Page 49 of Parentmoon

He holds up a hand. “Don’t. It’s my house. And you haven’t asked for a thing.”

“I should pay you back.” My head lowers, while I absentmindedly stroke the side of his neck. I’d never be able to afford such a vacation, but I’d give him every penny to prove I’m not here to take advantage of him.

Dallas halts, squeezing me closer to him. “Don’t insult me. I want you here.”

Something in the way he says this has me staring at him, trying to read him when I can’t.

“I’m happy you’re here with me,” he adds, reminding me he hasn’t brought any other woman here before.

“I’m happy to be your first.”

Dallas kisses me, slow and deep. His lips are salty, and he tastes a bit like beer. A woman could get drunk on him.

He shifts me around his body, so my legs wrap around his waist beneath the water. His hands rub at the underside of my thighs. “Let me touch you.”

“I’m up five to one with you on orgasms.”

“We aren’t keeping score.” Dallas tugs me tighter against him and my legs lock around his lower back.

“It’s hard in the water, though.” He gave me an orgasm in the pool, but the conditions made it difficult. Then again, the mere suggestion has me eager for his touch.

“Yes, I am,” Dallas teases, thrusting his hips upward and giving me a feel of how hard he is.

“Don’t be cheeky.”

“Better than being cheesy.” He squeezes my ass and wiggles his brow and I laugh, care-free and adoring. He’s full of charm and perfect lines and romantic fun.

And he kisses me again like I’m a lifeline, saving him from drowning at sea.

+ + +

We saunter back to the shore, taking our time pointing out fish that swim in small schools around us. From our lounge chairs, we order a lunch of fish tacos and quesadillas. Dallas orders another Mai-Tai for me and another beer for himself.

A local crafter has a booth underneath the shade of a tree, and I step over to see her art while we wait on lunch. Jewelry, handbags, and wooden sculptures cover the top of the table and a shelf underneath. I’m most interested in a collection of beaded bracelets.

“Whatcha like, darlin’?” Dallas surprises me, standing behind me.

“Oh, just looking,” I say, picking up a set of bracelets in muted pinks and soft browns.

“Looks like you,” Dallas states, watching me finger the jewelry. “Attitude and grit.”

“Grit?” I laugh, glancing over at him.

“Dedicated. Hard working. Devoted. Feels like a brown color. Pink is that attitude of yours.”

I shake my head. I don’t have confidence like he states.

Dallas picks up a more masculine looking bracelet of titanium-colored beads. “Got something like this for women as well?”

The female artist looks through her things. “I can make one in about ten minutes.” She’s already pulling out leather string and a bag of smaller, dark silver beads.

“Perfect,” Dallas says to her. “Add the silver bracelet to this combination.” He points to my collection. “And then I’ll take the larger beads for me.”

“What are you doing?” I stare at Dallas as he pulls money from his pocket and pays.

“Just buying you something to help you remember this day whenever you look at it.”

Staring at the bracelets Dallas has purchased, I should have chosen ones in bright turquoise to match the ocean as a reminder. However, the symbolism he assigns to the pink set along with the matching silver beads for each of us assures me I’ll never forget this day no matter what color I wear.