If you were to pick a random person in a crowd of people and ask them if they’d rather date someone who was uglier and less successful than them or someone who was better looking and more successful than them, the vast majority would choose to date up rather than down. But dating up is not all it’s cracked up to be.

For the first four or five years Ben and I were together, my stomach was in knots every time we were out in public. I felt like everyone was looking at us, judging me as unworthy. True, most of them were just admiring Ben’s striking good looks. But often, I found myself grappling with the painfully heavy realization that I was dating up. Ben was just too good for me.

Only this last year — after years of Ben trying to convince me that I’m the most gorgeous and amazing thing that ever happened to the universe — have I finally started feel like Ben and I are equals. Well, almost equal. He’s still a better singer than I am and I’m still better at taking selfies than he is.

Ben and I carry our surfboards across the narrow isthmus toward Goat Rock, the rocky outcrop just off the coast of Goat Rock Beach.

“Take my board,” I say, stopping in the middle of the sandy path connecting the beach and the hundred-foot-long miniature island.

Goat Rock is about forty feet high with a nearly flat top and off-center arch carved through the middle, where inexperienced swimmers have been killed by the rising tides and aggressive surf.

“What are you doing?” Ben said, a note of worry in his voice as he takes my board and tucks it under his free arm. “The tide will be coming in soon. We need to hurry.”

“I just want to take a picture from here,” I say, grabbing the camera that dangles around my neck and pointing it at the pelicans perched at the top of the arch.

“Does Mason know where we are?” he asks as I take a few more shots of the beach and the rock.

I continue on across the isthmus, a thrill of adrenaline coursing through me when a rolls in and laps against my calves, the salt spray stinging my nostrils. “I told him we were going to Goat Rock to take pictures of the harbor seals.”

Ben skips the last few feet until he reaches the sandy shore of Goat Rock, quickly leaning the boards against the rock face and heading back toward me to grab my hand. “This was a stupid idea,” he says, his grip on my hand tightening with each step we take. “We should have just gone to the lake.”

I laugh when we reach our boards. “We’ve had sex at the lake dozens of times.”

“We’re gonna get tossed,” he says, grabbing both boards and stacking them on top of his head. “You climb up and I’ll hand you the boards. Then, I’ll climb up.”

I dig my climbing shoes into the crevices of the least steep side of the rock face. Using my bare hands, it takes less than ten minutes to safely climb to the flat surface of the top of Goat Rock. I step down to a lower level and hang over the edge so Ben can pass me the boards, then he climbs up on the same side as I did.

“This is the craziest thing we’ve ever done,” he says, shaking his head as he looks out across the vast, sparkling Pacific Ocean. “But God damn is this beautiful.”

I immediately begin taking pictures with my GoPro, smiling when Ben comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Do you have your speech ready for the BBMAs?” I ask, referring to the fact that the nominees for this year’s Billboard Music Awards were announced yesterday, and Ben was nominated for Top New Artist and Top 100 Artist.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he says as he kisses my neck.

“You have to be prepared,” I reply, turning around to face him.

Even at five-foot-nine, I feel like a midget next to his six-foot-four frame. He towers over me, his blue eyes like aquamarine pools sparkling in the bright afternoon sunlight. His golden-brown hair is damp and wavy from the salt spray, framing the kind of face that sells expensive watches and cologne. But his body is the kind that sells men’s fitness magazines.

Taut and tanned from equal time spent at the beach and the gym, his body is a work of art, which he uses as a canvas. So far he has twenty-eight tattoos, each one as meaningful and sexy as the last. Of course, I favored the “i love us” tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, written in my handwriting.

“Let’s step down onto the lower ledge,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. “No one will see us there except the seagulls and the sharks.”

“And the pelicans and the seals,” I reply with a grin.

We lower ourselves the four feet down to the ledge on the west side of Goat Rock. My adrenaline kicks in again as the sound of the waves crashing against this side of the rocky outcrop feels dangerous. Even if the waves will never reach us thirty-five feet above the surface.

Ben turns me around, pressing his body against mine as I bend over and splay my hands on the rock face. “Here’s my BBMA speech,” he growls in my ear. “Fuck Billboard. Fuck my record company. And fuck my agent.”

“Is this some kind of Kanye impression?” I say with a chuckle.

He takes my earlobe between his teeth and tugs softly, then whispers, “And to all my fans… I wish you peace, love, and fun…”

“…in the sun,” I murmur, finishing his sentence, which happens to be an inside joke. “God, we’re so annoying it’s gross.”

“I love us,” he murmurs, pulling my ass against the bulge in his board shorts and reaching around to lay his palm flat on my bare stomach.

“My solo show is just a week after the BBMAs,” I remark, letting out a soft gasp as he slides his hand down the front of my bikini bottoms.

His other hand tugs down the back of my swimsuit to expose my ass. “I’m gonna try really hard to be there waiting for you when your solo show’s over,” he replies, obviously not understanding the hint I’m sending about wanting to go to the BBMA show with him.

Slipping his middle finger inside me, he gently prods around my entrance until he sees my body twitch. He strokes my G-spot for a few minutes until he’s satisfied I’m wet enough for him to gain entrance. I let out an unrestrained moan as his erection slides in a couple of inches, then out again.

He does this a few more times, massaging my G-spot with the head of his cock as he stretches me slowly and carefully so I can fully receive him. The whole time, his right hand massages my bud, and just when I think I’m about to explode, he eases off my clit and thrusts into me hard.

Letting out a deep groan, he softly bites down on my shoulder. “Fuck. You feel so fucking good, kitten.”

“Are you really going to say fuck you to all those people if you win?” I ask, unable to get his words out of my mind.

He laughs as he stops thrusting. “My dick is eight inches inside you and you’re worried about a fucking awards show?”

I don’t have an answer for his question as he slowly plunges in and out of me again.

“Who does this belong to?” he growls, his finger pressing against my swollen bud in time with the movement of his hips.

My mouth opens in a hollow gasp, rendering me unable to speak.

He stops thrusting, cupping his hand over my mound as he waits for an answer.

“You,” I breathe. “You withholding bastard.”

He laughs as he strokes my clit again. “Is this what you want?” he murmurs, his hips no longer moving though his cock is still buried deep inside me.

“Yes.”

He massages the slick pearl between my thighs gently, in slow, exquisite circles. All the while, the head of his rock-hard penis is pressed against my G-spot, affectionately prodding the tender flesh the way nature intended.

“Oh… My… God…” I moan as a rush of pleasure fires through me, traveling down my spine and exploding between my legs, making my thighs tremble.

“That’s it,” he encourages me, maintaining his God-like patience as he continues to massage my clit with the soft pad of his finger and my G-spot with the head of his cock.

I let out a piercing shriek as the orgasm crashes into me, rattling me down to my bones.

He lets out a guttural moan as he slides all the way inside me again. Pulling my body flush against his warm, sweaty skin, his finger is still poised over my clit, coaxing the final throes of my trembling orgasm out of me.

“Are you finished?” he asks.

I chuckle softly as I grip the rock face for extra support. “Oh, yeah.”

Ben always makes sure I come before he does. I am truly blessed.

His thrusts become deeper, lingering inside me a moment before pulling out and slamming into me again. Standing up straight, he digs his fingers into my skin as he grasps my hips and rides me hard. The deep penetration and the sensation of his balls smacking against my clit sends me careening toward a second orgasm. He lets go inside me just as my thighs begin to tremble again.

Hooking his arm around my waist, he leans forward, his hot breath in my ear as he whispers, “I could ride my Charley horse all day.” He softens and slowly slides out, releasing a sigh as his warm cum trickles out of me. “Yee-haw.”

I gasp as he lands a light swat on my ass before I pull up my bikini bottoms. “Get the boards ready. I’m going to take a few pictures before we head back.”

“You didn’t bring your scarf,” Ben remarks as he grabs the boards to take them to the middle of the natural rock bridge, which forms the top of the arch, the safest place to dive off Goat Rock. “If we die jumping off this rock, it’s your fault.”

“Then, you can say I told you so when we see each other in heaven,” I reply, following behind him as I remove the strap around my neck and tighten it around my bicep, so I can record the jump.

He shakes his head as he watches me adjust the camera. “Kitten, if there’s a heaven, it’s right here and now. You’re my heaven,” he says, leaning in and planting a soft peck on my cheekbone. “I love you.”

“I love us,” I correct him with a smile. “I love us so much I recorded us having sex,” I say, tapping my GoPro.

The smile on his face vanishes, and he appears troubled by this new information.

“I’m kidding,” I clarify.

He turns away and looks out across the ocean toward the horizon. “If this drop goes as planned, this will be the best day of my life.”

My nerves kick in as we pick up our surfboards. “Even better than the day they announced the BBMA nominees,” I tease him.

He leans over and lays a soft lingering kiss on my forehead. “Best. Day. Ever.” He nods toward the water. “Are you ready?”

I nod. “Ready.”

“All right. One. Two. Three,” he says, and we toss our boards off the top of the Goat Rock arch in unison.

The boards land about eight feet apart, and we hold hands as we quickly jump in feet first after them. The water is shockingly cool for mid-April, I have to stop myself from gasping as we plunge beneath the surface. Our hands become disconnected, and my body floods with adrenaline as I realize I’m still sinking.

Mercifully, my right foot bumps into a jagged rock and I push off it to swim toward the sunlight. My lungs burn with a panicked need to breathe. I resurface just in time to see Ben plunge back into the water, his feet kicking up as he dives down into the depths.

I plug my nose and try to open my eyes below the surface to see what he’s doing, but the salt stings too much. I immediately close my eyes and hold my head above the water as I bob on the surface of the undulating waves. As I begin to swim toward my board, Ben pops up right beside me.

“Your foot is bleeding through your shoe,” he says, breathless and blinking furiously against the saltwater in his eyes. “Go ahead and swim back. I’ll get your board.”

We manage to grab both boards and make it back to the shore, exhausted and exhilarated from the rush of what we just did. Ben insists on giving me a piggyback ride across the beach while resting both boards on top of our heads. When we get to his SUV, he helps me into the passenger seat and carefully removes my climbing shoes.

He tosses them into the footwell and kneels in front of me to get a better look at the cut on the ball of my foot, right below my big toe. “You might need a couple stitches. Do you want to shower first or do you want to go straight to the hospital?”

“It doesn’t even really hurt. I’ll shower first,” I reply, swinging my legs into the car.

But he stares at my foot for a moment before he stands up. “I’m sorry you got hurt. I feel responsible.”

I can’t help but laugh. “What are you apologizing for? This whole thing was my idea, and I’m not really that hurt.”

He considers my words for a long moment. “It’s my job to take care of you. This is the last time we’re doing something this dangerous.”

I’m silent for a moment as I try to think of something to say to change the subject. “Hey, do you want me to post the GoPro footage or do you want me to send it to you so you can post it after it’s edited?”

He lets out a resigned sigh. “You can post it.”

As he closes the passenger door and rounds the front of the SUV, a strange, almost foreign anxiety bubbles up inside my belly and I start to feel sick, as if I’ve swallowed a gallon of seawater. The insecure voice in my brain, the one that sometimes tells me I’m not good enough for Ben, begins shouting warnings at me.

He’s not worried about you getting hurt. He’s just looking for a reason to stop being seen with you. That’s why he didn’t acknowledge your hint about going to the BBMAs and that’s why he doesn’t want to post the GoPro video on his Instagram.

I shake my head at these dangerous thoughts as Ben slides into the gray leather driver’s seat and presses the ignition button.

Leaning across the console, I plant a loud kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me. I love you.”

He finally smiles and just the sight of it, his full lips curving upward and the sand sparkling in the creases at the corners of his eyes, calms my nerves. “I love us,” he corrects me, and all my insecurities are washed away.