Page 159 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“Fuckkkkk, baby!” Reece groans, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks I’ll cherish later.

“Harder!” I demand, rotating my hips in a tight circle that makes his eyes cross. “Don’t be a pussy to my pussy.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” he asks, genuine wonder breaking through the haze of lust.

We find our rhythm. His upward snaps meet my downward thrusts, our bodies moving together with the practiced synchronicity of partners who know how to please each other.

The eye contact is what undoes me. Through it all—the frantic pace, our animalistic slapping sounds, the mechanical bird chorus hitting an impressive key change overhead—his gaze never leaves mine. The intimacy is devastating, like I’m standing naked in a storm—bare, vulnerable, completely seen, wrapped in the force of him as his love holds every raw piece of me.

Our frenzied tension reaches a fever pitch, and finally the coiling pressure explodes.

Release hits me—hard, fast, everywhere.

Reece breaks with a roar—loud enough to make a lion jealous—before I collapse onto his chest, boneless and trembling, our skin slick with sweat, our breaths ragged and desperate.

His arms lock around me like he’s afraid to let go, our hearts pounding so hard I can’t tell which one is mine.

“I love you,” he says between gasps.

“I love you more.”

He tilts my chin up, his eyes serious despite his sex-disheveled appearance. “Not fucking possible, Morales.”

His lips claim mine again.

MWAAARP! MWAAARP! MWAAARP!

It’s my alarm, blaring from the bed.

“Shit!” I bolt upright. “We gotta get ready. We can’t be late!”

I scramble off him, planting a quick kiss on his lips that he immediately tries to deepen. I pull away with reluctance, pointing a stern finger. “No… later.”

His pouty expression almost makes me reconsider, but we’re on a schedule. I grab the Pleasure Penguin vibrator from where it tumbled onto the floor and toss it to him with a wink. “But we’re taking the little guy home with us. He’s officially a member of the family now.”

***

It’sbeenpreciselyoneyear since Reece and I stood in this very spot—back then, this place felt hollow. The sun had been just as warm, the sky just as blue, Maui as beautiful as ever—but the brightness didn’t reach here. The air had felt thick with loss, heavy with the echoes of what had been.

But today, wearing a Dare4Change T-shirt, it carries a different weight. The same sun shines, but now it radiates a quiet hum of renewal. The breeze moves, alive with something new. A pulse. A spark of possibility.

New walls stand where rubble once lay, businesses shine with fresh windows, and kids laugh with dripping shaved ice. Lahaina isn’t whole yet—not by a long shot—but pulse points of life have returned. The famous banyan tree, once scorched and skeletal, now boasts patches of bright-green leaves sprouting defiantly from its twisted limbs. A symbol of resilience that perfectly captures the town’s spirit.

The street has transformed into a festival. As far as I can see, there are families, kids, volunteers carrying boxes of decorations, and workers putting finishing touches on colorful banners that stretch across the street. Photographers and press teams swarm the crowd, and there’s a drone zipping overhead getting aerial shots.

“Can you believe it’s been a year since you brought me here?” I ask, squinting through my viewfinder at the transformed landscape.

“You mean since you launched that video and created a movement,” Reece says, slipping his arm around my waist.

“I was ugly crying in an airport CPK, not exactly planning to raise millions.”

But that’s what happened.

Twenty million in public donations. And because Reece Dare has a heart the size of Maui itself, he matched that amount dollar for dollar, bringing the total to forty million.

All because I decided to post a raw, unfiltered video defending the man I loved … before boarding a plane to forget him forever.

The money was a total game changer—not only for Lahaina, but for us. Our careers. Our purpose. Our whole freaking lives.

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