Page 93 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Snap.
I lose my footing and fall backward, knocking into the sound equipment, creating a domino effect of destruction.
The room goes silent.
“Minor technical difficulties!” I announce from the floor, scrambling to cover my arousal. “Nothing to worry about!”
Everything to worry about. Your hard-on can be seen from space.
“Shit, man, you okay?” Gavin approaches with genuine concern written across his face.
“Leg cramp,” I lie, untucking my shirt. “Need to… ice it. Pulled something. Cold shower. Emergency ice situation!”
I flee like a teen boy trying to hide his erection from his grandma’s Bible study.
That smug little menace.A few filthy words, and I’m one grind away from combusting in my pants.
New plan: Build a fortress. Moats. Guards. Maybe a steel cage for my dick.
Because if she touches me again, I won’t just lose control—I’ll lose everything. Including my best friend.
***
“Behold!Thesunspreadsher golden thighs above the horizon, offering herself to the ocean’s thrusting waves!” Echo thrashes his paintbrush, splattering orange across the canvas. “Witness the sky’s erotic climax!”
I massage my temples and contemplate jumping overboard. We’re all held captive as Echoperformson the front deck. The yacht’s elite guests nod in agreement, calculating the millions his latest masterpiece will fetch at auction.
Since the salsa class catastrophe, I’ve executed a much-needed avoidance strategy. Four hours barricaded in my suite, drowning myself in quarterly projections, payroll documents, and IPO updates—whatever it took to scrub the memory of Petra’s body grinding against mine.
At dinner, I used Hana Choi as a human shield, positioning myself between her and Gavin.
Genius move, actually.
Hana proved to be the ideal distraction—a rambling, giggling chatterbox of low-effort conversation. For ninety minutes, she regaled me with riveting tales of her seventy-five-year-old fiancé‘s nightly skincare routine, his collection of vintage handkerchiefs, and his adorable sleep apnea.
The woman described his snoring patterns with the enthusiasm of a biologist discovering a new species.
Pure conversational white noise. Exactly what I needed.
Petra kept her distance—physically, anyway. But not with her eyes. The looks she shot me from the other side of the table? Volatile. A flash of challenge and promise in the curve of her lips. I kept my head down, playing the disinterested observer.
If I can maintain this tactical approach for the remaining wedding festivities—strategic seating, human buffers, mundane small talk—I’ll survive with no further lapses in judgment.
It’s a foolproof plan.
Except, I see Petra slipping away from the crowd like a master thief mid-museum heist. One second she’s lingering by the Miss Muffy–shaped ice sculpture. The next she’s rounding the corner—gone.
No one else has noticed Pip’s escape.
Stay put,my rational mind commands. Do not follow her. You’ve maintained boundaries all day.
But what if she trips in that gown? What if she leans too far over the railing? Someone should ensure she’s safe. It’s the responsible thing to do.
Everyone else is hypnotized by Echo’s creative breakdown. When he launches into a soliloquy about penetrating “the virgin canvas with my artistic seed,” I slip away.
I find her at the stern, leaning over the polished railing, her gaze fixed on the distant shoreline where carnival lights pulse like a neon heartbeat. Music echoes over the waves—mariachi trumpets and laughing voices from Puerto Vallarta’s summer festival.
The sight of her in that dress stops my heart mid-beat.
