Page 27 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

“ O h.” Betty’s breath hitches, her forehead dropping to the rail. “ Oh .” Only two inches inside, and already her body is so hot and wet and perfect. She’s strangling me, sucking me deeper.

Salt spray flies across the deck, misting my hot face, but nothing could cool me down now. I’m burning up from the inside. Pleasure coils in my gut, and I grit my teeth against the urge to slam forward, rutting like a wild animal. The boat lurches over a wave.

“That’s it.” I stroke her back, the muscles shivering under my touch. Betty moans and rocks back again, taking another inch. “There, that’s it. Good girl.”

“ Oh ,” she says, her words slurred, shaking her head against the rail. “Oh shit. Why do I like hearing that so much?”

My grin behind her is savage, my chest puffing up. She likes my praise?

“So basic,” Betty wails, but she’s rocking back again, urging me on, and I can’t do anything except grip her hips and push forward.

Christ. Every inch is the sweetest agony. The torturous give of her body; the flutter of her inner muscles as they learn to stretch. Her little gasps and whimpers. It’s taking me apart, piece by piece.

I’ve explored every continent on this planet, but this is heaven right here. I’ve found it.

The boat lurches again, and I glance up, quickly checking our route. We’re scoring a straight line of foam through the sea, so no betrayal from Tango. He’s just a shitty helmsman. Sounds right.

The mere thought of him spikes my pulse, and I grip Betty’s hips harder, fingertips sinking into her soft flesh. She gasps and moans louder, getting slicker by the second, and I thrust forward, plunging all the way home.

Ah, hell.

Shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t be so desperate to do it again.

“You good?” I grit out, my ears ringing. I’m breathing hard, my shaft throbbing inside her. If Betty so much as wriggles, I’m doomed. “Betty?”

“Uh-huh.” She sounds half-drunk with pleasure, draped over the rail. Her channel flutters around me, adjusting to my girth. “Oh—oh my god.”

Shouldn’t have lost it like that. Shouldn’t have let the inner beast take over, not even for a second—but Betty doesn’t seem to mind. When she turns her head and gazes at me over her shoulder, her pupils are blown, and her lips curl in a lazy smile. She’s smug as a kitten with a bowl of cream.

My balls draw up. My teeth ache.

“Ready?”

She hums and nods. Her eyes are hungry. “Ready.”

It’s the most natural thing in the world—drawing out of her slowly, shaft slick and glistening. Plunging deep again into the hot welcome of her body, nerves throwing off sparks. As I grunt and shift closer, thrusting slowly at first then gathering pace, I’ve never felt anything so right .

She feels it too. I know she does—and not just because of her hungry moans, her tossed hair, and the way she rocks back to meet me. Because she’s mine. We understand each other wholly.

Betty’s a wild card. She likes placing the big bets, taking risks, throwing her lot in with a man who most others would rather keep at a safe distance. Gambling on her most primal instincts. We may seem like opposites to the casual eye, but deep down, we’re two sides of the same coin.

It will never come back to bite her—choosing me. I won’t let it.

I may have stains on my soul, but I will make her happy. I will .

“River,” she gasps, and hearing my name on her tongue like that, reedy and desperate, is such a drug. I grunt and thrust harder, angling my hips to hit that needy spot inside her, over and over.

So hot.

So slick.

So sweet.

Her thighs quake. Her peachy ass ripples with each pound of my hips, and her grip is white-knuckled on the rail. When I reach around and pinch her clit, Betty cries up at the wide, blue sky.

When I lick the back of her neck, I taste salt. When she clamps down on my shaft, moaning and twitching, I taste goddamn victory.

“Keep coming,” I tell her, rubbing at her clit. “Go on, keep coming for me.”

I’d drag this out for hours if I could. Maybe one day soon, when we have the luxury of a bed and a refrigerator full of sports drinks to rehydrate, I’ll try. Gotta take care of my girl.

Still, Betty shudders and shakes and cries out until she’s hoarse, and I don’t let up until she collapses over the rail, batting away my hand.

“Enough,” she gasps. “Oh my god, enough. I’m dying. I’m dead.”

Okay. Roger that.

Thrusting all the way home one more time, I scoop her upright with one arm banded around her chest. She’s trembling and flushed. I hold her close, her back to my front, hearts pounding together as I empty inside her, spurt after agonizing spurt. Her rumpled hair muffles my groan.

After a dazed minute, Betty turns her head, seeking my lips. I kiss her hard, still so desperate for her, even now.

We stay put for a long time, bodies aching, the wind cool. We both wince as we finally pull apart, but Betty turns and wraps her arms around my waist. Her bare toes scrunch against the deck, and her face presses into my chest.

“Shower?” I say.

Her breath catches. “There are showers on board? Are they hot?”

Guess her treasure hunt earlier didn’t find all the good stuff. “Hell yeah. There’s soap in ‘em too. And I found spare clothes.”

Betty squeezes me tight. “My hero.”

I wish. But maybe one day I’ll earn that label. Maybe soon.

I kiss the top of her head. “Go on and wash up first. We’ll be there soon, and then we’ll ditch the interloper and disappear. Just you and me. We’ll start over, wherever you want in the world.”

I brace for her trepidation, but Betty sighs so happily. “Can’t wait.”

Neither can I. My heart lurches as I kneel to dress her again, but it’s not the waves this time. It’s all her.

* * *

Three years later

The beach is still warm even hours after sunset, the stars pulsing in a navy sky. Laughter floats across the sand, along with the lively strains of music. The waves sigh as they collapse onto the shore.

I stroll along barefoot, hands tucked in the pockets of my shorts. Even after three years of radio silence, even with my seemingly casual posture, my nerves are on high alert. I pick up every detail of my surroundings.

The screams of laughter from a hen party, the women staggering together along the surf, heels clutched in their hands as they splash barefoot through shallow water.

The glow of apartment windows on the cliffs above the beach.

The faint scent of incense, half covering up the smell of weed.

The shadow of a dog walker in the distance, his ghostly mutt zooming along the sand.

I sense it all, plus the warmth, the sticky humidity, the twinge in my left hamstring which says I need to stretch this evening if I want to stay on top form.

I do want to stay on top form. I need to.

Betty’s counting on me. And not just Betty—not anymore.

I find my wife exactly where I left her ten minutes ago: resting on a sun-lounger a short distance from the beach bar, hands cupping her bump, eyes closed.

A drained glass of cranberry juice stands on the little table next to her, ice cubes melting to slush, the glass sweating beads of condensation. The music thrums.

I stroll closer, but she doesn’t move. Alarm spikes. My pace quickens, and I check our surroundings before kneeling at her side.

“Betty.” I take her hand, checking her pulse. Normal. That makes one of us. “Sweetheart. Are you alright?”

“I’m napping ,” she says, grouchy from tiredness, but her mouth twists into a wry smile when her eyes open. “Ever heard of it, Agent Dawes?”

Nope. One of us needs to stay alert, sweeping the perimeter for signs of trouble. Obviously that’s me, and it’s always going to be me, but that’s fine. I’m glad to do it.

Betty’s doing a much more important job. Spreading one hand over her bump, I try to feel something—anything—through the cotton of her sundress. “Is everything okay?”

“Yep.” Betty taps my nose. “And with you, Mystery Man?”

“Yes.”

No signs of the agency. Since we disappeared with no trace, there have never been any signs—but I don’t take chances and I never will. The stakes are too high.

Good thing we have lock boxes full of cash and jewels and other supplies, squirreled away in various cities around the world. We’ll never have to fret about money, and we can focus on what matters.

On Betty.

On her bump.

“I think it’s a boy,” she says, tracing patterns over her belly. “He’s really manspreading in there.”

A boy? “You’ll have to send Miriam a postcard and ask her. Bet she knows.”

Betty’s old coworker from the coffee shop makes eerily accurate guesses about our lives—and we know, because whichever secret location we move to every few months, Miriam somehow magically knows our new address and sends us packages.

She gives us code names, at least. She’s discreet in her own way. Her last letter was addressed to Dr and Mrs Carbinkle. So there’s that.

The old River would have wiped her out—deemed her too much of a risk. Snipped that loose thread and moved on, ruthless and cold.

But the new me only cares about making Betty happy. And offing Miriam? Not a winning proposition.

I’ll keep an eye on her. I already hacked her phone and computer and the security cameras on her street, so it’s fine.

“Want another cranberry juice?”

My wife yawns so hard her jaw cracks. She shakes her head, fumbling for my hand. “No, let’s go home. I’ve had enough adventure for one night.”

Somehow I doubt that. Whenever we lock the door of our beachside cottage behind us, Betty magically gets her second wind, and suddenly she wants me to bend her over a whole new piece of furniture that we’ve never screwed on before.

We’re gonna need to move again soon, just to get her a fresh supply of sofas and bookcases.

“Have you thought about where you want to live next?”

Our feet sink into the sand as we stroll away, fingers knotted together. She can’t move fast these days, but I don’t mind. The breeze coming off the sea is fresh, tugging at our hair.

Betty shoots me a mischievous smile. “I have a few ideas.”

Translation: coastal, hot, constant sand in my ass crack. I raise my eyes heavenward, but I don’t really mind.

Betty thinks beaches are good luck for us. And you know what?

Can’t argue with that.

* * *

Thanks for checking out the Beach Reads collection! I hope they gave you all the good summery feelings. :)

For more sunny scorchers, check out the Long Hot Summer collection, starting with Pool Girl . Every night, I float on the pool. And every night, he watches me.

And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy of Something Sweet . I spend every Valentine’s Day baking cookies for my friends and neighbors. But the bad boy who just moved to town? He’s hungry for something else…

Happy reading!

xxx