Chapter 8
EIGHT
SAVANNA
The coldness of the ocean consumes me when Dalton drags me under the waves.
Our bodies now fully submerged—legs intertwined together to keep us from drifting apart.
The current continues to rock us back and forth into one another.
The firm grip Dalton has on my hips steadies me against his sculpted body—his rough fingertips dig into my skin like he’s my safety buoy in the water.
Dalton’s lips press into mine before we push up through the water, gasping for air and clinging to one another.
With my legs around Dalton’s waist, hands laced around his neck, I realize I can no longer touch the sandy bottom.
His hands grip my thighs, fingers tracing along my skin, sending a jolt of electricity to my core.
There’s an inferno burning in Dalton’s eyes as he watches me—his chest rises and falls with each labored breath.
“Fuck. Savanna,” he rasps.
Pulling Dalton back into me, I kiss him deeply—the taste of saltwater penetrating against our lips.
Dalton takes me into his mouth, his tongue swiping against mine as he gently pleads for entry.
I grant him access, tipping my neck up to take his mouth deeper.
I glide my tongue across his bottom lip and bite down, releasing it slowly.
A hiss escapes him. “Jesus, Savanna.” I can see the lack of control burning deep within his eyes as he pulls back from me.
“Dalton...” I say breathlessly, arching my body into him. I grind my center along his heat—feeling his length harden between us.
He crashes his mouth to mine again, and I let out a moan—the sound vibrating between us. “God. That noise, Savanna. It’s driving me wild,” Dalton whimpers, his mouth tracing kisses up my neck before he sinks his teeth into my earlobe.
I gasp as my body grinds into him, fingers digging into the back of his head. Gooseflesh pebbles across my arms.
“That feels so good,” I moan, tilting my head to give better access.
“Yeah?” he asks huskily, continuing to kiss and suck his way down my neck toward my collarbone. “Good, because you have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
His hands roam my body, and I lean into his touch, his fingers trailing between my cleavage, brushing lightly against the fabric of my bikini top.
My breath hitches at the feeling of Dalton’s hands on me.
Giving him a nod of approval, his hand travels slowly under my bikini material.
An index finger and thumb find my nipple, rolling and pinching me.
I throw my head back and gasp as a shiver of pleasure rolls through me.
“God, Savanna, you're fucking perfect.” Taking my mouth again, he grinds into me, causing friction to swell.
A breath escapes me as I push myself into him, a need growing deep within me. “God, Dalton, you feel so good.” My hands roam over his chest, trailing them lower, lightly grazing the firmness through his shorts.
A choked sob slips free. “Jesus. I’m so obsessed with you, Savanna. It’s always been you,” Dalton moans.
I gasp, pulling back from his grasp as a fluttery sensation swarms my chest. His hand slips from my bikini top as I cradle his face in my hands, eyes searching for the truth in the words he just confessed.
“Obsessed with me?” I say in a shaky voice, afraid I heard him wrong.
Years of bottled-up feelings he never showed, nor hinted at—now pour out between us in the middle of the Atlantic.
“Are you kidding me, Savanna?” Dalton rushes out, lifting one of my palms from his face and planting a kiss on it. “How could I not be? I’ve been staring at you my whole life. It has always been you, Sav.”
I glanced down at our now entwined hands, my heart beating erratically in my chest.
I’ve always wanted Dalton Hayes to notice me, and just when I was about to give up on the hope that he would, he reveals he always has.
I tug on my bottom lip, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “It’s always been you for me, too.”
Dalton and his hungry eyes consume me. Our lips connect in a heated kiss before he hikes me up his waist and walks us out to shore…
“Come on, Sav,” Sanders begs, holding his palms together in a mock-prayer. “Please?”
I raise an apprehensive eyebrow, mixing drinks from behind the bar, sizing him up as he sits on the wooden barstool in front of me.
I smirk as my eyes roam over Sander’s steer head bolo tie and white cowboy hat.
He’s always had a larger-than-life personality.
And it would seem he’s decided to channel that into Country Night at Salty’s, being one of the few guys in the bar who took tonight’s dress code seriously, looking like he stepped out of the arena at the Pbr, not the attorney’s office he works at down the street.
“One dance tonight? Just one? For old time’s sake? Please.” He fakes a pout. “You never work Country Fridays anymore. They’re just not the same without you.”
“Ugh, Sanders,” I grumble, slapping a rag over my shoulder. “You know country night is not my favorite.”
It really isn’t. But when I woke up to an emergency text from Hailey this morning asking for help tonight at the bar, I knew I needed a distraction from the words Dalton whispered to me the other night on my porch, and bartending for a bunch of drunk cowboys tonight seemed like the perfect distraction to get me out of the tailspin I’ve seemed to have found myself in the last two days.
But I was wrong.
My attention snaps back toward Sanders, who has exchanged his protruding bottom lip for a shit-eating grin. “Yeehaw,” Sanders shouts, already forgetting about the dance he was begging me for. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Sanders whips around in his seat, the stool nearly tipping backward with his sudden movement. Hudson weaves his way through the crowd, making his way toward the bar. When he gets close, Sanders hugs him, slapping his back with three loud whacks.
“It’s a party now,” Sanders says. The two small glasses of whiskey I’ve served him so far are already kicking in.
“Hey, man,” Hudson says, sliding into an open stool. “Look who I found in the parking lot,” he teases, nodding his head toward the door.
My eyes snag on Dalton as he navigates the sea of people here tonight, my heart rate kicking into overdrive as he walks right into one of Sander’s bear hugs. I pretend I’m too busy to notice him, switching to a new tab on the register—when I fail and catch a glimpse of Dalton from my peripheral.
My breath hitches as my eyes wander down Dalton’s toned physique. He’s wearing a pair of fitted, dark blue Wranglers along with work boots—his jeans clinging to his oversized thighs. I wipe the sweat accumulating at my hairline.
Jesus. Why does he have to look this good?
I take stock of his plain black, fitted tee pulled taut around his biceps and chest, as if someone had painted it on, while studying the colorful sleeve of his tattoos encircling his right arm.
My eyes finish their journey, landing on Dalton’s light brown chestnut hair styled to one side.
And when I finally glimpse his eyes, they’re burning into my own as his lips curve into a sly smile.
Damn it.
Did he just catch me ogling him?
Heat rises to my cheeks as I quickly break eye contact with him, turning my attention toward Hudson instead. “Hey, Hudson. I didn’t realize you were making it out tonight. I thought the Eagles had a game.”
“Nope. I’m a free man tonight, Sav,” he replies. “The game got rescheduled to tomorrow night because the lights stopped working at the fields. Hopefully, the electricians working on it can get it fixed in time for tomorrow’s game.”
I nod. “Gotcha. Well, what can I get you, boys?”
Even when I’m avoiding Dalton’s gaze, I can still feel his eyes on me.
“Just a Bud Light for me, sis. What are you drinking tonight, Dalton?”
“Whiskey,” Dalton replies coolly, licking his lips. “On the rocks.”
I swallow, willing myself to stay away from the sexy devil tonight—I don’t want him to think I can be a source of his entertainment.
I’ve got Drew now. I’m not the same girl I was when I was seventeen.
I need predictability, not the uncertainty staring back at me like he’s some ravaged dog.
There’s absolutely no way I’m putting myself in a compromising position like the one I found myself in years ago, especially after he broke my heart, leaving me high and dry.
“Coming right up,” I toss over my shoulder, turning my back on Dalton, not willing myself to get burned by the inferno in his eyes again.
“Okay, Dalton. It’s your turn,” I overhear the tall redhead slur as I’m setting their Jello shots down onto the table. “Marry, kiss, or kill?” she asks, licking her lips in anticipation of his response, gesturing around the table at her friend group.
It didn’t take me long to realize that the only reason Hailey called me in for emergency help at the bar was this particularly boisterous, and if I might add, very drunk bachelorette party that was scheduled at the last minute, knowing it was going to be an all-hands-on-deck situation.
Quite frankly, it doesn’t surprise me one bit that Hudson and Sanders weaseled their way to the table tonight, dragging Dalton along. They look perfectly content celebrating this bride-to-be’s last hurrah, sipping on tiny pink penis straws.
“Come on, tell us,” the redheaded bombshell whines, squeezing Dalton’s forearm. Sliding the shots around the table, I watch her finger trace the outline of his colorful tattoo.
Dalton scratches his jawline, shifting his weight on the barstool, avoiding the question.
“Come on, man. It’s not that fucking hard,” Hudson quips, happily sipping his Sex on the Beach through the penis straw. “Just pick one.” He motions toward the roughly ten women sitting around the table. They look like runway models, and they all have eyes for Dalton.
Dalton clears his throat, twisting his whiskey glass in his hand, giving me a sidelong glance. “None of them.”
Hudson snorts. “Yeah, fucking right, man. You’ve been in the desert the last eight goddamn months. It’s okay to have needs, man. Play the game. Have a little fun.”
The drunk women giggle around the table.
Dalton’s face pales as he grips his glass, his knuckles turning white. I feel his eyes on me as I pass out the next round. “Well, I hate this game.”
“Okay. I see you're going to be difficult, so I’ll just choose for you…” Hudson says, glancing around the table.
“Okay, sorry, ladies. You’re all gorgeous tens in my book, but in the spirit of the game, I’m going to have to kill one of you off for this guy.
” He hikes a thumb at Dalton. “I know Dalton’s type. ”
My cheeks are on fire.
“And I’m sorry, but blondes aren’t it. I’m going to go with kill the blondie…sorry, babe. You're getting married anyway...” He pauses, sipping his drink, before he gestures toward another two women at the table. “Kiss the brunette and marry the redhead.”
Sanders barks out a laugh. “Nah, man. You got it all wrong. That’s not Dalton’s type.” He’s a little too confident despite slurping from a penis. “Dalton’s type is black hair.” He gestures toward a stunning woman who has a fresh blow-out of dark, black hair.
Hudson scoffs, recoiling. “Sanders, I think I know my best friend.”
Sanders laughs, slapping Hudson on the back of the head. “Fucker. We’re all best friends. Don’t play favorites, or else your ass isn’t sleeping at my place tonight.”
Hudson lets out a gasp. “You wouldn’t.”
Sanders smirks. “I would,” he says as a brunette crawls into his lap. He loops his arms around her waist. I guess Sanders found a dance partner tonight.
“Alright, then. Let’s settle this little tiff once and for all,” Hudson says, turning toward Dalton. “Dalton? Care to give us your input? What’s your type?”
My eyes widen, piling the empty glasses onto my tray. The sounds of glass clinking together fill the space. The last thing I want to do is stand here while I listen to him talk about his type. I think I’ve had enough torture for the last week since Dalton’s return.
As I turn on the heel of my cowgirl boots, Dalton clears his throat, his glass hitting the high-top table. “Blondes,” he mumbles under his breath.
Hudson gasps in disbelief. “Since when?”
I try my best to tune out their conversation, focusing on the country music, couples dancing—anything, so I don’t have to hear Dalton’s response.
As I see a break in the crowd and inch closer to the bar top, Dalton finally answers.
I sneak a glance behind my shoulder and lock eyes with him as he says, “Well…since forever.”