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“Not until after you learn the proper form. Otherwise you’ll drown. ” He gestures to the board. “Now get down there. ”
He’s not playing around, so I do what he says, stretching out on my stomach on the board. But I can’t even do that right, because then he’s kneeling next to me, telling me to inch forward, than inch back.
We do this three or four times as he tries to get me in the perfect position—a position I don’t even understand—before I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m not an imbecile. Tell me what I’m supposed to be doing here and I’ll do it. Don’t just give me these ridiculous directions with no explanation whatsoever. It doesn’t work for me. ”
Ethan studies me for a second, as if trying to gauge my level of irritation—which, if I’m honest, is pretty much off the charts at this point. He comes to some decision, then says, “Fine,” and points at the front of my board.
“Do you see how that’s pointing up a little bit?”
“Yeah. ”
“It’s because you’re too close to the back of the board. Scoot forward, but not so much that the tip digs into the sand or you’ll be too forward-heavy. Surfing is all about finding the balance. ”
As if any idiot with eyes couldn’t figure that much out. I bite the retort back, however, and concentrate on finding the perfect spot on the board. The sweet spot, Ethan calls it, without a hint of innuendo. I try not to blush as my thoughts go down an entirely different path, one that has nothing to do with surfing and everything to do with the way I felt when Ethan was kneeling in front of me, his tongue stroking deep inside me.
Once I find the sweet spot, Ethan has me grab on to the side of the surfboard and lift my upper body off it, like I’m about to do a push-up. Which, I guess, in essence I am.
Only Ethan calls it a pop-up, and it involves me doing a lot more than just lifting and lowering m
y body off the ground.
“Okay,” he tells me when I’m in the right position, elbows bent and toes curled under. “You’re going to want to lift your body up, until your arms are completely straight. ”
He watches, waiting, until I do exactly what he’s instructed. “Good. Do that a few times. Get used to what it feels like to take the brunt of your weight on your arms and shoulders. ”
I start to make some crack about knowing how to do a push-up, but while it’s the same theory, it’s not quite the same thing. The positioning of the hands isn’t quite the same—this is harder—and neither is the way I’m supposed to hold my feet. Because the goal isn’t to go up and down, like in a set of push-ups. The goal is to build enough momentum to actually get my entire body into a standing position.
Once Ethan is pleased with my beginning form, he lies on his own board and shows me how I’m supposed to pop up, so that my feet come directly under me, the left one in front. He makes it look incredibly easy, but the first time I try I end up falling off the side of the board, arms flailing and legs doing everything but what they’re supposed to.
I brace myself to hit the sand, but Ethan catches me before I’m more than halfway down. “Good try,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on my nose. Suddenly I don’t feel nearly as ungainly or embarrassed. Which is why I agree when he continues, “Let’s try that again. ”
Over and over, he has me pop up. Over and over, I lose my balance and fall off the side of the board or the back of the board, or miss the board completely. Ethan’s incredibly patient and sweet, but by the third time I land on the sand instead of the board, even he’s having a hard time hiding his laughter.
“That’s it!” I tell him, throwing myself down onto my back in the sand. “Some people are obviously not meant to surf, and I am one of them. ”
“That’s not true. It takes everyone a while to get the hang of getting up on a board. You’re doing great. ”
“Which is why it looks like it’s taking every ounce of concentration you have not to laugh your ass off. ”
“Not every ounce of concentration. Just most of them. ”
“Nice. ” I roll over to my side, start to mock-punch him. He grabs my hand before it can connect with his shoulder, and uncurls my fist. Then he brings my hand to his mouth and places a long, lingering kiss right in the center of my palm.
From someone else, it probably would have been cheesy. But from Ethan, it’s sweet and sexy and emotionally devastating all at the same time. My fingers curl in of their own volition, like they, too, want to hold on to his kiss for as long as possible.
“What are we doing, Ethan?” I whisper the words into air that is suddenly charged with electricity. With need. And with something else I don’t even know how to define.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m trying my damnedest to woo you. ”
Woo. There’s that word again, the same one Tori used the other night with such a dreamy look in her eyes. The same one I’ve been afraid to even think in conjunction with Ethan Frost.
Seduce I can handle. Woo…it’s a whole different ball game. One I’m not sure I’m up for.
“Hey. ” Ethan puts a finger under my chin, tilts my face up until I’m once again looking him in the eyes. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. ”
“I know. ” The fear is my problem, not his.
“So where’d you go, then?”
