Page 37 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Jesus Christ, those tits.

They’re real.

My hands are still tingling with the memory of her curves overflowing in my palms, soft and lush. Her nipples, peaked and pressing against my skin, were a sensation I’ll never forget. I have fantasized about her naked more times than I can count, but the reality? Better than I could’ve imagined. Those incredible breasts will star in my spank bank dreams until the day I die.

I spit into the sink so hard, it splashes.

Stop.This is Cam. My employee. The woman I pay to mock my life choices and film my misery. I will not think about her gorgeous nakedness. Or acknowledge my current feelings that fully clothed (sorta), she is even more alluring.

I throw my toothbrush and toiletry kit into my suitcase with more force than necessary. My eyes scan the room—a futile search for privacy in this mirror-covered sex dungeon. There’s literally nowhere to handle my… situation.

Breathe, Dare. Breathe.

I stomp over to the bed—to the edge farthest from her—and drop onto the mattress before yanking out my phone. Maybe I can distract myself—scroll my way out of this crisis.

Except…

The goddamn mirrors.

This hellscape of a honeymoon suite is nothing but reflective surfaces. And every single one is showing me Cam from a new, devastating angle.

The full-length mirror on the wall? Her legs.

The vanity mirror? Her breasts.

The ceiling mirror?Oh, come the fuck on.

I will not tilt my head back.

I will not—

I tilt my head back.Shit.

Instant VIP pass to Nipple Town.

I shoot upright like I’ve been electrocuted.

Cam chooses this exact moment to lift her headphones and rest them on her neck.

Her tits bounce. Like a personal attack on my willpower.Like they know what they’re doing.

Desperate, I grab a pillow—ready to scream into it—until I see the stupid familiar words:

Pussy Partner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter, chucking the damn thing across the room.

Cam snorts, “Not a fan of Kai’s interior design?”

I glare at her with every ounce of my miserable, suffering soul. “Are you really going to wear that to sleep?”

She blinks innocently. “This?”

“That.” I wave a hand at her. “It’s not pajamas. It’s lingerie.”

She gasps dramatically. “Look at you. Are you scandalized? Should I cover my ankles too?”

“Maybe put on a damn hoodie.”

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