26. Sam

I'm refilling my coffee mug in Greg's cozy kitchen when the bathroom door swings open, releasing a wave of steam into the apartment. I sense him behind me before I even see him, his damp arms encircling my waist, his breath warm against my neck.

I feel him, naked and hard against the small of my back. It's a game I know well. Nearly every morning goes much the same way. Greg can't get enough of me, and I'm just as bad. "You already had your wake-up call."

"Yes, but he doesn't seem convinced that it was enough," he murmurs right beside my ear. Then he spins me around to face him, his smile wide and inviting. "Come back to bed with me."

I kiss his nose gently, shaking my head. "I have an early lesson today, sorry."

His enticing expression quickly morphs into a frown, disappointment creasing his forehead. I hand him his coffee mug, then head back to the bedroom to get dressed. Over the past few months, bits and pieces of my life have found a home in his apartment. I rummage through the drawer he's designated as mine, searching for a clean swimsuit. He's leaning on the door frame, watching me with eyes full of desire, not showing any hint of embarrassment at being in the buff. The man wears a birthday suit with a confidence that is, quite frankly, sexy as hell.

But I really do need to get to work. "Stop! I really can't," I protest, though my grin and the blush on my cheeks betray my amusement. He rushes over, lifting me effortlessly and tossing me back onto the bed. I laugh as I bounce on the mattress.

He moves over me. "Sam…" he breathes out my name, a sound that makes my nipples stand at attention. And my douchebag of a boyfriend is fully aware of the effect it has on me. I push against his chest, laughter still escaping me.

"You're going to make me late!" My protest sounds feeble, even to my own ears, lacking any true resolve.

He kisses me deeply, ignoring my feigned attempts to resist. My hands find their way around his neck, drawing him closer, his body pressing into mine. Desire between us can build quickly, and when it does hit, it's both undeniable and intense.

"I'll be fast," he says, and I roll my eyes.

"If I'm gonna be late, at least make it worth the trouble." Those seem to be the magic words because he lets out a low growl and uses one hand to pull my pajamas and underwear down.

There's no joking now. Before I even have time to adjust my hips, he thrusts into me.

My eyes close, mouth splitting open with a gentle moan. His lips clash against mine, but his tongue is gentle as it explores my mouth.

"Sam. My Sam," he says. I'm murmuring an incoherent agreements, and he lets loose. His hips are pounding his hard length into me at a frenzied pace.

"Oh. Oh! Greg, yes!" I tighten around his cock. Hearing him say I'm his is the biggest turn-on. With eager movement, I reach down, rubbing the bottom of his balls as he slides out in a way I've learned gets him off almost immediately.

But he grabs at my wrist. "I thought you said make it worth it?" He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the palm. I'm fighting not to glare. He's not going to be fast. Though I suppose that's my fault for teasing.

His movements turn slow. Painfully so. This man will be the death of me if he continues at this snail's pace. I move my hand to where we're joined, finding the spot between my legs to rub at my own clit. But he's there again, bringing my hands back up and pinning them above my head. "Tsk, tsk, Samantha. That's my job."

With more power, his hips pumped into me. Deep. Grinding our bodies together like his only job in the world is pleasuring me. Fucking me into oblivion.

Every thrust made me relax into him more. Take the control, my body tells him. He responds with growls and grunts and kisses, all mixing together until I'm a puddle of nothing beneath him. It has become one of my favorite feelings: surrendering to him, letting him care for me, both in the bedroom and in our lives.

But the desire is building in my gut, and the contentment shifts. "Harder, Greg." I arch my spine, meeting his plunges with a smack of my hips against him. But my pleading falls on deaf ears. So my fingers go to my head, digging into my scalp, gasps of babbling spilling from my mouth.

Still, he set our pace, controlling my building orgasm like a maestro in front of an orchestra. Pulling me into the crest. His breath is hot on my neck. "Come for me, Sam."

The words are like a tinder to an open flame, and I'm ready. I'm so ready, I might literally die if he doesn't let me come. He takes the cue and swings my legs up onto his shoulders, driving into me. The satisfying slap of his balls against me, and I feel my release bloom over his cock in a rush of pleasure.

But Greg's not done, and I'm not going to wait for it any longer. I force my hand back to the bottom of his balls and press two fingers into the velvety skin, massaging.

He screams out, holding his cock inside me, buried to the hilt. Finally, his orgasm bursts into me, a long exhale on his lips. "Oh, god, Sam. Jesus." His arms are shaking, but he doesn't move.

To be honest, I'm not ready to let him go, either. I cling to him, enjoying the trembling of his body. It lets me know how truly satisfied he is. "Now I'm really late. You just had to have me?" I ask, a fake tone of annoyance in my voice.

He kisses my forehead, a gesture so tender and full of affection, my heart swoons. "It's my fault you look this good in the mornings? The woman I love, right here, looking at me like that? Yeah, this is on you, my dear," he says, his eyes sparkling.

Sitting up, I hug my knees to my chest. He's so casual with his declarations of love, while I've yet to confess my own feelings out loud. Each day, it becomes harder to keep them to myself. Attempting to deflect from the weight of his words with humor, I respond, "Well, I did have my Wheaties this morning."

He laughs, heading to the dresser to pull on some jeans, skipping underwear. I secretly adore this about him, the casualness of his attire, the comfort in his own skin. Watching him, I bite my lip, my thoughts wandering.

He seems oblivious to the effect he's having on me as he pulls a white t-shirt over his head. "That reminds me, we're out of bread." I stopped correcting him weeks ago when he referred to his apartment as ‘ours'.

I've been spending most nights here, though I still make an effort to stay at Tilly's a few times a week. "I'll grab some on my lunch break. Are you running errands again today?"

He nods, returning to the bedside. "I'll be in Tamarindo today, so don't wait up." I nod, swallowing any questions about his job. We've skirted around the topic, both unready to delve into it. Somehow, I feel it might open up a can of worms, and I don't want that. I want to keep living in domestic bliss while ignoring anything that could disrupt it. Because in some way I know, once this thing between us ends, and I have a horrifying suspicion that eventually it will, I'll be the one scraping my heart off the proverbial asphalt.

Tilly often teases me for looking for problems where there aren't any. Greg is wonderful and truly loving. That's maybe the only downside to finding myself with a serious boyfriend. Tilly and I don't spend nearly as much time together. "I think I'll stay at Tilly's tonight then."

"You sure?" he asks, now slipping on his socks.

"Yeah, we need a girl's night. She's still not totally over that boy."

"He's not exactly happy either," Greg says, his face twisting into a frown. The two men have become fast friends. I'm more than thankful since Tommy has become somewhat of an outcast. I know staying out of their little spat has helped them both heal. I'll do it forever if I must.

He leans in for a quick kiss before playfully chiding me, "You're late, lady!" He exits, leaving me to get ready.

Rushing out fifteen minutes later, I jog in my swimsuit to the surf shack. I'm the first one to arrive for work, but I find a man waiting outside. "Benito?" I ask, nearly certain that this is the guy I'm supposed to teach to surf. Or at least keep from dying while he flails around.

"Uh, yes. Sam?" he asks. He has dark hair that's pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. The man is shorter than me but built like a boulder. Broad shoulders are tucked into a skintight shirt. His accent suggests he's more of a local than a tourist, but I give him my biggest customer-approved smile before I nod.

"You have trunks?" I ask. He doesn't, so I quickly open the front door and hurry to our loaner stack of swimwear. I fetch something that I'm positive will fit; I haven't been doing this for eight years without gaining an eye for size. "Go ahead and get changed, and we'll head out." He gives me a timid nod and passes by without so much as a glance at my body.

It's refreshing, and my mood lifts again. A student who doesn't stare; maybe he'll actually learn something beyond my measurements while we're out.

Selecting boards, I grab Banana and Ruby. The Banana is our most trustworthy surfboard. Tilly always jokes that it's the cruise ship of foam boards. Ten people could be on the top, but it still wouldn't flip. With quick movements, I grab a fresh bar of warm water foam-safe wax. As I open it, the sharp scent of coconut wafts up. My grin grows. Yes, it's going to be a great day. I'm still busily waxing both boards when he comes out looking unsure in the tight shorts. The tightness is on purpose. Surfing in any loose clothing is a mistake; it weighs people down in the water.

"Ready?" I ask. He nods, and I point to the Banana. "That's yours. As unsinkable as the Titanic." I chuckle at my awful joke, but he only winces. Not into dark humor, got it. He picks it up awkwardly, like a toddler with a giant, too full bowl of soup. Oof. Guy isn't exactly screaming out athlete of the year. But this is why I'm a professional.

He juggles the board, dropping it a few times. "Uh, Sam?" he asks behind me.

I glance over my shoulder. "Yes?"

He stops walking and takes a breath. "Um, this is a little embarrassing, but…" he stares at the surfboard, his face pale. His gaze suddenly snaps my way. "Are there sharks?"

I stifle my laugh. Good ole shark question. Thankfully, I have just the comeback. "There are, but we have a little agreement." I wave for him to come closer, and he does, looking a little bit north of about to vomit. "They don't bite me, I don't bite them." I'm expecting a laugh or at least a smile but he only looks more confused.

"You have a contract…with the sharks?"

I nod, pride making me puff my chest out a bit. "I made them an offer they couldn't refuse," I say in my best godfather voice before adding in my normal tone, "Though they didn't seem particularly scared of my threat to make them sleep with the fishes."

His head recoils like I've slapped him across the face. What the hell? I think I'm pretty funny and this joke has killed every other time I tell it.

I roll my eyes. "Dude, sharks won't bug us. Let's just go." Before he has time to argue, I turn around and start jogging towards the water. If he doesn't have a sense of humor, this is going to be a very long lesson.

***

An hour after starting, Benito catches waves like a pro. Once I figured out his learning style—exact direction with exactly zero sarcasm or joking—he actually did pretty well. I tell him he can hang onto the Banana board for another thirty minutes while I head back to open the bar. Walking in, I see Greg and Tilly already there, burgers in hand. I place my board down and join them.

"Hey babe," Tilly greets me, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

Greg gives her a mock scowl. "She always has to be first to say hello," he grumbles.

I lean in to kiss Greg's cheek, my damp hair probably leaving a bit of the ocean on him. "Yes, but I'm not sleeping with Tilly. So let her have this."

"Not yet," Tilly quips back, and we all share a laugh over an old joke about how close we are. Tilly passes me a burger, and I start eating. I am famished from the surf session, even though it's only a little after ten in the morning.

"How was it?" Tilly asks.

I continue chewing, savoring the delicious, greasy meal. "Dude's a natural. We might get a sale out of this." Tilly lights up at that; she's always been the charm when it comes to selling boards. The commission is nothing too spectacular, but it's better than nothing. Whenever possible, I let her take the lead. I'm not much of a salesperson. Take it or leave it; I don't really give a fuck. I can't be bothered to persuade people they need something.

The rest of our lunch is a comfortable mix of silence and light conversation. When Benito walks in later, board underarm, all eyes turn. Tilly's already off her stool, hips swaying a bit extra, and I suppress a laugh. Another good reason she takes these sorts of tasks is her ability to use her body to her benefit. I haven't quite learned that particular trick, nor do I want to. Nothing against her; it's just not my style.

"Who the hell is that?" Greg barks out under his breath. The tone surprises me. On any given day, half a dozen men come in and out of the surf shop for lessons far more often than women, though I don't exactly know why. Greg's never shown any jealousy before.

"My early lesson. That's Benito," I nudge his shoulder. "Oh, are you jealous? Look out random tourist, my boyfriend has already peed all around me." Usually, at any of my jokes, Greg is on me like a leech; nibbling, sucking, kissing, and teasing. Seriously, the guy is almost more turned on by humor than my naked body. Almost. But he makes no move. Odd.

Benito's gaze isn't on Tilly's attempts at flirting; he's locked on Greg, an unspoken question in his look. "Do you know him?" I ask Greg, puzzled by the sudden charge in the air.

"No," he answers too quickly, still tense.

Tilly's laughter with Benito pulls my attention away for a moment. When he buys a board and waves goodbye, Tilly's practically dancing back to us, a victorious hum in her voice. "He asked me to dinner, and I said yes."

I lean in, thrilled for her. "Really?" This is huge for Tilly after everything with Tommy.

But Greg's not on board. "I don't think that's a good idea, Til."

"Why the hell not?" I snap, surprised by his reaction.

"She barely knows him! What if he's some kind of creep?" he asks. But there's something in his face, an expression I can't read. All I really know is that he's holding something back.

"Oh sure because every surfer who buys a board is also a secret serial killer." Greg's eyes darken and I'm so fucking confused. "Greg, you can't be serious. I spent an hour with him, and he never stared at my ass even once. Something even you can't manage, by the way."

"That's different."

"You're being weird." His caution seems overbearing to me.

He lowers his voice, leaning toward me. "Just with your history, I think she should be careful who she dates."

I cross my arms. "Tilly is careful and capable. She doesn't need Mr. Ex-Cop Greg vetting her dates."

"And on that…" Tilly gets to her feet. "I'm gonna check the kegs while you two argue over my love life."

Tilly, ever independent, does exactly as she said and leaves us to argue. I turn back to Greg, frustrated. "Tilly can handle herself, trust me. And she'd never tell anyone anything. She doesn't really know what happened anyway."

"Trust me, that's not a guy she should hang out with." His words only fuel my suspicion. But it's more the way he won't meet my eyes that has me on edge. "You lied about knowing him. Who is he?"

"Just some guy I used to work with."

"Then why'd he pretend to not know you? Is he a cop or whatever you are now?" My frustration peaks, demanding answers.

As he stands to leave, I grab his arm, determined. "No way. You're not leaving. What's going on, Greg?"

He looks at me, the weight of my question hanging between us. "I really don't want to argue," he says, a rare admission in our generally harmonious relationship. But this lie, this secret about Benito, it's different, and I'm not ready to let it slide.