Page 65 of The Surfer

I want her. I want all of her.

And then, in one mighty moment, I reach orgasm. I come. Ripley shrieks as my body tenses.

Oh, fuck yes.

“Fuck, Ripley.”

She holds me close, her hot breathing against my ear and her hands ruffling up my hair, as I pour into her. She purrs as I come, enjoying it as much as I am.

Yeah, that’s the best fucking sex I’ve ever had.

On our own secret beach. With no one else around.

It’s so sexy.

Just us and the waves and the sand and the salt and the sun.

* * *

Ripley doesn’t wantto untangle herself from me and it’s kinda cute. It’s cute the way she’s wrapped herself around me, refusing to let go even as she slowly drifts off to sleep.

We lie on the sand on our secret beach, blissful after our amazing fuck fest earlier this afternoon. I’m still sore from it and I know I can’t even begin to understand what Ripley must be feeling if I’m still stiff from it. But, judging from the warm way she’s cuddling me, she loved it very much.

I watch the American girl as she falls asleep. I hold her in my arms protectively as her eyelids get progressively heavier and heavier and she finds it harder to stay awake. It’s cute, but I’m stuck. Her own limbs aren’t going to let go of my body easily.

Oops.

I really am stuck, but I don’t care. This is heaven.

I can’t believe she wants to care for me like this. I can’t get my head around the fact she wants to be here with me. She actually wants me. She’s so different from anyone I’ve ever met.

This strange geeky American girl has flown into my home from a distant country and has worn me down with her funny accent and her sassy attitude. She’s absolutely nothing like the other girls I’ve encountered who passionately fall at my feet like adoring fans. Ripley makes me work for it. Work for her. Those other girls who just see me as this rich bad boy they can kiss and tell on - run to a tabloid - they don’t care about me as Ripley does, they’re only after my famous billionaire name and my notorious reputation and the money from an interview deal. WHAT’S IT LIKE IN COVE FINN’S BED. All that crap.

But Ripley Sailor doesn’t see me like that. She sees me for who I really am. She cares for me, not for my reputation or my name, but for me.

And I know how rare that kind of care is, and I also know that, when and if you find it in life, you have to hold onto it tight. You may never find a love as rare as this again. Some people never do.

With everything stripped away, including my name, wealth, and reputation, it all just boils down to one thing. It all boils down to one dynamic between us.

I am her surfer boy, and she is my American girl.

And I don’t deserve any of this.

I don’t deserve her.

She’s absolutely perfect in every way. And I don’t deserve her.

She’s like a miracle entering my life the way she has. The way we’ve found each other.

I was the one who fell off that surfboard. I was the one, because of my mistake a year ago, to end up in hospital. I was the one who fell into the twisted self-destructive spiral of drugs and drink and girls and fucked my whole life up. I, out of anyone, don’t deserve a second chance, and I especially don’t deserve Ripley Sailor.

And Ripley Sailor doesn’t deserve to get hurt by me.

Because she will. Because I’m me and she’s her. I’m the big bad wolf. I will ruin her somehow.

She needs someone better than me. She deserves that.

I tenderly kiss her forehead as she sleeps. She stirs at my touch, softly purring and adjusting her arm across my chest to hold me tighter before she drifts back off.

Damn. This is too perfect.

This angel deserves someone better than me.