Be Your Anything (Hermosa Beach Book 2)

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Jillian Liota

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission from the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Love Is A Verb Books

  Book Cover Design and Layout by Jillian Liota

  Editing by C. Marie

  Formatting by Jillian Liota

  Cover Photo © iStockPhoto.com/Portfolio/PeopleImages

  ISBN 978-1-7337638-8-2

  ISBN 978-1-7337638-6-8 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-7337638-7-5 (kindle)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also from Jillian

  DEDICATION

  To my mama:

  Thank you for always choosing me

  for always supporting me

  and for always believing I can be anything.

  Even a steamy romance author.

  Time to get out the sticky notes!

  Love you.

 
  PROLOGUE

  Lennon

  I toss my head back, my mouth open and my eyes closed as I sink down on Lucas for the second time tonight.

  That first bit of a pinch as he pushes into me is always so delicious, the most beautiful pain, that slight stretch as I try to make space for him in the place only he can seem to fill.

  He moans underneath me, but I don’t look down. I look up at the ceiling, knowing I’m strung so tight right now that if I look into those eyes, I’ll come. Because seeing Lucas in pleasure is like a livewire straight to my core. Right now, I’m too turned on to test it, and I want this to last.

  I always want it to last.

  His hands rest on my thighs as I swivel my hips, the sensitive place between my legs rubbing against him and the patch of hair at the base of his dick.

  It feels so good like this.

  When we’re connected.

  When we’re pressed together.

  When we’re spread wide and flayed open.

  Because nights with Lucas make me feel like I can take off the mask the rest of the world sees.

  I lift my arms over my head, pulling my hair back and up, my fingers gripping the strands tightly as pleasure courses through my body.

  Lucas’ hands grip my breasts, squeezing them softly but firmly. And then he pinches my nipples, twisting them between his fingers in a way that has me whimpering with need.

  My eyes drop down and lock with his as he speaks.

  “God, those noises,” he groans out, his focus locked on me. “You keep making those and I’m gonna come too soon.”

  My mind shifts, my new focus crystalizing. Making Lucas lose control as quickly and as pleasurably as possible becomes the new goal.

  I place my hands on his chest, muscled and toned from the years he’s spent in the water, and lean forward, pushing my breasts closer to his face and letting my hair tumble down so it brushes against him.

  I focus my eyes on his, on every moan from his mouth and each clench of his jaw, on the handful of freckles that dust his hairline and the scar on his eyebrow.

  And then I do nothing but grind on him and let out little whimpers of pleasure, squeezing my core and digging my nails into his skin.

  Lucas likes that little bite of pain, too.

  His nostrils flare, his hands gripping my hips as I continue to roll my lower half against him, taking him inside of me again and again and again.

  Suddenly, he flips us over so I’m on my back and he’s thrusting into me, his hips pounding, his dick hitting that spot within me that’s aching, the place only he can seem to manage to find.

  Over and…

  over and…

  over again…

  Until I’m mindless and breathless and I splinter apart, the pieces of my body that were once connected to his shattering into bits and getting lost in the sheets that surround us.

  Lucas isn’t far behind, groaning out his release with only a few more thrusts then stilling above me, his fingers gripping my sweat-slicked skin, his eyes clenched shut with pleasure.

  I love looking at that. His face at the end. There’s this sated exhaustion, this look of complete bliss I hope only I can make him feel.

  His head falls forward and he looks down at me where I lie sweaty and depleted beneath him. Just like every time we do this, I catch a glimpse of his heart. For just a second, just a fraction of a moment, he looks at me, completely unguarded, and I can let myself believe for just a minute that he is as absolutely crazy in love with me as I am with him.

  Even though he’s not.

  And then, all too soon, the moment is over.

  He cuts that part of himself off, hides his heart away again.

  Lucas rolls off me, looks up at the ceiling, and lets out a sigh that’s a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction.

  It means he’s going to collect his clothes and head home, like he’s done every time before this.

  He turns on his side, his eyes scanning my face with a fine-tooth comb: my eyes, over my flushed cheeks, taking in my nose and chin and settling on my neck. He reaches up, setting his hand there for a moment, his thumb gently stroking the space just below my jaw.

  His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, and I hold my breath, hoping maybe this time, he’ll ask to stay.

  But before anything comes out of his mouth, his phone starts to ring from the nightstand on his side of the bed.

  I clench my eyes shut and turn away, facing towards the French doors that open up to my small balcony overlooking the ocean.

  I know that ringtone.

  It’s not one I hear often, but it’s still familiar enough that it makes me want to dig my fingernails into my palms.

  The ringing cuts off as he answers, and I feel the bed dip slightly as Lucas gets up from where he was lying next to me. He gets farther and farther away from me with every passing second, even though he’s just a few feet from where I rest, curled on my side, my arms wrapped around my own naked form.

  “Hey,” I hear him say, his voice soft, warm, caring. “It’s late. Is everything okay?”

  I continue staring blindly outside, trying to zone out, attempting to ignore the sound of his voice.

  When I first fell for Lucas Pearson, I would h
ave promised him the moon if it meant he’d look at me like I was his everything.

  I would have made myself be anything to please him. Would have volunteered for any role just to be a part of his world.

  I just never imagined that in the story of our lives, he would cast me as the other woman.

  Or that, given the choice, I would willingly play the part.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lucas

  It’s like therapy.

  Surfing.

  When shit gets hard, I tell my problems to the ocean, share them with the waves that ebb and flow, rush in and fade out, the rough and the calm, just like life.

  Sometimes I float on my board, letting the push and pull of the tide calm and soothe me. Other times, I can’t get to my feet fast enough, need that feeling of slicing through the water, of knowing I’ve managed to tame Mother Nature.

  Even just for a moment.

  But mostly, being in the water is a reminder of how small I am, how unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and owning a wave can only happen if I’m willing to both accept that fact and reject it at the same time.

  Accept it, because I know a wave can take my life just as quickly as it forms. Reject it, because I have to truly believe in myself if there’s any chance for me to come out the other end unscathed.

  There’s an indescribable rush, a connection with the earth’s energy, a sense of belonging and groundedness that I really can’t find anywhere else.

  It makes me feel complete in a way nothing else does.

  Of course, I didn’t always feel like this about the ocean.

  I remember the first time my dad put a board in my hands: a five-foot, Liquid Shredder Softboard. He was on one of his random visits, and I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old at the time. I just remember thinking to myself how absolutely terrified I was, and that there was no way I would ever take it out into the water.

  I grew up next to the beach, mere feet from the sand my entire life, but up until that point, I’d always been a bit intimidated—more than a little afraid.

  On the rare occasions my mom wanted to go down to the water, we’d take a basket of toys for me and a chair and a book for her. She’d read and drink vodka while I got knocked on my ass and my bucket and shovel got sucked out into the water.

  So, yeah…

  I wasn’t a big fan.

  Then my dad, this guy I barely knew and who had only ever been to town to visit me a few times…he wanted me to stand on a board in that big mess of waves?

  No thanks.

  But he was surprisingly patient with me, moved really slowly. For the entire week he was visiting, he never pushed me to go out into the water when I didn’t feel ready.

  The day before he left town, I told him I wanted to try it out, for real, not just standing on a board in the sand.

  It would be great if this story had some beautiful moment that included me managing to stand by the end of the day, making my dad proud, something that bonded us together for the rest of our lives.

  Unfortunately, that just wasn’t in the cards. I couldn’t manage to get on my feet. The entire day, I felt a little lost, a little out of control, and it made me so angry.

  I stood next to him with tears in my eyes as he loaded up his car and said goodbye the following morning, wishing I’d been good enough to make him stay.

  Then he knelt down in front of me and told me to keep practicing so maybe the next time he came to see me, we could surf together.

  Of course, the first thing I did once he was gone was beg my mom to sign me up for surf lessons. I wanted to be able to stand up on the board the next time he visited.

  There’s a professional surf academy in the South Bay, and within a few weeks, I was booked in for daily private lessons.

  My instructor’s name was Fetu, and he was this big, broad-shouldered Samoan with tribal tattoos and long dark hair. His family had lived in Hawaii for years before he moved to California for love.

  He’s a surf coach now—mine, actually—but he’s still the same Fetu, always throwing out a shaka and a “Howzit, bro?” to the other locals and surfers when he’s around town.

  That summer, we met for weeks before there was any sign of improvement on my part. His biggest critique of my failures had to do with my desire to be in control.

  “You have to feel the essence of it and then roll along that flow,” he told me.

  I just remember scratching my head, not really getting what he meant at all and thinking Fetu might have taken one too many faceplants into the sandy shore. I’m sure what he said made sense, but I was a kid and couldn’t really put it to good use.

  We were floating in the ocean, me lying exhausted on the board, facing the sky, feeling the beginning prickle of tears at the backs of my eyes, certain I’d never be able to do it, sure my dad would come to town again and I’d still suck.

  Fetu stood next to me, trying to give me words of wisdom and advice. And then, he finally said something that clicked with me.

  “You know how when you’re upset and you want to cry because you didn’t get something you wanted, your entire body seizes up? You clench your fists and your face and you get loud and angry?”

  I nodded.

  “The wave is the opposite. It rolls in its own time, and you can either flow with it or get knocked over. The most important thing is that you relax.” He grinned. “Enjoy the ride as long as you can.”

  Then he started setting me up for the next wave that was forming off in the distance. I tried to remember that being tense and frustrated and angry wasn’t going to make me better.

  When that wave finally came, I paddled with it, started in that forward motion, and something clicked. Something in my chest felt like it recognized the wave in a different way.

  Up I went, onto my feet. My timing was perfect. The smile stretching across my face was massive.

  I finally let the wave be the wave, and she took me up with her. It was amazing.

  Of course, only a few seconds into it I totally bombed out. I fell forward onto the board and split my eyebrow open. Had to get a few stitches and couldn’t go into the water for a week.

  My mom was pissed—called the academy, threatened to sue, even though she’d signed off on a waiver absolving them of responsibility because—duh—surfing is a dangerous sport.

  It was too late, though.

  Just that one wave, and I was hooked.

  The feeling I’d had when I stood on that board for the first time… Even now, nearly twenty years later, it’s a feeling I try to recreate each time I slice through the water. The pure joy, the ability to let go and just be…it was incredible.

  The next time my dad came to town, we took our boards out and surfed together.

  It was a strange feeling, wanting to make someone proud. I’d never had that before.

  Definitely not with my mom, who worked all the time and usually left me with the nanny. I mean, she did the best she could with the hand she was dealt. She’d never really wanted a kid, but when she got pregnant with me, she also didn’t want to not have me.

  So, I lived in limbo.

  Technically I had a ‘family’—if you can call my mom and dad that with how rarely I saw her and how infrequent his visits were—but I lived most of my childhood alone.

  Well, not alone, I guess.

  I always had the waves.

  They were there to listen when life got too hard.

  “Dude, are you even listening to me?”

  I look over to where Otto is floating on a board next to mine and shake my head.

  “Sorry, man. Got distracted.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I said I’m gonna head in. You coming?”

  I nod and wave him on. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  He throws up a shaka and starts to paddle off, but I only watch him for a few seconds before my eyes drift away from his form and focus on the coastline in the distance.

  To the homes that stretch along th
e ocean’s edge and make up a small portion of the South Bay.

  I love this town.

  Hermosa Beach has been my home for my entire life.

  I’ve been lucky enough to do a lot of traveling, see a lot of places, go on some really amazing adventures—but nothing has ever made me feel the way being here does.

  I mean, I understand why people leave. There’s a great big world out there, ready to be explored and loved and shared and lived in, and I like exploring it, too.

  In the spring, I was a guest judge at a teen surf competition in Japan that my sponsor sent me to. I did an exhibition, judged the heats, posed for pictures, and signed autographs. The organizers took me out for some delicious food and showed me a few amazing surf spots along the coast of Chiba, the area outside of Tokyo where the competition was held.

  Earlier this summer, over Memorial Day weekend, I spent a few days up in Malibu at a smaller, local surfing competition. I volunteered for a bit, competed, and then Otto and I went out to the bars in the evening. We had a good time, and I was able to meet up with my girlfriend for dinner one night while I was in her neck of the woods and our schedules aligned.

  Whether I’m in Japan on my own or just a few hours up the coast along the PCH with people I’ve known my whole life, I’m always ready to come home.

  Maybe that makes me a pussy, but I don’t really care. I like what I like, and that includes my hometown, the place that feels the most comfortable, the most relaxed, the most familiar.

  Though, recently, things have gotten a lot more complicated. The town I know and love is changing, sure. That’s just what happens no matter where you live, and you can roll with the wave, ride it, or let it slam right into you.

  Unfortunately, a little wave of my own making has decided to take me on a ride outside of my comfort zone.