My nipples are standing at attention in my dark-purple satin camisole set. This naughty number has a flyaway center that parts like curtains at a peep show, framing my belly button and giving a glimpse of underboob.
His eyes snap back to mine, and the heat in them could melt polar ice caps. I suck in a gasp, and my veins fill with lava as my core clenches. I can feel each pulse between my legs growing stronger, hotter, remembering a mere thirty seconds ago I was about to orgasm thinking about the man who’s currently eye-fucking me.
“I just—”
“Need air!” he shouts.
“Oxygen. Right? We need oxygen?”
“Super important. Great idea. Me, air, and no… this.”
We both bolt out of bed. He hits the floor, still tangled in his duvet, while I dash for the bathroom. He stumbles toward the balcony, and we both slam our doors shut.
I am so monumentally screwed.
Or rather—tragicallyun-screwed.
God, I hate this resort.
***
“Hey,DareSquad,it’syagirl Cam!”
No. Too influencer-y. I sound like I’m selling DareFuel.
“Hey! Camila coming at you from Maui—”
Ugh. Why am I giving off Disney Channel vibes?
I exhale slowly and evaluate my reflection. My hair is curled in soft waves that are actually behaving tonight. My makeup is freshly applied, and—surprise—my winged liner isn’t even lopsided. My green leaf-print halter dress, however, is… on my last nerve.
I adjust my cleavage for the millionth time, wrangling my breasts into submission. They’re staging a jailbreak, threatening to spill out of this dangerously low neckline. Three years ago in Cabo, Katie and Petra convinced me to buy this thing, insisting I looked like Jennifer Lopez in her iconic green dress.
I had agreed because, well—JLo. My sister Aria and I grew up idolizing her—the curvy Latina fashion icon who taught us to be proud of our figures and that our bodies were meant to be envied.
Normally, this dress makes me feel powerful, confident, perhaps even a little lethal. Normally…
But right now, I’m two deep breaths away from a full-scale wardrobe malfunction, and what’s really not helping? My stupid brain flashing back to this morning.
To waking up tangled around Reece.
To the way he murmured my name as if he was dreaming about me.
Shutting that thought down right now.
“Just… stay put,” I mutter to my cleavage while swiping on mascara. My eyes drift to the balcony, where he now sits like a haunted statue, staring at the ocean. He’s barely moved all day except for a few bathroom breaks, each time avoiding eye contact as if I’m Medusa and one look will turn him to stone.
I shake out my hands and swipe on a second coat of mascara. I have to go to this stupid couples’ luau alone. Fine. It’s probably for the best. Except… I kind of want him to come, if I’m being honest. The thought of filming by myself makes my stomach twist into a pretzel. Or maybe it’s because every time we’re near each other lately, this electric current crackles between us, making my skin buzz and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Gah! I miss the old Reece. Mr. Critical. Mr. Predictable-Pain-in-My-Ass.Thatversion I knew how to handle. But this new one? This quiet, wounded man who I’ve caught staring like he wants to peel my clothes off with his teeth? He’s making me feel… things.
“Hey squad, it’s Camila! Reece Dare’s girlfriend!”
For a split second, it sounds real.
And for another split second(and I mean only like, half a millisecond),I don’t hate how it sounds.
What if this wasn’t pretend? What if I was actually getting ready for a date with him? A real date. I definitely wouldn’t be trying to hide these curves. I’d be choosing this exact dress, putting my boobs on full display, knowing damn well he’d be looking and loving him for it.
