NOVEL NEXT Chapter 670: Aftermath of Victory
I waded through the shallows, board tucked under my arm like a war trophy, water streaming from my hair and shorts in thick rivulets that slapped the surface with every step.
The foam swirled around my calves—cold, bubbly, full of sand and seaweed that wrapped around my ankles like slimy fingers before the tide yanked it back out with a wet hiss. Salt crusted every inch of exposed skin, pulling tight, stinging the tiny cuts on my knuckles and feet from earlier glass.
My lungs still burned from the last sprint-paddle, chest rising and falling hard, ribs flaring, heart slamming against bone like it wanted out.
My body hummed—that post-surf high mixed with something deeper, darker.
Muscles still fired hot from the paddle-outs and duck-dives, shoulders screaming with good fatigue, forearms tight from gripping the rails so hard I'd left fingerprints in the wax. My skin tingled everywhere the sun touched, scalding, alive my new stats flaring.
And my cock—fuck—half-hard, had been since that twenty-second tube ride when the lip had curled over me like a coffin lid and the roar had swallowed the world. Something about the speed, the danger, the crowd's collective inhale—it all translated into raw, pulsing arousal I couldn't shake.
Or was it because of the newly gained power and my always on-rise lust?
The outline pressed thick against my soaked board shorts, impossible to miss, the head flaring every time a wave of cheers hit me. And judging by the eyes tracking me—hungry, wide, unblinking—plenty of girls had noticed.
The sun was lower now, maybe thirty minutes from kissing the horizon. The light had gone soft and golden, that magic hour that made every droplet on my skin look like liquid fire. It painted the sand, the water, the faces—hundreds of faces—in warm, worshipful tones.
The crowd had swollen while we were out back.
What started as a hundred had tripled—three hundred, maybe more—drawn by the noise, the energy, the live streams blowing up on every phone.
The beach looked like a fever-dream festival: coolers, towels, portable speakers thumping bass, smoke curling from a grill someone had dragged down, charred meat smell mixing with coconut sunscreen, weed, sweat.
They watched me approach. Not rushing—not yet—just watching. Phones up, recording, but there was something heavier in the air. Respect. Awe. That moment when mortals witness something they know they'll tell their grandchildren about.
They're looking at a god, I thought, feeling the weight of every stare like hands on my skin. And they fucking know it.
The sand shifted under my feet—cool and wet to warm and soft, then scalding dry. Each step sank, grains clinging to my calves where water still dripped, sticking like tiny brands. The heat from the day's sun radiated up through my soles, sharp, punishing, a brutal contrast to the cold ocean that had numbed my legs thirty seconds ago.
I reached the dry sand, felt the temperature spike. Planted the board nose-first—THUNK—let it stand there like a monument, gunmetal gray against the gold light, wax still glistening.
"Holy shit, he actually rode it."
"Told you that board was cursed."
"Three guys tried it this summer. All of them got destroyed."
"Maybe it just needed the right rider."
"Or maybe he's no human."
I turned my head, caught the speakers—two guys in their twenties, one clutching a longboard like a shield, both staring at my board like it was a loaded weapon I'd just set down.
Colt was already there, board under his arm, salt crusted in his blonde spikes and across his shoulders like war paint. When I approached, he extended his hand—calloused, sunburned, still dripping.
I looked at it. Then at him.
His jaw was tight, but his eyes were clean. No bitterness. Just raw acknowledgment. He'd lost, and he knew the gap between us was a canyon.
I took it. Firm grip. Quick. Bone-crushing.
"That last wave," he said, voice rough, "that was… fuck, man. I've been surfing this break ten years. Never seen anyone ride that deep that long."
Jaxon stepped up next, massive frame eclipsing the sun, casting a shadow that swallowed Colt whole. Unlike Colt's surrender, there was still fire in his eyes—competition, hunger.
"You made us look like kooks out there." He grinned, but it had teeth. "I ain't even mad. That was art." Yet, his body language said. Next time…
Ryder—pure, wide-eyed worship. "Where the hell did you learn to surf like that? Nobody just does that."
I shrugged. "Practice."
"Bullshit," Ky laughed, but his eyes were sharp, playful, testing. Shane hung back, quieter, nose already peeling, studying me like a puzzle he intended to solve.
Dex burst through the circle, arms wide, trust-fund grin blinding. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" he bellowed, spinning to the crowd. "YOUR BEACH KING—EROS!"
The eruption was deafening. Cheers, whistles, phones flashing like a lightning storm. But they still didn't rush.
There was a circle around us—six surfers and one rich kid—that people respected. For now.
Then she broke through.
Early twenties. Blonde. Bikini top barely containing heavy, perfect tits, nipples thick and straining against neon fabric. She had that look—the kind who was used to being the hottest girl on any beach and knew it.
"That was incredible," she breathed, stepping too close, perfume slicing through the salt—coconut, vanilla, sex. "I'm Melissa. Are you… like, are you actually real?"
Before I could answer, her friend materialized—brunette, shorter, curves lethal, ass round enough to make men stupid. "He's real, babe. Very real." Her eyes dropped—chest, abs, then lower. Lingered. Saw everything.
"Very, very real."
Her hand reached out—tentative, then bold—fingertips brushing my forearm, tracing the vein still pumped from paddling. Her touch was warm, sticky with sunscreen and sweat. The contact sent a jolt straight to my cock; she felt it, saw the muscle twitch, saw my skin react, pupils blowing wide.
They were hooked.
More women drifted over. Casual at first. Pretending to talk to Colt or Jaxon, but bodies angled toward me, hips cocked, tits pushed out. Phone cameras angled low, not even pretending anymore.
A redhead in a white one-piece leaned into Jaxon, asking about his board, but her eyes never left me. Her friend—petite Asian girl, tiny waist, ass fat—just stared, bottom lip caught between teeth, hard.
"Yo, Eros!" A guy tossed a beer. I caught it one-handed, cracked it—PSSHT—foam fizzing, cold, bitter. Took a long pull, carbonation stinging throat, alcohol burning slow.
The crowd roared again, like I'd just pulled another twenty-second tube.
"Eros! Eros! Eros!" Fifty voices started it. Then hundreds. The chant rolled like a wave, vibrating in my bones, in my cock.
Colt laughed, shook his head, salt flying. "You're about to have the most popular Instagram in California, boy."
"Don't have Instagram," I said.
Melissa stepped closer, tits brushing my arm, voice husky. "Then let us be your account."
Her friend's hand slid lower—brushing the waistband of my shorts, fingernails grazing skin, teasing the V. "We'll make you famous."
The circle tightened. Hands, bodies, heat, scent—pussy, sweat, coconut, need.
He stared at me. Blinked twice, slow, like his brain was buffering. "You… you're fucking with me."
"Nope."
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A/N: So we have Melissa in this one too like my other new novel, huh?