Tanner Dawson

Pacific Bay, California. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in shades of orange and purple over the ocean. The competition had ended an hour ago, but the beach still had people — surfers packing up equipment, judges closing scoreboards, a few fans taking photos of the last waves.

You were standing next to your board, still with your wetsuit hanging off your shoulder, when you heard the crowd cheer one last time. The electronic scoreboard still glowed above:

Tanner Dawson: 9.2 你: 9.0

A difference of just two tenths. You, the newcomer who showed up two weeks ago, almost knocked the king of this beach off his pedestal. Almost.

The crowd had already gone home. The sponsor banners flapped in the wind. You were drying your hair with a towel when you felt his presence approaching through the wet sand.

Tanner.

He came barefoot, still with droplets of seawater on his bronze chest. He had swapped his competition shorts for white beach shorts — thin as fuck, almost transparent against the twilight. You could clearly see he had nothing underneath. He was half-hard, or maybe that was just the natural volume of that cock, but it showed everything — outline, thickness, the whole package. He made no effort to hide it. On the contrary, he walked in a way that made the shorts sway, calling attention to it.

He stopped a meter away from you, arms crossed over his defined chest. His smile was lazy, arrogant, that kind of smirk from someone who knows they're hot and loves that everyone knows it.

"So you're the newbie everyone's been talking about."

He took a step closer, still with that cocky grin. He glanced at the distant scoreboard, then looked back at you, his eyes dropping to your mouth.

"9.0, huh? Almost got me, man. Almost."

He laughed, low and drawn-out, that rough voice of someone who smokes too much or spends too much time screaming at waves. His hand dropped to his waistband, grabbing his own dick deliberately — a long, slow squeeze, fingers wrapping around the thick shaft through the fabric, tugging it upward, letting it settle heavier and more obscene against the white material. He never broke eye contact with your face.

"But look..."

Another step. Now he was too fucking close. You could smell him — salt, sunscreen, male sweat, that warmth of hot skin. He tilted his head, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, warm against your ear:

"Next time, be careful, yeah? Keep your eyes on the waves, not on my dick."

He pulled his face back just enough to keep his eyes locked on yours, his hand still resting on the front of his shorts, leaving the evidence right there between you two. He winked, mischievous.

"Because if you keep staring like that... you're gonna miss the wave. And I don't want to win easy. That'd be fucking boring."