by Traci Hall
Dillon led the way up the stairs to the deck. They sat on stools around a high top and he waved to a middle-aged waitress with starfish earrings and a blue apron.
“What can I get you?” she asked, her lipstick too pink against her tobacco-stained teeth.
“A round of Jamison. It has to be Jamison,” he said. It had been Anderson’s favorite whiskey and if the bar didn’t have it, they’d go somewhere else.
“No problem. Water, too?” She nodded though he hadn’t said anything and hustled off behind the bar. When she returned, she passed out the drinks, then, as if sensing the somberness of the moment, she ducked away.
“To Anderson,” Dillon said. Chapman, Davey, and Mack raised their shot glasses.
“To Anderson,” they chorused, smacking the bottom of the glass to the wooden table before dumping the amber liquid down their throats and plunking it rim-side on the varnished top. Over this last deployment, a red female hawk, with a four foot wingspan, collided with an MH-60 Seahawk, destroying the rotor and bringing the helo down. Commander Ramirez ejected in time, but Lieutenant Anderson did not.
Death had a way of bringing things into sharp focus. He and Anderson had trained as pilots together, each prodding the other to stretch their skills without putting the helo at risk. If there had been a way to save the helicopter, Anderson would have found it.
Mack wiped his mouth with the back of his broad hand. “So stupid, downed by a real bird during routine maneuvers. That hawk came out of nowhere.”
“Commander said his family appreciated the pictures we sent.” Davey swiped his thick finger through the puddle of condensation pooled around his water glass.
“Anderson was always a joker.” Chapman took off his Ray Bans and squeezed the bridge of his nose, his jaw tight. “I kept expecting him to pop up out of the water.”
Dillon waved to the waitress, who immediately brought another round.
Davey lifted his Jamison and said, “To life. It’s damn short.”
“To life,” they all said.
“I feel bad for his wife, man.” Mack scrubbed his palm over the top of his short hair, the blond bristling. “They just got married.”
“Yeah. Sucks. Good thing they hadn’t started a family, I guess,” Chapman said, hanging his sunglasses in the collar of his t-shirt.
“Definitely.” Dillon took a drink of water. He planned on a Navy career—no kids, no wife. No hassle.
The waitress brought another round, this time asking, “Anything to eat tonight? We’ve got lobster nachos, fish tacos, flatbread. Parmesan sweet potato fries.”
Davey rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking. Lobster nachos.” He glanced around the table. “What are you losers gonna have?”
Dillon rested his forearms on the table. “Fish tacos for me. And a Guinness.”
By the time they’d finished eating, the keyboardist had packed up but they could hear the sound check from the stage they’d passed on the way. “Should we hang out and listen to the band? I hope its classic rock.” Unlike his pals, Dillon was not a country music fan.
“Sure,” Mack said, his eyes tracking the variety of women passing by. He’d been in a relationship for the last two years that his girlfriend had just ended because Mack wasn’t rushing marriage.
Dillon doubted Mack would be lonely tonight, and didn’t blame the guy. Four months out to sea was a long time. For all of them. Davey was already on his feet, followed by Chapman.
Dillon snagged the check and added a thirty percent tip for the intuitive waitress. His mom had occasionally bartended and always had nightmare stories about asshole customers, so he tried to over-tip when possible. Now his mom was shacked up with hubby number five in Atlanta. To say he and his mom weren’t close would be the understatement of the year.
He walked down the steps to the paved area where the guys waited. A cute blonde in sparkling red cowboy boots and Daisy Duke short-shorts was warming up at the mic on a ten-foot stage. A drummer twanged his sticks against a cymbal as the guitarist tuned an electric Fender.
“Even if the music sucks, she’s hot.” Davey rubbed his hands together, ready to satisfy a different appetite.
The four men wandered toward the band, getting 24 ouncers in plastic cups from a beer kiosk. Now 8:30, the evening was the dark blue of twilight. He gravitated toward the right side of the square, keeping the open area with chairs between him and the tourist shop across the way. A gust of wind off the ocean at his back brought the smell of saltwater, and felt like home.
The women here seemed more cute, in flip flops and sundresses, compared to sexy Miami, where bikinis and heels were the dress code—maybe tomorrow night. Sweet wasn’t his type. The music started, a country song that he recognized from the radio, and the ladies immediately started dancing. He stepped back before a blonde in shorts and a tank top bumped his beer.
Dillon scanned the crowd, his gaze zeroing in on a slender, pale woman in a sleeveless black silky top, skinny jeans, and black strappy sandals. One arm was a profusion of floral tatts. Her silky hair was the color of licorice and his gut clenched with immediate interest. Different from the tanned beach babes around her and not afraid to be unique. Sexy.
As if she felt the pull of his stare from across the street, she looked up from her plastic cup of beer toward him. Smoky shadow made the teal of her eyes pop an electric blue, and the glossy red of her full lips made him hunger to taste.
He leaned into the back of a yellow Adirondack chair, shaken to his core. Dillon was no stranger to lust. Or want. But this craving, this desire, amped up need a hundred degrees. Someone so smokin’ hot had to be taken. She stood with a group of friends—no male attached to her side. Dillon imagined throwing her over his shoulder and running back to the hotel with her. Davey could sleep in the truck.
He called dibs on his fantasy chick. This shit didn’t happen in real life—right?
She slowly ran the tip of her finger around the rim of the plastic cup and his groin stiffened at the blatant come on. His dick pressed against his jeans and he shifted, hiding his arousal by stepping behind the chair.
Sipping from her cup, she flicked her tongue to the edge. He pictured what else she might do and drained his beer.
She did the same, and then tossed the cup into a trashcan. He crushed his cup, never taking his eyes off of her.
She stepped toward him, away from the ladies she was with—he knew they were female, probably attractive, but she was the only one for him. At her predatory look, he almost backed up into Davey, who was watching the band rather than the crowd. His loss, Dillon thought.
Dillon liked the thrill of pushing the envelope, of teetering on the edge and then choosing to jump. The rush of free-falling. Danger. This woman had literally stepped out of his fantasies and was here, now, heading toward him with a sway of slender hips.
Dillon pushed away from the chair and stalked in her direction. Mine.
Crysta’s breasts grew heavy from the sultry look of promise in the hot guy’s intense green gaze. Military crewcut, broad shoulders, tapered to a trim waist. Great legs in Levi’s—classic choice. Leather flip flops. Navy blue cotton shirt that molded to muscled biceps.
He made her very glad she’d shaved her legs before coming out tonight. She’d come with friends to listen to Lara’s band, not looking to meet anybody. His eyes narrowed and she felt his desire for her as if he’d touched her. God, it had been two months since she and Aaron split, and there’d been a dry spell while she’d studied for her master’s stylist certificate.
She swallowed, wishing she had more beer.
Something to wet her mouth—all she could think of was how he would taste. She left the safety of her friends as soon as he came around the yellow chair.
Three steps across the square each—and they stopped, nose to nose, not touching. This was like something out of a movie. Heat emanated from him and she wanted to hop into his arms and melt.
Staring up into his eyes, dark brown lashes,
thick, surrounded emerald orbs with jade flecks. His trim nose had a slight bend in the center, as if he’d been hit. It didn’t detract from his hotness but added a masculine ruggedness to his face.
This wasn’t a guy afraid to get his hands dirty.
She liked that.
Lots of times she attracted rich playboys who wanted to feel like they were getting away with something by dating a woman with shadows.
His breath warmed her face and she lifted her chin. Thick brows, great symmetry of forehead and chin—and those eyes—they could be gems. “You’re gorgeous,” she said, her voice husky.
“You stole my line.” He brought his hand to her hip as if it belonged there. She’d punched guys for less, but this time, she didn’t move an inch. Wanted, instead, to get closer.
“Does that usually work for you?” She kept her tone teasing.
“I’ve never said it before to a perfect stranger.” His breaths came faster. “You’re very sexy.” He brought his thumb along the blunt bob of her hair, then he caressed a rose, complete with thorns, tattooed on her arm.
She had deliberately created her style, using her looks to sell an image—which had built her an incredible high-end hair clientele. She charged 300 a cut, and got it. But he wouldn’t care about that, and that turned her on even more.
Would he come back to her condo?
Shit. She lowered her eyes. Porche, a fellow stylist, was in from Europe, staying at her place. So entranced by this man, she’d left her friends without a word. That wasn’t her style—usually.
“I’m Dillon,” he said. His hand tightened around her hip bone. Heat pooled in her lower belly.
“Crysta.” Unable to help herself, she brought her face closer to his, daring him without words to kiss her.
He tugged her tight against him, rock-hard, and devoured her mouth. His fingers splayed warmth at her spine, just above her waistband, as he found her bare skin.
Only once she was out of breath did she pull back, her eyes unfocused as she blinked at the vein pulsing at his throat.
He steadied her, exhaling as if he’d run a three-minute mile. “Let’s get a drink.”
Hand balanced against his chest, she said, “Sure.” To think that she actually had a college vocabulary at her disposal and that was all she could manage?
Dillon led her to Anglin’s. There were a few open seats along the bar but she didn’t want to be in such a crowded area. She wanted to be alone with him—to get to know him.
“Whiskey?”
She shrugged. “Whatever you want. Get it to go, okay?” Crysta doubted she would taste anything.
“Good idea.” The bartender gave them their drinks in plastic and they took them down to the beach.
“I wish we could go to my condo for a blanket at least, but I have a friend staying with me from Europe. Hair stylists are very gossipy, so I can’t take you back. I only have a studio.”
She sat, cross-legged, and slipped off her sandals. He stretched his legs out next to her, with the sand dunes at their back. The lights from downtown didn’t reach this far, but the moon was bright. Lara’s band could occasionally be heard, if the wind was right.
The desire they felt for one another simmered just beneath the surface of polite conversation. Fingers entwined, or connected at the hip, they spent the next two hours sharing history and passionate kisses that led to lingering caresses. She told him about her dreams to style hair for the runway shows in New York City. He told her about his friend Anderson, dying in a random helicopter crash.
She took his hand, unable to stop touching some part of him. “I’m sorry, about your friend. Flying a helicopter sounds exciting. The craziest thing I’ve ever done was bungie jump.” Crysta’s stomach clenched at the memory.
“That’s scary! Roller coasters?”
“I sit at the front—and I love ghosts and horror movies. My birthday is on Halloween.”
His grin warmed her better than a blanket. “A fellow thrill-seeker. Do you dive?”
“No. I never learned. I grew up in foster care, so there wasn’t a lot of extra money.” She nibbled his knuckles. She rarely opened up about her past and never to a stranger, but Dillon was more than that to her despite the fact they’d just met. Telling him secrets seemed as natural as this insane chemistry. “I didn’t have an easy childhood, but it made me strong.” She licked the pad of his thumb. “You probably had the white picket fence?”
“No. Single mom who resented having to raise a kid on her own.” His full mouth tightened. “Let me know every day that I was a pain in the ass.”
She shook her head, empathizing with him. “So, have you ever been married? Do you have kids?”
“No, to both,” he said quickly. “Not part of my career plan.”
Crysta leaned into his muscular shoulder. “Me either. No kids. I am not the maternal type.”
“You’re the very sexy type,” he said, bringing her back for another kiss. “I wish you lived closer to Jacksonville.”
“I don’t want anything serious. I’m going to New York this summer for Hair Expo and if all goes well, I’ll be dusting the sand off my heels for good. Let’s just enjoy what this is, tonight. Tomorrow I go back to reality.” She smoothed the crease between his brows. “Like you.”
The beach had cleared and the sky had darkened, giving them privacy as they deepened their kisses. Their conversation made her want him more. She had to have him, to be with him. “We could hang out here a while.” She gestured to the dark sand dunes. She’d never, despite being a Florida native, made love to a stranger on the beach. Would he take the risk?
Crysta brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the tips of his fingers.
“Let’s find some privacy,” he agreed huskily.
The hush of waves against the shore, the smell of salt, the taste of whiskey. Moonlight shining gold on Dillon’s bare shoulders as he stripped off his shirt and snuggled next to her behind the screen of sea grass. He cupped her head to gently lay her down and cover her body with his.
His mouth was firm, warm, and sensually slid over hers before the heat of his tongue delved inside, swiping along the sensitive skin of her lip.
Her hands on his muscled back, his firm ass, his thighs. “Do you have something?”
He nodded and pulled a condom from his wallet, taking the opportunity to shimmy out of those jeans. She bit her lower lip, and smoothed her hand down the muscle at his calf. Gorgeous, she thought. Mine, for tonight.
He sheathed himself, then joined her on the dune, rubbing her shoulder, unbuttoning her jeans. Her sandals were long gone, as was her top.
She nipped his chin as he hovered over her.
Dillon kissed her thoroughly, cutting off any more conversation as he entered her welcoming body. Sparks ignited her from the inside out and she dropped her head back to focus on the stars as shimmers of pleasure waved through her.
A star shot across the sky as an orgasm rocked her world.
Continue reading SANTA BABY by the Sea
A Note From the Author
Thank you for reading Billionaire by the Sea.
In this story I’ve combined the perfect fantasies of money, love, and life on the ocean. This is the 12th story in the By the Sea series—all are stand-alone contemporary romances that take place in a steamy seaside town. I love hearing from readers and would appreciate an honest review. You can check out more By the Sea books, or sign up for my newsletter to get a free story.
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A
bout the Author
With an impressive bibliography in an array of genres, USA Today bestselling author Traci Hall has garnered a notable fan base. She pens stories guaranteed to touch the heart while transporting the reader to another time and place. Her belief in happily ever after shines through, whether it's a romantic glimpse into history or a love affair for today.
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