the sidewalk with you." I try to smile, but he sneers harder. Guess cheesy jokes aren't going to work on him like they did four years ago. "Jess…I'm sorry. Can we talk? I've missed you. A lot."

  "Screw you." He swings open the door to the restaurant and slams it behind him, leaving me gaping on the sidewalk. And I watch him search for Sawyer—and then storm to our table, and sweep our plates onto the floor shouting something so loud the entire restaurant turns to watch.

  Oh, shit. Is it awful that I kind of want to slink back into my Jeep?

  But I can't make Sawyer stick it out alone. Not when Jess is so furious. I dart into the restaurant and grab his elbow when his arm cocks back—to do who knows what, as Sawyer's too far away for him to hit.

  "Get off of me," Jess rounds on me, his eyes furious. "You don't get to ruin my family a second time. Go away, Quinn. You're such a bitch."

  I blink, frozen to the floor. His words are like razors scraping through my stomach. He glares at me. "You think I don't know what you're up to? Now that we're back and getting settled and you're just going to fucking have your fun and toss—"

  "That's about enough out of you." Sawyer doesn't raise his voice, but it's sharp enough to slice through whatever else Jess was about to say, through whatever I was about to respond with. He throws a wad of cash on the table, pushes himself out of the booth, and grabs his b
rother around the back of his neck, squeezing so tight, Jess winces.

  "Sawyer—" I start, but he cuts me off with a look.

  He shoves Jess through the restaurant and out the door. I…tiptoe behind them, casting apologetic glances around the room, my face flaming. Erika Covington's watching me blandly, without even raising an eyebrow. My mom's going to get such an earful… But I'm more concerned with Jess at the moment. With why he's so angry.

  And with the way Sawyer seems furious enough to kick his ass into next Tuesday.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  QUINN

  SAWYER SHOVES JESS through the crowded parking lot and onto a patch of grass before letting him go. Jess's hands are balled into fists by his side, and I wonder where his skateboard is. I turn and find it discarded by the exit of the pancake house. I run back to grab it, but by the time I'm back to the patch of grass, Sawyer's face is directly in front of Jess's and I can't make out what he's saying because he's speaking so low. But his jaw is set and his expression is menacing—and Jess, the little dummy, isn't backing down. And then he shoves a fist into Sawyer's stomach.

  Sawyer doesn't budge, doesn't even back up a step. Doesn't drop his gaze. And his jaw flexes and I can tell he's so mad he might be about to do something he'll regret. I sprint up to the grass, shoving my way between them. "What is wrong with you, Jess?"

  "According to Sawyer, everything," he spits at me. "But he's the one fucking it all up."

  Sawyer puts a hand on my shoulder and Jess stiffens at the sight, yelling that he's a traitor.

  I step away from Sawyer—no need to piss Jess off more than he already is. Sawyer says, "Tone it down."

  "You tone it down. You think I don't know you've been with her for weeks? I saw you at the bonfire. I saw you." Jess's voice cracks, and so does my heart. "You're such a fucking hypocrite. Telling me I couldn't talk to her and then doing it anyway."