Page 67 of Hawaii Can Suck It

The chat is out of control:

BRO WHAT IN THE FANFICTION IS THIS?

SOMEONE SCREEN RECORD.

DADDY DARE IS OUT HERE BREAKING THE INTERNET.

GOD IS REAL AND HE WANTS US TO BE HAPPY.

Oh, fuck. It’s official.

The man has indeed lost his goddamn mind.

“Please be kind with your brush strokes. It’s a tad chilly up here.” he says, winking at me.

“Sweetie, you’ve got zero reasons to be shy!” the bifocaled woman next to me hollers.

This is an all-out emergency situation. Like, code red, pull the fire alarm, hide all the sharp objects before this man shaves his head.

My phone buzzes.

Gordon:What the fuck am I watching?

Oh God. This is bad. This is career-ending bad.This isGordon Will Turn Me Into Protein Powderbad. I can already picture the LinkedIn headline:Former Videographer Seeking Work – Previous Experience IncludesBreaking YouTube’s Biggest Star.

Career? Over.

Dreams? Dead.

Sanity? Hanging on by a thread.

But I have bigger problems than Gordon’s impending wrath. Because right now the throb between my legs has officially escalated into a magnitude 7.9 sexual earthquake. According to my contract, there is only one man I’m allowed to let fix it. And from where I’m sitting, he looks extremely overqualified for the job.

A dangerous thought slithers into my mind.Maybe we should practice… ya know… to appear convincing on camera? For the brand. For content.

My inner voice—which sounds suspiciously like Kai—whispers:It would be more believable if you knew how his body felt against yours. You need to map every inch of those muscles with your fingers… and your lips…

I clutch my paintbrush tighter, wishing I could concentrate on anything but the way his muscles ripple when he moves. It’s no use. My logical left brain has been sidelined, replaced by pure, throbbing all-kinds-of-right brain desire.

¡Ay, Dios mío! I can’t give in to these thoughts.

Sure, he’s been blessed by the dick fairy.

And yes, I might actually combust from sexual frustration.

But no, I’m not letting him know that.

You hear that, Mr. Boss Man? A few sweet words and a striptease don’t erase two years of criticism. The grump is still in there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to pounce and knock me back down.

What’s with all these compliments anyway? “Cam’s so talented” this and “She’s incredible” that. It’s for the audience, another performance for his precious DareSquad, right? It’s seriously messing with my head.

Those yearning, stupidly blue eyes, every time he says something nice, each accidental touch that has my skin begging for more; I will not let him see how much he affects me.

I suck in a long, deep breath of salty ocean air, hoping it’ll cool the raging inferno that is my damn libido. Nope. Still hot. Still wildly unhinged.

Like hell will I reveal what he’s doing to me. No way can he know that I lie awake most nights, imagining his big hands and hungry mouth claiming me.No!Not happening. Not today, Satan.

Because he’s my boss. And the jerk’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not into me—repeatedly, consistently, and with an impressive variety of criticism. Especially when the camera’snoton.

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