“So ride them.”

“I’d rather ride something else right now.”

“Me too.”

I don’t need to move his cock. His hips take care of that, a small downward shift and hard cock making the transition easy, my wet entrance more than ready for fulfillment. Then he resumes his strokes, slow and perfectly inside of me, the air under the blanket getting hot with passion. And when I yank the blanket off his head, the cool air is needed, as we both arch our bodies into the darkness of oblivion.

I dress, slipping on bikini bottoms and a surf shirt, linking my hands through his and jogging down the garage steps. We grab our boards and move, quiet through dark streets, nodding to familiar faces, the homeless and beggars who never sleep, discomfort or addiction keeping them awake. When our feet hit the sand we run, eager to fly, the shock of cold water taking me the final step into wide awake. We paddle until my arms ache, we ride until the waves calm, and then we lay back on salty boards and watch the sun rise, reflecting sparks of fire across the tops of ripples.

You don’t understand the true awesomeness of nature until you watch the sun rise on water that stretches across half the world. Or until you lay back on the board in the pitch black of night and listen to the world sleep. Until you feel the tug of water and know that you are dancing with a partner that could dip you into death should it feel the need. It is intoxicating, the heartbeat of the ocean. It flows through my blood, it sucks at my heart and pumps breath through my lungs.

I hear Paul’s call and turn, realizing that he has paddled halfway in and is waiting. The crowds will soon come, the hordes of tourists who have traveled across the country to play in our backyard. Now is the time to return, and let the strangers borrow a piece of our life. I roll to my stomach, and paddle after Paul, the rising sun prickling warm on my bare legs.

HOLLYWOOD, CA

SPEEDBUMP: [noun] Someone

who stand in the way of a good ride.

DANA

Some might call my behavior stalking. My opinion is, if you love the person, it gives you some justifiable leeway. My behavior this evening...leeway doesn’t really excuse it. It’s borderline creepy. I sicced my assistant on Stewart. Told her I’d give her two hundred dollars for each event that she could reasonably predict his presence at. It took her three weeks, but she found one. His business partner’s birthday party, at Livello, on Friday night. She called the restaurant, verified that the reservations were at nine o’clock that evening, and we discussed the chances of him being present. A hundred percent chance of him being invited, and we were thinking a twenty-five percent chance of attendance. I was grasping that narrow percentage with the tenacity of a drowning woman.

It’s ten, and I am huddled in the back corner of the lobby, nursing a bottled water, an Elle magazine held open before me. My mission is simple. If he is alone, approach him. And if he is with someone, scope her out. I’m giving myself till eleven, then I’m going to bail. Toss Belinda her two hundred bucks and go soak my feet in Epsom salts. I curse the three inch heels I put on this morning. Next stakeout, I’ll wear flats.

The door opens, and in a burst of cool air and perfume, they enter.

God, three years hasn’t changed him. He is smiling, and that is the first thing I notice. Holding the door open for her, his hand moves to cup her waist when she moves through the door in front of him. Their cheeks are flushed, her giggle reaching back into the dark corner that I sit, a curl of jealousy snaking through me at the sound. I sink in my seat, watching them closely, noticing everything, the brush of his hand against her ass, the look in his eyes when she grabs the fabric of his skirt and presses into his chest, his head dipping down for a kiss. They are quickly escorted into the restaurant, away from my eyes, and I strain for a final glimpse of him, but only see the back of the maitre’d.

I exhale, setting down the magazine and leaning back in my seat, lifting my purse off the ground and setting in on my lap with a heavy sigh. There was no point in staying to see them leave. I saw everything I needed in that brief moment. The look in his eyes... she is not a fling. Not an escort that he hires for events. That was the look of love.

My hands tighten around my purse.

TWO YEARS EARLIER

MADISON

It didn’t take long for Stewart and I to fuck. The sweet circumstance of our meeting turned to heat quickly, chemistry sizzling across the linen tablecloths of our first date. For the second date, two weeks later, I told his icy secretary I’d meet him at his place, intent on putting the little time she had penciled in to good use. She extended the appointment, giving me a full two hours, which I took to be a good sign. Two weeks later, I handed my keys to a freckle-face valet, signed in with the security desk at Stewart’s condo, and was yanked inside the moment he opened the door.

He crab walked me backwards, my hands reaching for his face, pulling it to mine, our first kiss frantic. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.” He rushed out, between kisses. “Is this too fast?”

I bit back a laugh, unbuttoning the front of my shirtdress and dropping the material to the floor, nothing but bare skin underneath. “You tell me, is it?” I stepped away, watched his eyes eat me, his expression turning dark, his hand running rough through his hair.

Then his mouth and his hands were on me, and we didn’t have the breath to utter words for a full hour. We started there, against the wall, with kisses and touches, my own hands pulling at his clothes, till he was naked before me, and my breath caught at his build, his body a tight coil of muscles that all seemed to center and point on a package that would have made my first boyfriend duck his head in shame. He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me to a bedroom.

I didn’t notice the heated floors or the custom blinds or the six thousand dollar rug. I only noticed the heat of our bodies, the perfect fit, the exact blend of control and fury that took my body from above, from behind, and from below.

Forty-five minutes after setting foot in his condo, he straddled me. Breathing hard, his face tight in concentration, his hands running over the skin of my breasts, he leant forward and kissing me, pushing away my hands when I reached for him. His cock bobbed between us, brushing my stomach, a plastic slap of latex against my skin. “Don’t.” he groaned. “I’m too close. Give me a moment.”

But I wanted it, was high on orgasm and his fucks, and anxious to see the result of our work. I smiled at him, reaching down with a firm hand and sliding the condom off, his slick head exposed, my hand working up and down and I looked up into his face.

He squeezed his eyes tight, his breath coming out in short spurts. “Madison, I can’t, you’re-“ He bucked his hips, groaning my name, my hand hard and fast on his shaft, watching in excitement as he came, multiple shots on my chest, his head dropping back as he finished, a long sigh coming out. He collapsed to the side, his limbs heavy on the bed, his eyes closed, a smile on his face.

I rolled, unmindful of the sheets, resting my head on his bicep, closing my eyes and relaxing, my body relaxed from an hour of orgasms and pounding.

Minutes passed, no sound other than our breaths and the whip of the fan, no need to speak, no need for compliments or unnecessary conversation.