Sex Love Repeat

Chapter 4

Venice Beach, CA

I am barefoot on the couch when Paul gets home, the door slamming open and shaking the framed ribbon that was his first ever surfing prize. I slide the headphones off my head, rising to my feet. "Hey lover," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Hey beautiful. How was life with the other half?"

"Bearable." I pull him tightly to me for a kiss. "I need you."

He welcomes me home with a kitchen fuck, my ass bare on the counter, legs wrapped tight around his waist. His mouth plays with my neck as he fucks, his pace smooth and unhurried, as if we have all of the time in the world. And, in a way, we do. Nothing to do today, no appointments or places to be. He whispers dirty things as his hands slide around and beneath me, gripping my ass and pulling me into his strokes. I come once, my legs tightening around him, my walls constricting and squeezing, his speed increasing enough to take me over the edge and gently back down. Then we move, his arms carrying me to the bed, his cock still hard and firm inside of me, and he lays me down. There, on our worn sheets, he rolls me onto my side, and takes me to orgasm another two times, finishing with a groan.

We lay entwined in each other's arms, the open window providing a strong breeze of salt and sand, washing over our damp skin. He pulls me closer, pressing a soft kiss on my neck. "I love you, Madd."

"I love you, too." And I do. I love this man, who has not one stressed out bone in his body. He concerns himself with two things: surfing and keeping me happy. I love his outlook on life, a Bob Marley style philosophy. We fuck, we surf, and we love. There isn't too much else to our life. To this half of my life.

"Waves are supposed to be strong this afternoon. Wanna ride some today?"

"I think I'll hit the bookstore. Log in a few hours. You go out this morning?"

"Yeah. Got up about five. Mavericks Invitational is in three weeks so I'll hit it hard 'til then."

Paul doesn't need to practice. He is a god on a stick. His arms and legs work in perfect synchronization, his body gliding and bending at the perfect moment to stay balanced. Watching him surf makes my heart pound and my body clench. It is pure sex, the push and pull of muscles in a graceful movement that displays his athleticism. He's consistently ranked in the top twenty surfers in the world, a ranking that means little when it comes to his finances. Every competition is a negative investment, unless he wins. If he wins, sponsors are happy and prize money covers a few months of rent. If he loses, he is out his travel expenses, and we eat Ramen until the next big event.

I close my eyes, twisting until my head is on his stomach, his hand automatically reaching for and running through my hair, pulling bits of blond and curling them around his fingers. I close my eyes, the movement soothing and familiar. Outside, some music starts up, the strands of reggae floating through the air and over our space. To Ziggy Marley's voice and against Paul's sun-kissed abs, I close my eyes and fall asleep.