Page 52 of Cross Check Daddies
She disappears into the tent with the bag, and I turn back to the ocean, eyes on the waves. They’re tame tonight. Just enough to play. Nothing dangerous. Nothing she can’t handle.
A few minutes later, she reappears. My mouth goes dry.
She chose the black suit.
It hugs every curve she’s got, straps teasing across her back, dipping low between her shoulder blades, the bottoms cut high on her thighs. She’s barefoot, sand clinging to her calves. Moonlight slides down the slope of her collarbone, silvering her skin.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Damn right I am.”
She walks past me, toward the water. “Let’s see if you’re as good on the board as you are at talking me into things.”
We paddle out. I help her balance. She squeals when the first wave knocks her sideways and laughs when I catch her waist, steadying her for the next one. Her hair gets soaked. Mine too.
We lose track of time chasing waves and bad jokes, splashing each other like we’re kids again. Her body moves with mine likeit’s always known the rhythm, like the space between us doesn’t know how to stay wide for long.
When we finally collapse onto the sand, breathless and dripping, she lies beside me on the towel, hair spread out, skin flushed from salt and play. I glance over at her, heart thudding.
She turns her head toward me, still catching her breath.
“Why do you keep doing this?” she asks. “You’re making it so hard not to want everything.”
I shift, brushing a wet strand from her cheek.
“Because you already do. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t see it.”
She says nothing. Just stares at me, water beading on her lashes, lips parted like she’s caught between running and leaning in.
So, I do it for her.
I lean over and kiss her, slow and wet and deep, tasting the salt and heat and something darker. Her mouth opens under mine, her hands sliding up my shoulders, pulling me closer until I’m half on top of her, and neither of us cares how soaked we are.
This thing—whatever it is—it’s not safe. It’s not smart. But it’s alive.
And she’s still here. Which means she hasn’t said no yet.
Her body’s pressed to mine, still slick from the surf, her breath catching every time I slide my thigh between hers. She’s grinding against me like she’s forgotten where we are.
Her lips are on mine, hungry, wetter than they were earlier, and every shift of her hips drags her cunt right over the hard line of my cock, still trapped behind board shorts that are doing nothing to hide how badly I want her.
She gasps when I suck on her bottom lip, her nails scraping lightly over my shoulders, and then pulls back, eyes wild.
“I have an idea,” she whispers.
“Me too,” I say, kissing her through the fabric of her bikini top, nuzzling the curve of her breast as I mouth over it. “Starts with you riding my?—”
“No,” she giggles, sitting up suddenly. “Not that. Not yet.”
Damn, I love seeing her like this—lit by moonlight and adrenaline, her skin glowing and her laugh cracking the tension like a match to oil.
“What kind of idea?” I ask, sitting up with her, my cock still throbbing.
She stands, backing away from me. Then, without a single warning, she tugs the bikini top over her head and drops it. My jaw goes slack.
Then she shimmies her bikini bottoms down, those teasing hips swaying like she knows I’m about to lose it. She tosses them onto the towel, then runs straight into the ocean.
“Skinny dipping,” I mutter to myself, stunned and lit the fuck up. “She’s naked in the damn ocean.”
