Lorelie Brown - Riding the Wave

Right?

Pushing the thoughts out of her head was easier this time. Better, with his fingers working magic inside her—heart-stopping strokes that had her mewling and rocking her hips up toward his touch.

A condom made its way into her hand, fished out of Tanner’s pocket. She unwrapped it, then slowly rolled the latex down Tanner’s shaft. It was very possible that she took her time for the sheer pleasure of hearing his inward-drawn breath.

“You’re a fucking minx—you know that?”

She laughed into his shoulder. “Did you call me a minx? Does anyone say that anymore? Oh my God, I’m going to tell the world what a dork you are.”

“You do and you’ll regret it.” He drew his fingers out of her, rubbing her wet juices over her clit. She had to bite her lip to avoid letting him know how hard that shook her or how good it felt.

She couldn’t afford to give him any more ammo. He did plenty well on his own and she’d rather not turn into a puddle once he left.

“Why don’t you try to stop me?” she said, but the words even sounded strained to her.

Because they were such an empty threat. He only had to pull her hips forward as he notched his cock in her pussy.

He slid in with one smooth thrust.

And fucked if she wasn’t owned again.

She slammed her eyes shut, but as quickly opened them again. He was staring at her, staring in her eyes, as she’d expected. The cool blue of his was comforting and exhilarating at the same time.

On a hot surge of sensation, she bit her lip again.

“Still think I’m a dork?” His voice had dropped an octave and the very sound of it rasped against sensitive nerves.

She shook her head. He gripped her breast, deliberately letting the rhythm of his strokes in her rub her nipple over his palm. “Keep doing that and I’ll call you anything you want.”

“Is that right?” He kissed her then, swallowing the noises she seemed to be making without even realizing it. Little gasps and moans and even one or two squeaks when he hit a spot inside her that turned her knees to jelly.

With little grasping slides along his back, she pulled him closer. Buried her face in the crook of his neck.

She didn’t even have to try for the orgasm. It came with the hard slam of his cock in her, the pleasure that racked her.

One huge, roaring wave that broke over her, like getting slammed by thousands of pounds of water.

It was that devastating.

Tears prickled her eyes. But still she couldn’t give him up. Wouldn’t. Her arms wrapped around him, she waited out the last strokes he slammed into her. Rode the wave a little longer.

Because every wave eventually came to shore.

“Goddamn it, Avalon.” The sun burned Tanner’s eyes, he was sweating his ass off, and he was about ten feet away from some of the best waves he’d seen since hitting California.

He was nowhere near being able to surf them.

“You’ll cope.” She circled him, the camera lifted to launch point. The woman wasn’t the least bit put off by his grumbling.

He pretty much dug that about her. That he could get loud and blustery was no surprise. He’d run off plenty of chicks with too much smack talking. Avalon stood her ground.

Or rather, forced him to stand his ground. She touched him abruptly, taking hold of his wrist and draping it over the WavePro-printed surfboard next to him. He lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously? This is how you’re posing me?”

“Look casual.”

He rolled his eyes.

“It’s part of your contract.” She lifted the camera. The lens clicked in a near-steady whirr. “So suck it up, Princess.”

“I can think of other things that need sucking.”

She dropped the camera and peered at him over the black body. “Really? That’s the line you’re going with?”

He shrugged. She looked too gorgeous for words. They’d spent every moment of the last three days in bed. When he wasn’t training, that was.

Or at meetings or making appearances or signing surfboards.

It probably made him a shithead, but he didn’t like this part of the gig. If it all came after the event, that might be different. But he wanted to put that goddamned trophy on his shelf before he dealt with all the little bullshit.

Not to mention, Avalon looked good enough to eat. She shook her head at him, then lifted some little device that measured . . . something. He’d never really paid attention to the photographers who’d swarmed around him before.

None of them had worn bikinis to their shoots, either. The little red halter one again, he’d been glad to see when he met her on the beach that morning. The expanse of her waist looked delectable. He wanted to dip his tongue in the small divot of her belly button.

Come to think of it, the photogs he’d dealt with before had all been male. Might’ve been a little off-putting if they’d worn bikinis.

“Pick the board up. Hold it behind you.”

He rolled his eyes again, but he did what she’d asked. This Avalon was brisk. Mostly businesslike and definitely a woman in her element.

Major turn-on.

But he had to stop thinking about that, or in a minute he’d have to be holding the board in front of himself. He hadn’t been that out of control since he’d been twenty-two and realized that being on the circuit pulled more tail than a bunny rabbit could shake. The way Avalon looked at him—when she wasn’t ensconced behind a camera—was pretty damn intoxicating. Considering his pre–Sebastian Pro clean living regimen meant no drinking, she was as close as he could get to a rush.

And she gave mean rush, that was for damn sure. The night before, they’d been up against the sliding glass door in his bedroom, their only audience the sand and midnight-gleaming waves.

He’d still been out on the water at dawn.

But he wanted to get a piece of these waves, too. That was part of it. No ride was ever enough. He had to push harder, go faster, catch more air. Even if the trophy never came with it all. He’d made plenty of money over the years. At this point, he was in it for the love of the waves and for the pride of the wins. “You’ve got ten minutes, Avalon,” he warned her. His gaze was fixed on the whitecaps. Burning down the left, they made a nice front he could slice down.

“Take your shirt off, then.”

“What?” He jerked his gaze back toward her. “Why?”

She wasn’t even looking at him. At the beach grass that lined the far edge of the beach, she knelt next to her kit, switching out lenses. “Beefcake shots.”

“No way,” he said automatically.

It wasn’t that he’d never taken shirtless pics before. They kind of went with the territory of being a beach sports star. But . . .

Well, to be honest, he’d never taken them with a woman he was banging on a regular basis. It almost felt like it had a tawdry kind of edge, taking borderline appropriate pictures.

“C’mon,” she said. Her tone had gone cajoling, her eyes wide. “No biggie, right? Don’t tell me big and mean Tanner Wright has a problem taking his shirt off.”

With a mental shake at his own momentary stupidity, he yanked the silky rashguard up over his head and tossed it on the sand behind him.

“Oh yeah,” she breathed. She lifted the camera in front of her face, but not before he got a good look at her wide pupils and the bright pink rolling over her cheeks. She was completely affected.

He laughed, looking off at the pier. Scrubbing his hand over the back of his head didn’t break the spell.

And it really didn’t help when she said, “There. Don’t move. Hold that a minute more and . . . Yes. Perfect.”

He’d heard that breathy tone before. The last time he’d been cock-deep inside her, the sheer perfection of her hold on him making him lose every shred of his control. She’d taken him away by pure enthusiasm.

He almost wished she’d go back to that businesslike tone.

At least then he’d know which version of Avalon he was dealing with.

“Well, well, well,” purred a male voice.

Mako stood behind him, a board under one arm. The man’s skin was dark, with a whiskey gold tone to it, attesting to his mother’s origins. But that mouth was all Hank Wright and it made Tanner want to plant a fist right in it. Especially when he smiled with smarmy intent, then flicked a gaze at Avalon.

“It does seem like this is a small world.” Mako’s hair was jet-black in direct contrast to Tanner’s and Sage’s golden tones. “I do promise I’m not a stalker . . . brother.”

The very word sent such strange, mixed emotions through Tanner. He wouldn’t have minded the idea of a brother—especially one who surfed. But Mako’s very existence had become bound up in nasty run-ins with his dad.

No grown man liked to beg his father. Yet that’s what Tanner had done, asking him to please, please, fucking put it all in the open. Hank had refused, leaving Tanner to deal with this wreckage after his death.

Some fucking surf god Hank Wright had proven to be.

Weariness suddenly sucked the power right out of his bones, draining into the sand. The years had put too much weight on his shoulders and he probably ought to get rid of it before the Pro. Or he’d be fucked.

Avalon edged nearer to him, but not quite enough to touch. That was a damned shame. He needed her reassurance for some reason. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Mako let the tail end of his board droop toward the sand. A green-and-yellow fish, the thing looked like it’d be almost too short for the tall, slender man. But if he could get it to work, the thing would carve like nothing else. He shrugged. “With the way our father left my mother dangling for years and years . . . No. Probably not.”