Stay With Me (5 page)

Before he’d gone to UM, Trevor had never seen the beach before in real life. Iowa born and bred, he’d confessed. As if his wheat-colored sheaf of hair and a big bucktoothed corn-fed smile wasn’t my first clue. His accent alone told me he was from some flat state where farming was more than a vague thing that happened to our food before it appeared on the shelves at Publix.

I’d never contemplated such an existence—the beach was such a part of south Florida living that it was almost synonymous. Trevor had seen a lake, a reservoir, and fished on a couple of streams and ponds, but that was as close as he’d gotten to big water. A brief memory of him telling me that and then surprising him with our first date on the beach filtered through my mind. His smile had seemed to cover his entire face as he’d kicked off his shoes and run down the beach like a maniac.

His smile didn’t look like that anymore. He had polished, capped veneers. I knew it was ridiculous and an opinion that only I had, but I thought he’d looked better before. As I pulled into a vacated spot, small but prime in location, I realized it was the first time in a long time that I’d thought anything positive about Trevor. Just Trevor. Trevor, my buddy, who had dragged me to South Beach after class and laughed through Jell-O shots on Coconut Grove. My roommate, eventually more, and now, finally, less. I felt a brief spurt of anger that just the thought of facing what he was had been enough to send him running into the arms of the nearest woman he could find. No, that wasn’t quite fair to Laura. She wasn’t the bottom of the barrel—was actually an attractive woman if you went for that kind of thing. Trevor didn’t. No one could suck dick like that and still be attracted to women. Trust me.

I shook off my doldrums and grabbed my board out of the truck, not bothering to wind up the windows in the sticky heat. I grinned at the sight of a familiar figure on the water, cutting through the waves so confidently it was obvious he’d made some sort of Devil’s pact with Poseidon. Asher could surf like a professional and was the happiest beach bum I’d ever met. I stood and watched him for a moment, not wanting to interrupt his ride, letting the warm, salty surf lap at my ankles.

With the experience I had now, I realized that on my first time out, I’d looked absolutely ridiculous. I’d researched to my heart’s content and let some sloe-eyed clerk at Ron Jon (cute, in an I-just-hit-a-joint way) sell me the best of the wax, best of the boards, and best of gear. I spent a small fortune on a board I was in no way qualified to ride and trotted out there determined to make it work. On my way past the parking lot, I’d passed a guy sitting on the back of his car—some kind of American muscle deal—laughing at me openly. I’d goggled for a minute—black-, white-, and orange-striped board shorts riding low on his lean hips, skin burnished dark honey from the sun, damp hair curling on his shoulders—he was yet another reason to learn to surf. I spent most of my first time out pearling while I tried to find my balance, eventually losing that board on the rocks. Black/white/orange board shorts, I found out later named Asher, had been waiting for me on the shore.

“You givin’ up?” he’d asked, a small smile curling on his lips.

“Does it look like I have a board anymore?” I’d snapped, annoyed beyond belief that I’d just lost a month’s rent to the rocks and the ocean. The first time in months that I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, and I’d wound up looking like a wet rat, battered, beaten, and laughed at by the ocean.

“Wrong board anyway. Come out tomorrow. Waves are shit now anyway. I’ll show you what you need.”

He had. My board now was a quad fish, certainly nothing as high performance as Asher’s gun board, but I couldn’t do those kind of fancy tricks anyway.

Asher finally saw me and waved, managing to even make wiping out look cool. I paddled out to him and gave him a fist bump. (Really, one day, I had to stop doing that.)

“Nice wipeout.”

“Shut up.” He grinned, straddling his board with ease. “Waves are good today. I think even you could catch one.”

“Fuck off, Asher.”

We waited out two other hotdoggers out there—God knows I would tank their wave.

“What’s with the leg brace?” he asked, nodding at the black stretch bandage around my thigh.

I held it aloft briefly, shaking my head. “Strained it.”

“You okay?”

“Don’t I look okay?”

“You look better than okay, sugar,” he said with a leer. It was fairly harmless. We’d already gone there. Done it a million times. Had the T-shirts. Ripped the T-shirts off. Did it again.

“You see the posters for the next competition? They’re going up to Big Key in three weeks,” I said, already knowing what his response would be. Or lack thereof.

For some odd reason, Asher seemed determined to hide his talent. He lived in a small bungalow near the beach and taught surf classes for the curious tourists that landed on our beach every now and again. As far as I knew, he lived in bare feet and board shorts.

He cut me a sideways look that made his already exotically shaped eyes even more pronounced. “Is that a hint or a question?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. Entry fee is a couple hundred. Although you could probably get BoardWay to sponsor you.”

The surf shack on the beach would definitely sponsor him. He was practically a legend out here.

“You come out here to lecture me or surf? And you’re corking again.”

I resettled my center of gravity, grumbling about ungrateful people who hid their light. I took the next wave that broke, not waiting for Asher’s advice, irritated with his stubbornness. I wiped out summarily, but not before getting a few seconds of air.

“Better,” I sputtered, clinging to my board like a lifeline.

“Certainly can’t get worse,” Asher agreed cheerfully.

I grinned. We floated a moment before I pointed out a beauty of a wave and said, “Wait, wait, this is going to be my
Blue Crush
moment.”

Asher laughed, managing to utter, “Go for it, dude.”

As the wave came closer, he pointed, voice raised above the beating surf. “This is it. Cut right!”

I paddled like mad before rising up smoothly on my board like I’d been doing it all my life—actually I’d been practicing on my bed. I gripped the center with my toes and cut through the wave like a professional. Okay, maybe not, but I’d like to think I looked good out there. I rode the wave, feeling amazed instead of scared as the height of the wave rose to form a bluish-green water wall behind and around me. I put out my hand, dragging it through the frothy water wall before topping out and going under.

I broke through the surface, water pelting down on my hair and back like rain as I gasped and rubbed my eyes. My board bobbed to the surface, tethered securely by the leash, and I grabbed it. I spotted Asher giving me a huge thumbs-up and began a leisurely stroke toward him lying flat on his gun board.

“I’m getting better,” I said, treading water beside his board.

“You still stink,” he said, swiping the hair out of his eyes. The usually auburn locks were dark with water, almost black, and curled around his neck in waves.

Suddenly I felt this crazy fondness for him. He was probably as messed up as I was, but he was true and real. Something in my eyes must have changed, because he leaned in, pressing wet, cold lips to mine.

When he pulled away, his eyes were dark and serious. “You want
to?”

“Still romantic as ever.” I grinned.

He blushed, and if my answer hadn’t been yes before, it was now.

“Why not?”

T
HERE
WAS
nothing slow and gentle about the way we came together. He backed me into his door, hands in my shorts, secure on my behind.

“God, you must have the greatest ass,” he groaned somewhere near my ear. Must be, since his hands hadn’t left it in over five minutes. “So soft and round—the most fucking perfect bubble butt I’ve ever fucked.”

All right, so I guess we know who’s going to bottom, then.

“Shut it, Romeo. I’m not here for poetry,” I deadpanned before claiming his mouth with mine.

Our mouths were open and hot as they meshed against each other and his tongue dueled with mine. He pushed me back against the wall hard enough to make me wince, and I bit into his shoulder as he shoved my shorts down to my feet and began jacking me off. There was no other word for it, because Asher was no romantic. He knew what he wanted, and he went straight for it. There was no buildup. No foreplay. Sometimes I wanted to tell him that there was something in between my dick and my lips, but not today. Remnants of my dream still lingered in my mind. Today I wanted it just as hard and dirty as he could give it. And if I was thinking of Jordan fucking me while he did it, well, so what of it?

He pointed to the shorts pooled around my ankles. “Off,” he demanded, always the wordsmith, and I stepped out of them.

I allowed him to push me over the arm of the couch and rolled my eyes at his groan at the sight of me, facedown on the soft leather, bubble butt high in the air. I don’t know where he got the lube, but I felt a squirt somewhere in the region of my backside and ground my teeth at his lack of consideration. I had to try hard not to let annoyance ruin my mood, but apparently my erection had no hard feelings. This was nothing new. He was a good person, but Asher looked out for Asher. Always. I held out my hand for the lube, and he slapped it in my palm.

I know it was popular with some, but there was no way he was getting inside me without any prep, even if I had to do it myself.

“Condom,” I reminded him, ignoring his groan as he began digging through the side table.

I squirted the cool lube over my fingertips and circled my rimmed entrance leisurely before easing a finger past the grasping muscle. Just that little bit and my head was suddenly hanging down between my shoulders as I lost myself in the sensation. I’d always been a sucker for anal play, and from the way the sound of rummaging ceased, I realized Asher was too.

“Let me,” he said hoarsely, palming one of the globes of my butt, watching my fingers disappear inside my hole. I pushed his hand off.

“Condom,” I said huskily, not wanting to get too far gone. Anal play was all well and good, but sometimes a guy needed a dick up his ass.

“I can’t find one,” he whined.

I added another finger, my breathing gone quite shallow as I pretended Jordan was behind me, fucking me for all he was worth. “If you don’t hurry, you’re not going to need one.”

He cursed and stomped off for the bedroom, and I ignored him. By the time I added a third finger, he was back, and my dick was stiff as a brick. I removed my fingers slowly, wiping sticky digits on his couch cushion.

“Ass,” he said, smacking mine, and I smirked. “Goddamn, Mac,” was all the raspy warning I got before I got an ass full of dick.

There was a certain familiarity in the way he entered me, the way he could never resist pulling my hair back. There was no finesse, no fake declarations, no exchange of dirty talk—the kind that made you blush after coming. It was just a hard, fast fuck, and I buried my head in the crevasse of the couch cushions and resigned myself to not sitting for a week.
Worth it,
my inner slut acknowledged.

“You close?” His voice came near my ear.

“Ugnh” was all I could manage as I stroked myself so fast my hand was a blur. A moment later, an orgasm was wrenched out of me, and I yelled, the muscles of my ass clamping down hard on his dick. He suddenly pulled out, and I heard the distinct snap of rubber as he disposed of the condom. His shout was hoarse as the warmth of ejaculate splattered on the small of my back.

We lay there for a second—me with my face buried in the cushions, him slumped over my back, panting like we were seventy.

“Out of shape,” I managed to huff.

“I hope you’re talking about yourself” came his amused voice in my ear. “Smokey Joe.”

“Get off me, you oaf.”

I heaved him off my body with what little energy I had left and lay back on the couch. “Ugh,” I said, realizing his cum was all over my freaking back as I slid a little. “You know, Ash, that’s what the fucking condom is for.”

He grinned, wiping hair out of his eyes. “It’s not acid.”

I smiled sweetly. “Remember that when you’re cleaning your couch.”

I got up and stumbled to the shower, wrenching the levers of both hot and cold. I should have felt better, I thought, standing under the punishingly hot spray. Not only had I gotten laid, but I’d proven Drew wrong that I was the Wicked Ice Queen of South Florida. Bet you he’d never taken off a workday and gotten lucky. No, there was no postcoital bliss. No cuddling and no sense of well-being. It was relief of release and nothing more. When had that become not enough?

He had migrated to the bed by the time I came out, face half buried in the covers.

“I’m leaving my board,” I said, toweling my hair, naked as a jaybird. “I’ll pick it up next time I come down.”

“This isn’t a storage facility,” he said from under a pillow.

“Better be in one piece,” I threatened.

“No worries. I have no other pupils inexperienced enough to make use of that board.”

I smacked him on the ass hard enough to make him yelp. The sight of his muscled cheeks upturned on the bed was enough to make me kneel over him, one knee on each side of his hips.

“Mmm, round two?” he murmured, not opening his eyes.

I kissed him between the shoulder blades, letting my semihard dick slide leisurely between his firm butt cheeks. “Just enjoying the view.”

I’d just started to dry hump him in earnest when my phone buzzed beside the bed.

I groaned. “Did you bring that in here?”

“Yeah,” he answered, lifting his hips encouragingly when I stopped. “Your stupid alarm went off.”

“Ergh.” I pressed Talk and jammed it under my ear. “What’s up?”

“Mackenzie.”

I sighed and wished I had listened to my first instinct and let it go to voice mail. “I think I hear from you more now than when we were dating.”