I circle my hips and buck, pursuing my release, so I can give him his. We’d finished together every time before, but this time he won’t let go in that way — not without protection. His breathing hitches and chest heaves around attempted, but failed, controlled breaths. The corners of his eyes crinkle and nose scrunches up, his face contorting in a pleasure he wants… but refuses. I orgasm in silence, like the whisper of a retreating wave as it skitters away from the bank and back into the gulf so it can build again later.
Trenton’s fingers squeeze the back of my neck. His breath hitches against my mouth. I bring my hands to his chest, push off him, and balance on my toes in order to keep my shoulders above water. Then, I dip my hands down into the water, trailing my palms along every groove and ridge of his build until my fingers can wrap around him. He immediately grinds into my grip, and his head falls back, the moonlight blazing against his features. With lips slightly parted, a low, rumbling groan escapes from deep in his chest as I grasp harder and stroke faster.
Even the build of his own release doesn’t stop him from being able to keep his hands off me. They drift and cling everywhere possible, seeking a handhold, memorizing all of me by touch.
With one more partnered downward stroke and upward thrust, his cock trembles under my fingers, his groan of release whispers in my ears. When there’s no more fluid left to add to the unending gulf, he caves forward, his forehead landing on my shoulder and arm wrapping around my waist so I no longer have to support myself on my toes.
Just like every experience with Trenton, he gave this one his all. There was no cutting corners. No rushing. Together we built a memory that will not soon — if ever — be forgotten.
Except in this memory, I didn’t fall asleep in his bed. And I didn’t wake up to Hayes’s pour over coffee.
When we are done, I sneak away.
This time, he watches me go.
CHAPTER TEN
*Trenton*
Watching her walk away and not offering her a ride or even to walk her home goes against my personal policies. Sure, I bring women into my bed, but I’m still a gentleman enough to see them out of it, too.
Damn, I wanted to pull out a blanket, sit on the shore, and tell her everything — explain why that was it for us. The same reflection in her eyes ended me, though.
Shoulders straight and chin raised, she left just as much as I let her go.
The separation was equal parts mutual and dreaded.
Like a coward, I watch from neck deep in the gulf as she swims to the shore, the moonlight hitting all the right places and revealing inch by inch as she slowly steps out. She then wrenches into her jeans, slides her jacket on over bare breasts, and… just walks away without a single glance over her shoulder. Her strength and determination as she takes every bit of it in stride is what tears me up inside the most. No tears. No begging. No cattiness. I would say there was absolutely no fight in her, but there was. “Fight” is the very definition of this woman who ripped me open, gripped my heart, and manually pumped it back to life. Pumped a shit ton of blood to my cock, too, but that is always an easy feat.
I wait until she’s completely out of sight before returning to the beach myself. Water dripping off me and onto the sand, I bend for my jeans first to dry my hands and text Hayes. I told him everything was fine and that I needed more than ten minutes, but I still expected a text from him every eight minutes to be waiting for me when I checked in again.
Crow, Hayes, and I have a lot in common; our depression and anxiety being a chronic illness due to shitty pasts is the highlight of our shared qualities. Not just any type of depression, though. The dangerous type. We depend on each other to make sure none of us spiral. Remi swindled her way into our hearts, and the club — the only other ‘girl’ who owns us — was put at risk.
Damn, we have all the feels for her, but that in no way trumps what this club means to us. It is literally our lifeline and the lifeline of so many other members, too. An escape. A way to “feel” when all we want is to do anything but — trading one dangerous thing for another.
Depression for adrenaline.
A few check-ins from Hayes shine bright on my phone in the surrounding blackness. I scrub some of the wetness out of my hair, toss the phone onto my shirt, and wrangle my boxers over my damp legs. Then, I pick up the phone and send him a quick response so he knows everything is okay.
I receive an immediate response back:
:Hayes: Get her pregnant, and we’re really going to have issues.
Yeah… he knows me better than I know myself most days.
:Me: She doesn’t have anything to worry about, but the fish might. Watch out ladies, they’re swimming toward ya.
:Hayes: Seriously, bro? I was kidding. You couldn’t keep it reeled in at least this once?
:Me: Hey, what can I say? I’m a man of my word. Promised her a Sex on the Beach, and I delivered. Now she can’t say I owe her anything. Catch and release, my man. Catch and release.
Damn. The truth of that burns the lining in my throat and down into my stomach.
I clench my phone, having nowhere else to carry it since I’m leaving my clothes here, trusting her enough to at least follow through with the task of making them disappear — but not enough to not come back here in an hour or so and make sure she followed through.
The feel of my boxers sticking to my skin is uncomfortably similar to how her slick body clung against mine in the gulf. Those sensations still linger against every one of my nerve endings, heightened by the weight of the material.
When I get back to the lot, the Bimmer is parked beside my Monte Carlo. Hayes — the damn voyeur — probably used binoculars or something to watch everything go down between Remi and me.
I take my time making my way over to our vehicles, first stopping at the edge of the walkway to dust off my feet and get my socks and shoes on. As I hop on one foot to slip the opposite one into the sock, a sharp prick resonates through the ball of my bare foot and shoots up my leg. I immediately crumple over, hand darting out to the railing for support. I lift my foot and rest it across my bent knee. A sand spur. Goddamn I hate those things.
My eyes travel from my foot to the spot where I was standing. There sits the pile of them — the ones we had just removed from our shoes. I pinch a spine between my too-short nails and yank hard. After flicking it into the dunes on the other side of the railing, I plop down onto my ass on the last step and finish putting on my socks and shoes.
Another bout of déjà vu hits, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, only to have her image flash behind my closed eyelids, too.
Sonuvabitch.
My eyes pitch open. I push up to stand and meander over to the Bimmer. Problem is, looking at Hayes these days tends to conjure images of her between us. Looking at Crow sure as shit doesn’t help either.
Speaking of, I wrongfully assumed that Hayes was dropping Crow off a bit ago, since the V Coupe was parked across from Remi’s driveway. But that’s not the case; I spot the outline of his profile through the backseat window. Hayes probably diagnosed him as unfit to drive and was likely now at the receiving end of his gloominess.
My head pounds just thinking about where everything turned — how the three of us ultimately ended up convening here, in the beach access parking by the Regency across from where she lives. I still don’t know what the fuck happened that brought Crow to her house or how he ended up riding with Jude and Porter after having stalked Remi to their meet.