THE MAN THE OTHER SURFERS called Cash was about to bring Rina Calhoun to an orgasm and he wasn't even in the same room. Not in person, anyway.
She had to remember to thank him for that. Later.
After she was done watching him fly through the deep blue waves in all his perfect, lean–muscled glory on the celluloid big screen.
After she'd caught her breath and composed herself, since she'd already locked the door and turned down the lights completely, and
after she'd made her own copy of this segment of the videotape to take home with her for those long, lonely nights.
Whoever said documentary filmmaking had loftier, more satisfying rewards than making money was definitely onto something.
Someone that talented on a surfboard, someone with that much…balance, well, such prowess had to extend to other areas, didn't it? The thought of that extreme talent translating into the bedroom made the small area, where she'd been work ...
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