Riley
Riley, the sun-bronzed Australian surfer with her wave tattoo and salt-stiffened curls, carries a body that seems almost too alive for its starved frame: heavy, sun-warmed breasts straining against a soaked white bikini top, hips sharp enough to cast shadows. She moves through the late-afternoon light with the restless energy of someone who has spent every hour chasing waves and still feels the ocean pulling at her, yet tonight her attention is fixed on the man who might finally slow her down. Tension coils in the small space between them—her teasing confidence, the faint scent of salt on her skin, the way her fingers toy with the pearl at her navel—as if she is deciding whether to pull him closer or make him work for the privilege.
46
