Page 101 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Her inner muscles clamp down, rippling around me, and I’m gone. Absolutely fucking gone. My hips keep driving up, chasing every last spark of pleasure until she collapses on top of me, both of us sweat-slicked and shaking.

We lie there panting in our post-orgasmic haze. Truth hits me like a revelation: I’ve swum with hammerhead sharks in crystal-clear Bahamian waters, freefallen from a plane at 20,000 feet blindfolded, and navigated treacherous Class V rapids of the Colorado River in a unicorn pool floatie.

But nothing—not one single adrenaline rush—comes close to the pure euphoria of Camila Morales.

The woman who just ruined me for anyone else.

Forever.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CAM

GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER

Me:Quick Poll: Hypothetically, can you break your vagina from too much sex?

Petra:SPILL IT! Every filthy detail required IMMEDIATELY.

Me:Let’s just say my drought is now a full-on monsoon.

Katie:Twinsies! My Italian Stallion has my vajayjay begging for mercy. She’s all, “Ciao bella, I need a personal day.”

Petra:I hate you both. The only action I’m getting is from my email notifications.

Katie:Give us everything. No holding back.

Me:Best sex of my whole fucking life. My boss is an orgasm wizard.

Petra:Some of us are trying not to fantasize about our bosses, okay?

Katie:Sorry… How IS it going with the Bryce situation anyway?

Petra:No comment.

Katie:Cam? You still with us? CAMILA?

Petra:And she’s gone. 100% getting railed again.

Katie:Can’t blame her. Get it girl!

WE HAVEN'T LEFT THEroom in three days.

If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be tangled up in bed with Reece Dare, watchingMission Impossible: Falloutwhile he absentmindedly traced patterns over my underwear, I would have laughed so hard I’d need a rib replacement. And yet… here I am. In his arms. In our little happy bubble where time doesn’t exist, reality is on pause, and apparently, my vagina needs a PTO day.

The man has barely let me out of his sight. Or off this mattress. Or let me pee in peace. And while I’ll let him do pretty much anything else to me in this room(and have, repeatedly), bathroom time is still a sacred, solo mission. A girl needs boundaries. ¡Por Dios!

His scent—ocean saltwater mixed with spicy ginger and sex—has become my new favorite fragrance. It clings to me—my skin, my hair, my lips—like he’s marking me from the inside out. Nestled against his side, my leg draped over his and his arm wrapped securely around me, the heat from his exposed chest seeps into my shirt. The way he holds on to me is a total turn-on—not needy, not demanding, just… possessive. Like he’s afraid if he doesn’t keep a physical connection to me, I’ll evaporate.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around how much has changed between us in a matter of days. From a reluctant fake girlfriend to whatever this is. This surprisingly tender thing. All I know is that my heart soars every time his eyes lock on to mine.

The sheets are a twisted disaster zone of our making. My laptop balances on his lap, flickering light across his absurdly handsome face, the one I have, regrettably, now grown violently attached to. On screen, Tom Cruise is in full action mode, driving a motorcycle into oncoming traffic.

“You ever think Ethan Hunt just wants to… take a break?”

Reece stops tracing the lazy circles on my thigh. “What did you say?”

“I mean, the guy is always saving the world. What if, deep down, he wants to, I don’t know, learn to play the ukulele? Or maybe”—I smirk—“pick up knitting?”

---