Page 25 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Cam spins to face me, focusing her lens. “Wanna test it out?”

“Tour’s over!” I slam my hand on the control panel, nearly slipping on the now-wet floor.

“But I haven’t shown you the fog machine! Or the special wand buttons! Or the vibrating—”

“Goodbye, Kai!”

I shove him out the door, his last words floating back: “Remember, Miss Morales, my door is always open!”

I lean against the closed door, exhausted. Behind me, the bed’s still rotating, Barry White’s still serenading, and for the love of God, the swing is somehow still swaying.

“So… which half of the sex bed do you want?” She deactivates the spinning motion sensor with a swift, decisive wave.

Sex. Bed. Cam.

A three-car pileup of bad ideas.How can I not picture her sprawled across those red satin sheets?

“I’ll take the couch.”

“What couch?” She does this exaggerated sweep of our surroundings with her camera, playing tour guide. “Welcome to the No Walls Resort, where privacy comes to die! We have exactly one door, and…” She bounces over to it—seriously, who has this much energy after the day we’ve had?—and flings it open as if she’s revealing a game show prize. “Behind door number one… Ta-da! The toilet. So, unless you want to sleep in here, the ‘sex bed’ is your only option, boss.”

This is hell. Actual hell.

No walls. No escape. My dick’s already sending up emergency flares, and there are exactly zero private places to handle that situation.

“There is no fucking way I’m spending two weeks trapped in thissex denwith you.”

“You think I’m thrilled? I was supposed to have this whole suite to myself.”

I choke out a humorless laugh. “Right. Sorry to cockblock your plans to bang your way through the hotel staff.”

Her eyes narrow, and she gives me a sweet, sarcastic smile. “I’d accept your apology if I thought it was genuine.”

Her lack of denial shoots a nuclear blast to my brain.

Cam. In this room. Having sex. Everywhere. Images of Hawaiian men flash like a parade of shirtless assholes, each one laying claim to her in my imagination. I want to punch something. Preferably something that wears a sarong and makes bedroom eyes at my videographer.

“Reece?” she says, cutting through my mental rampage. “We should probably establish some ground rules. Figure out the shower problem.”

Shit.The shower.

I take a deep breath, giving myself a mental slap.I can do this. Fourteen days in the world’s most X-rated hotel suite with the woman who’s given me inappropriate dreams since the day she walked into Gordon’s office. No problem.

Simply set boundaries and follow them.No touching her. No thinking about her in the bed or the shower. No imagining her naked—dripping wet with steam swirling around succulent tits—I wasn’t; you were.

Who said that?Anyway… I nod sharply. “I agree. First rule, no—”

My phone buzzes, and it’s Gordon—I shouldn’t answer. I don’t want to answer. I answer.

Gordon’s face is so close to the camera, I can see the dots where his hair plugs are anchored, resembling something I can only describe as forehead astroturf.

“Dare!” he barks, leaning back enough to reveal he’s using a ring light. “What the hell is going on? Astrid and Blaze? Why are you in her video entitled Falling in Love Again? Why am I finding out about this at the same time as the rest of the damn internet?”

“Because I was busy wrestling an anaconda on a sex swing.”

Gordon blinks. Once. Twice. Then he tilts his head, and his Botoxed forehead doesn’t so much as ripple. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ll see it in tomorrow’s video,” I snap, already over this conversation.

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