The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  It’s just a blow job, for fuck’s sake.

  But Sydney’s lips quirk into a smile, and he flashes a half-wink at James, clearly reliving the memory, too. Then his hand is on the base of James’ full cock, and he licks his smirking lips, and he takes James down his throat all the way to the base in one smooth glide, pressing his tongue hotly against the veins on the underside of James’ erection and groaning vibrations through the sensitive skin.

  James shatters.

  A high, breathy moan erupts from the back of his throat as his head crashes back onto the pillow, hips fighting not to thrust up into the tight, wet heat of Sydney’s mouth. Sydney strokes him with the flat of his tongue and sucks him root to tip in a rolling rhythm, and James lifts his neck and watches with his breath in his throat as his cock disappears again and again between Sydney’s dripping lips, bobbing against the back of his throat and arching into the heat of his moans.

  He’s trembling, fighting to stay still on the damp sheets and aching down his thighs as Sydney pulls up to swirl his tongue around the head, sucking at the slit. He pumps James’ cock with his hand, pulling a deep rub along the foreskin as he takes a wild breath before engulfing James in his wet mouth once more.

  James can’t help the curse that passes through his lips. He feels it like an electric shiver radiating down his spine. The air grows hazy, and his vision fades. Sydney suddenly snatches James’ hand from where it’s still gripping the sheets and pulls it down hard onto the back of his head, moaning deep in his chest when James’ fingers reflexively clutch at a handful of curls.

  It’s all James needs to know. Like an unleashed floodgate, a stream of forbidden words fall free from his lips as he pushes Sydney’s bobbing head down onto his cock, thrusting up into his throat, ears tingling at the wet slap of saliva on skin as Sydney moans and sucks him deep.

  “Fuck yeah,” James breaths. Sydney’s shaking hands clutch hard enough at his hips to bruise, groaning as James fucks into his mouth.

  “God, take it . . .” James feels another moan from Sydney’s throat radiate through his body and pushes Sydney’s head farther down onto his erection, pulsing and hard as steel.

  He arches his back as the tip of his cock brushes the back of Sydney’s throat, and his lungs ache. “Fucking take it.”

  Sydney’s lips are wide and stretched around him, pink and swollen as they suck him deeper into his mouth. James notices he can feel the bed rocking, and he glances down to see Sydney’s own hips thrusting against the bed. One of Sydney’s hands is gone from James’ waist, and a fresh wave of heat courses through James’ body at the knowledge Sydney is fucking into his own fist while James pumps into the heat of his mouth. His fingers clutch Sydney’s curls so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t ripped out clumps of hair.

  Sydney slows his rhythm, takes him down deep enough that James feels Sydney’s lungs expand between his thighs, Sydney’s nose breathing out hot air into the blond curls at the base of his cock.

  For some reason, that’s what causes everything to change.

  The words fall from James’ lips like a wave, somehow so much easier to say now in the morning light than they were last night on the beach. The aching pulse in James’ groin is reaching a peak, coiling hotly as he fucks into the rumble of Sydney’s moans against the throbbing wet skin of his cock.

  “God, Moore, suck me,” he growls.

  Sydney keens high in his throat, and James pinches one of his own nipples, harder than he’s ever done alone at home.

  “Fucking look at you,” he gasps. “Fuck, just look at you. Yeah, that’s it. . .” He rocks deep into his throat. “That’s it . . .”

  And the bed thuds against the wall to the pounding rhythm of Sydney’s fist pumping his own cock in his boxers, and James has the sudden, blinding, shattering vision of a white stream of his own cum shooting straight down Sydney’s throat, dripping over those full, pink lips he’d first seen set in a hard, impenetrable line on the Hermosa Shore, and he’s got Danny Moore between his legs, swallowing him down, Sydney . . .

  “Suck me,” James groans, his limbs starting to vibrate and peak. “Suck me down and take it . . . God take me.”

  James throws his head back and comes with a cry, heat pulsing through his body from the center of his aching cock still sucked into the tight heat of Sydney’s mouth. He spills down Sydney’s throat and pulses as Sydney swallows around him, sucking him down with his tongue on a long, deep groan.

  Then everything is quiet, pure and calm like his first glimpses of the shore through the jungle. And the helicopter in the distance isn’t making any noise, no sound at all. Crystal blue waters shimmering in the heat, calling him home.

  When James forces his eyes back open, he sees Sydney up on his knees, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. His sweaty skin is glowing from the light pouring in through the window, reflected off the bright surface of the ocean. His lean chest heaves as he catches his breath.

  James opens his mouth to say something. A “fuck yes,” or a “thank you,” or a “that was the most powerful fucking orgasm I’ve ever had,” and all of the options are terrifying, but then Sydney throws his body on top of him in a crashing heap. Sydney’s lips slam into his. James moans a surprised grunt from the back of his throat as Sydney kisses him with an unprecedented fierceness, hands clutching at his face and neck, tongue licking into his mouth in long, hot pants, filling James’ mouth with the taste of himself until he can barely breathe.

  All of a sudden, the force of Sydney’s mouth feels wrong—too frantic and uncontrolled, clouded over with a choking, desperate grey. James grabs Sydney’s shoulders and gently pushes him back as he gulps down oxygen into his lungs, letting the air rush over his swollen, tingling lips.

  Sydney looks torn apart. His curls are wild around his face, and his lips are kiss-swollen and pink. Chest flushed and glistening with eyes locked on to James like he’s forcing himself to never look away. To never blink.

  James glances down the small space between their bodies and sees that Sydney’s erection is gone, lying soft now behind a wet stain on his boxers. The fact that Sydney probably just came with James’ cock in his mouth should make him flood over with fresh arousal—want to crush this man to his body, and grasp the strength in his waist, and run his hands up the muscled, inked lines of his back.

  And it would make James do all of those things, if not for the expression on Sydney’s face as he stares at a place just above James’ eyes, the sudden tightness of Sydney’s lips making him look small and lost—unbearably naked. James feels an incredible sadness wash over him. Without having to be told, he knows Sydney’s thinking of his flight.

  James sighs—a kind of sigh he never thought he’d give after just having sex in bed with a man for the first time. He reaches up to cup Sydney’s face in his palm, and Sydney turns his face softly into the touch, breath shuddering out his nose as a wet sheen glosses over his eyes. James’ chest clenches—that inevitable, painful tug.

  “You’ll be there today?” he finally manages.

  Sydney’s voice is a whisper, much higher than normal. “I’ll be there.”

  James tries to smile, but knows it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And you won’t fucking run off to the car if I win?”

  Sydney relaxes above him and sighs through his nose before turning his face to press a soft kiss to the inside of James’ wrist. The sweat on his cheek smears across James’ palm.

  “When you win,” he says into James’ skin, “I’ll be there.”

  And James huffs and gives a hard glare at Sydney’s absolutely ridiculous, misplaced, jinx-worthy confidence, even as his thumb can’t help brushing gently across Sydney’s chin. He answers Sydney’s raised brow with a nod that says “I’m ready,” even though he feels absolutely anything but.

  16

  “—most likely pit you against Mark Florence and Dale Trent in the semifinal rounds. Try to create some ridiculous battle of the unexpected underdogs, so—”

&
nbsp; “Coming from the man who keeps saying I’ll win!”

  “Well I know that, but that doesn’t mean everybody else isn’t still an idiot.”

  “Seriously, everybody else is an idiot?”

  “Well, you didn’t see any of them winning the Masters the last two years, huh?”

  “That’s because you—God, and you wonder why everyone else on the circuit thinks you’re an asshole?” James says back, laughing.

  Sydney shoots him a sly grin before turning back to the road, right palm resting warmly on top of James’ thigh when it isn’t using the gear shift.

  “I don’t wonder why,” he says, squeezing James’ leg. “And clearly not everyone thinks I’m an asshole.”

  James’ cheeks hurt as he tries to contain his smile. He grabs Sydney’s hand with his own and gives a brief, answering squeeze, slightly ashamed that doing so makes him feel so foolish and young.

  “No, they don’t,” he says, just loud enough that Sydney can hear him over the engine.

  He looks out the open window, letting the breeze rush against his face as the patchwork of white and pink flowers dotting the rolling green hillside fade into a nauseating blur.

  “Keep going, then,” he prompts. “The other idiots.”

  “Florence is new—first time surfing outside the UK. He’s used to choppy surf, cold fast breaks with a lot of whitewater. Don’t think he even has a fucking clue what he’ll do on a huge open pipeline. My guess is he’ll take the waves that have already closed and ride over the top of the pipe. That or he’ll take the ones that are short enough to stay open faces. Day like today, though, with the wind the way it is, don’t think he’ll see many waves come in that aren’t huge barrels.”

  James sucks in a breath and tries to let it out without shaking. “Right. K, Trent?”

  “Trent’s from your neck of the woods. Santa Cruz—”

  “That’s a fucking seven hour drive from Los Angeles!”

  “Well that’s shorter than an entire ocean!”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Geography.”

  “You’re the one who flew all the way to Vietnam and didn’t realize that all of California is just a tiny, insignificant dot compared to other countries and oceans. What, did you have your eyes closed on the pla—”

  “Oh my God, man, you are something el—”

  “Anyway, the thing about Trent is he loves to show off. Completely unnecessary—”

  “Seriously, are you hearing yourself right now?”

  “I’m hearing me giving you excellent advice and you pointedly not listening—”

  “Watch the fucking road! That’s a fucking tree!”

  “James, you’re from Los Angeles—aren’t all the streets there just a fight to the death anyways? Why you’re concerned about a goddamn tree that had a good three inches is absolutely beyond me, and I’m trying to get us there on—”

  “Shit, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  James actually is going to be sick. His easy, lazy contentment from that morning—the blissfully calm acceptance of the fact that he was about to surf the fucking Banzai Pipeline—is completely gone, replaced in an instant by a churning, nauseating fear.

  Sydney turns and sees the look on his face and immediately pulls over to the side of the deserted road, parking alongside a wall of bright green fronds and cutting the engine.

  They sit in silence, the sounds of the Jeep still echoing across the oceanside mountains, mixing with the rising clouds of dust billowing out from the wheels. James wasn’t even this nervous when he stepped out of the camo dinghy into shin-deep water with a gun in his hands and a too-silent shoreline in front of him. He realizes he’s had a similar thought multiple times over the last few days, then wonders how the hell his life managed to get so much more terrifying since escaping LA and landing in paradise.

  Sydney’s hand is suddenly on the side of his face, gently turning his gaze.

  “James, look at me.”

  James turns his head against the headrest of the old Jeep, pressing his cheek further into Sydney’s steady palm. It’s hard to believe they’re not the only two people on the island. That five minutes down the road there’s a massive swarm of people from all over Oahu—from all over the world—gathering to watch him try to prove he somehow deserves to surf those waves.

  Sydney’s eyes are wide and clear, boring into his with such focus it sends a self-conscious shiver up James’ spine. He lets the silence linger for a few more moments, his mouth twisting like he’s flipping through possibilities of what to say, then he licks his lips to speak.

  “Look, when I was six, I came home from Sunday school all upset, crying and everything, because we learned about the seven days of creation and I was terrified of the water. How he separated the sea from the sky. And my mom sat me down and told me how it wasn’t scary at all, and how it was where all the beauty that the earth couldn’t hold overflowed to.”

  James sighs as Sydney’s thumb strokes across the day-old stubble on his cheek, rasping incredibly loud through the calm silence in the Jeep.

  “She’d never seen the ocean, probably still hasn’t. When we left, she . . . she stayed behind in Arizona. That’s why she isn’t . . . well, anyway, I’m pretty sure she just read about the ocean in the Bible. So the first time I ever tried to surf—the morning I got thrown out, before everything else went to shit. . . I remembered the way the Hawaiians always say a sort of prayer before they walk out into the waves—Lahela would take me to watch for an hour on the days I had to go run errands with her. So that morning I dipped my hands in the water and held a handful of it and told my mom out loud that I was seeing the ocean for her. I think . . . maybe you should do the same.”

  James forces himself to speak. “What, you mean say a prayer?”

  “No.” Sydney’s eyes frown, like a silent apology. “I mean don’t . . . don’t just do it for yourself. Surf for Helen.”

  The entire earth falls silent after the name. James swallows hard and stares, grounded in the reality of sitting in the warm Jeep only by the slow swipe of Sydney’s thumb across his cheekbone.

  He wonders if it’s humanly possible for Sydney Moore to somehow understand that James sometimes hates Keith Hartman for lifting him out of the foam. That it’s his fault James couldn’t run with open arms across the floor of the sea, straight towards Helen Campbell, and be reunited with her and laugh forever in the shade of the waves. That every time James’ toes have touched the water since coming back, there’s a momentary punch through his chest that Keith took it all away.

  James tries to match the man sitting next to him with the man he’d first heard Dean and Kip and the rest of them talk about that day at Hermosa—the sick fucker strutting across a beach of losers against the gentle hand patiently resting on his cheek. It seems to James that the only things those two men have in common are a pair of piercing steel eyes, when they’re not hidden from sight by dark lenses or curls, and the ability to surf their ass off across nearly any possible wave.

  Well, those things, and the fact that apparently both of them have wanted to spend time in the presence of James Campbell, of all goddamn people.

  James briefly presses his face into Sydney’s palm, then pulls away out of his reach. He rubs a hand over his mouth before wiping it off on his shorts.

  “Gotta say, it’s weird having you know all this about me sometimes. Everything about . . . I mean, shit, you know, we haven’t even known each other a month.”

  He instantly regrets his words. But, to his surprise, Sydney’s lips quirk into a small smile, despite the fact that James has noticed a troubling sadness in his eyes since that morning.

  “You think I’m used to the fact that you’re the only person on earth who knows that I’m an Army brat who still knows the order of all the books of the Bible?”

  James laughs, surprised. “I didn’t realize your family was that religious.”

  Sydney shrugs, his eyes bright as he huffs a laugh through his nose. “Well, unfortu
nately, now you know.” He shakes his head. “Could probably walk in right now without any studying and pass whatever the test is to become Ordained.”

  “Oh, so you’re gonna brag about this, too, huh? Surfing’s not enough anymore for you?”

  Sydney’s face is a warm, easy glow. He shrugs one shoulder. “Apparently.”

  The air feels clearer now, as if some thickness has been lifted straight out of the Jeep. James traces the toned lines of Sydney’s tan bicep and shoulder with his eyes, watches his chest rise and fall beneath the thin fabric of his tank top, until their gazes meet.

  James licks his lips. “You know we saw each other before our round at the ISF? Earlier in the day?”

  Sydney’s swallow sounds incredibly loud in the fragile stillness. His voice cracks. “Yes. On the pier.”

  “I didn’t know who you were, then, actually. That you were . . . you.”

  Sydney rapidly blinks. “I realized that.”

  James refuses to feel ashamed when his voice doesn’t quite come out steady. He whispers, “What were you looking at?”

  Sydney stares at him, mouth half-open, then tries and fails to say something—aborted breaths and starts of words. There’s a rising blush across his cheeks. A tightness squeezes down James’ throat when he sees embarrassment on Sydney’s face, mixed with something like apprehension, like fear . . .

  James doesn’t wait. He lets out the breath from his lungs in a rush and lunges forward across the gear shift to grab Sydney’s shoulder, then pulls him into a barrelling kiss. Sydney gasps, surprised, then melts as his tongue rolls into James’ open mouth.

  It’s the only way James can think of to tell Sydney Moore that, somehow, in some ludicrous way, maybe he didn’t meet him for the first time on that pier. That maybe he met him in the moment he opened his eyes to blink groggily at a white hospital ceiling. When he realized he wasn’t still dead in the blood-soaked foam, left to sink forever in the waters off Ha Long. That maybe waking up in Sydney’s arms softened the terrifying sharpness of all that Keith took away. Made Keith actually give him something, instead.