At least that’s what my brain says. My hoo ha, however, has other ideas.
Excuse me, what’s happening down there? Since when are we into irritable prickwads?
“Great,” Reece says, pushing to his feet. “We’ll take turns on the balcony. Close the curtain for privacy.”
“Perfect. I’m going first.” I point to the sliding glass door. “Out. Shoo.”
He prowls to the balcony with the casual grace of a guy who knows exactly how good he looks in motion. And I’m only human—my eyes definitely track the way those tailored pants cup his ass. He drops into the hammock, and even the ocean breeze seems thirsty, immediately messing up his hair.
I follow him out. “Seriously, no peeking.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Morales.”
Then, in one swift movement, he rips his shirt off and wears it over his face like the world’s sexiest blindfold.
My mouth goes dry. Bone dry. Sahara-level dry.
I don’t know what sort of cosmic miracle crafted this man, but I owe him(or her)a serious thank-you note for those abs.
“I mean it. Do not come in here. I am not your fake girlfriend with benefits.”
He peels the shirt slightly off one eye, catching mevery clearlychecking him out. A self-satisfied smirk dances on his lips. “Sounds as if you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“Ha! Not interested. Unless you’re packing a Kai-sized weapon in those designer pants.”
His scowl returns with a vengeance. “Since poetry-spouting douchewads are your type, I have nothing to worry about.”
“And since you like your women pumped full of plastic, I guess I’m safe. Too bad for you, cause my tits?” I make a grand gesture toward my girls. “They’re real, and they’re spectacular.”
His nostrils flare. His throat bobs. And for a brief second—so fast I almost miss it—his gaze definitely flickers downward.
I smirk, victorious, then spin on my heel andslamthe sliding door shut before he can retaliate. I yank the curtain closed with a flourish.
¡Mierda! I need to get this tingle factory under control before I do something epically stupid. Like jump my boss.
Listen up, vajayjay. This is NOT the tropical vacation hookup we discussed.
***
“Thenerveofthatcocky dickwad!”
With a dramatic huff, I yank open my overpacked suitcase and—
Oh, shit.
My entire packing strategy slaps me across the face.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
I dig frantically, tossing delicate bralettes, microscopic satin shorts, and lacy thongs. Everything I packed screams “I’m here to get laid,” not “no-privacy cohabitation with my buzzkill of a boss.”
“¡Mierda! This was supposed to be my Hawaiian sexcation, not a two-week celibacy retreat.”
My fingers brush against something strappy. I pull it out and—yep, there it is. The crown jewel of my “get some” collection. A red open cup bra that’s basically a series of strings playing connect-the-dots with my nipples. The matching underwear? A single strip of fabric up my ass, which—let’s be honest—exists solely to give a man an excuse to groan into my skin while yanking it off with his teeth.
And now? What a waste.
I know damn well what I’m working with. These curves? They’ve made better men than Reece lose their minds. My perky tits are the reason I’ve never had to change a tire in my life. And my ass? More bounce than a trampoline park. So yeah, I splurge on lingerie that flaunts the goods.
