“That’s quite the nickname. I can only imagine how that came about.”
“I was a little wild. Youngest of three, only girl and all that. I probably would’ve hickeyed my name across your stomach.” I guess the champagne is loosening up my tongue. I look away. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out. I’m going to stop talking now and let you work.”
He ignores the last part, closes his laptop, and takes off his glasses, setting them on his tray. “It’s probably good I didn’t meet you in high school.”
“Afraid you would’ve corrupted me?” I’m being sarcastic. Obviously.
“I think you might’ve been the one doing the corrupting, Miss - I - wear - garters - on - a - plane.”
I give him the side eye. “I knew you weren’t going to be able to let that go.”
“I was just waiting for the right time to slip it in.” His smile is full lecher.
“I have a feeling the corruption would’ve been mutual had we met in our younger years.” Why can’t I just keep my thoughts to myself?
His expression sobers. “I would’ve been too stupid to see what I had.” That smirk returns just as quickly as it disappeared. “And you wouldn’t have had your sex toy chest, yet, I’m guessing.”
“Here we go.” I roll my eyes. But I’m sure the flush in my cheeks shows my embarrassment.
He’s mostly right about my toy collection. Although, I think I was probably an early bloomer when it came to toys and experimenting. I owned my first vibrator before most of my friends had even had sex. Including Ruby. I go back to flipping through my magazine when the silence stretches out too long to be comfortable anymore, and I start imagining what it might’ve been like to have met Lexington when I was going through my wild phase. One of them, anyway.
“Can I ask you something?”
I stiffen. Partly because he’s leaning in so close his arm touches mine. And his voice is like sex. The naughty, dirty kind. The kind I haven’t had since I started dating Armstrong. I’m so sick of polite sex. I want someone to pull my hair. I want my ass smacked, I want fuzzy handcuffs and maybe some mild restraints—I’m not that kinky that I want the whole whips and chains deal, at least I don’t think I do, but some light bondage and a good hard fuck, the kind I’ll feel long into the next day, that I can totally handle.
I inhale slowly, breathing him in and turn to meet his gaze. God, those eyes. They’re stunning. A gorgeous shade of blue I want to dive into. And that jaw. I want to bite my way across it. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip. I’ve bitten that tongue. Sucked on it. Stroked it with my own.
Sweet lord, I forced myself on this man and I’m thinking about doing it again. Maybe I really have kept my rebellious side tamped down for too long. Maybe this is what happens when I try to be something I’m not. As much as I rebelled as a way to get my parents’ attention when I was younger, I also reveled in the thrill of being a little bad.
“It’s personal,” he says.
“What?” I stop imagining sitting on his face and meet his gaze.
There’s humor dancing in his eyes, but he doesn’t let the smile form on his lips. “My question is personal.” He sweeps my hair away from my face. The unwarranted contact might be a ploy to disarm me. Unwarranted but wanted.
“Then I reserve the right to not answer if I don’t like the question, then.” I sip my champagne and make a mental note to ask for sparkling water when the attendant comes around since I’m starting to feel tipsy again.
“The contents of your carry-on.”
I wait for more. For something else to come out of his mouth, but nothing does.
“What about them?” The bad girl in me wants him to bring it on. Ask me about my butt plugs. All three of them.
His jaw flexes and his fingers tap restlessly on the center console, making my drink shake. “How did Armstrong feel about them?” His voice is low and hard like diamonds. I wish I knew what their problem is with each other.
For some reason I want to tell him the truth. I’m blaming it on the champagne and altitude. And how captivating his eyes are. I feel like I’m being hypnotized into telling him things I shouldn’t. “Armstrong didn’t know about them.”
His eyes flare, as if this information, this bare truth, shocks him. “At all?”
I shrug, as if it’s nothing. Not a big deal. But it is. It’s a huge deal. A huge massive deal made up of orgasm-providing implements. I had to hide my arsenal of fuck toys—as Ruby and I called them—from Armstrong, considering his reaction to my vibrator. Armstrong does not like what he considers unfair competition.
Lex shifts in his seat, his knee knocking mine. He no longer looks amused or angry. He’s flabbergasted. “Like at all?”
“He’s aware I own a vibrator. Was aware. I guess he still is aware.” I shake my head and turn away from his slack jaw, gulping my champagne. I better not cry. Again. That man does not deserve my tears. What he does deserve is a swift kick in the groin, with cactus shoes on. I hope this emotional crap where I feel horrible in unsuspecting waves ceases quickly. I’m not a fan of spontaneous tears.
“He’s a fucking idiot. He doesn’t deserve you, or your traveling sex shop.”
I laugh halfheartedly, then drop my head. “I think I might be the idiot. I don’t know how I didn’t see it.” Or I chose not to acknowledge it until it was too late to turn back. These past few days have given me time to think, and I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t have married Armstrong. Not just because he disapproved of my vibrator, or because he cheated on me at our wedding, but because he was never right for me, even if I’d tried to force myself into believing he was. My reasons for marrying him were all the wrong ones. The anger I’ve been holding on to turns to sadness over my terrible choices and my throat tightens.
“Don’t do that.” Lex leans in closer, tucking a finger under my chin. I feel that single point of connection through my entire body. Every cell is suddenly alert and aware and every nerve ending between my thighs screams for attention. “Hey. Look at me.”
It takes me a second to meet his gaze. He’s just so intense. Flirty and sarcastic one second, demanding the next.
His thumb traces my bottom lip. It’s the gentlest, barely there touch. I almost think I imagine it. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I try to compartmentalize the emotions I don’t seem to have control over.
“Let him make you feel like you’re anything less than perfect. He has no idea what he’s given up. That he had you at all is a travesty. He doesn’t deserve any part of you, least of all your heart.” He searches my face, eyes warm and honest.
I brush his forearm with shaking fingertips and find myself leaning in. Which is the exact moment the goddamn flight attendant stops by with her cart of beverages and her too-sweet smile. Wasn’t she just here?
Lex clears his throat and points to my empty bottle. “Would you like another?”
I place a hand on his forearm. “That would be lovely.” It’s a possessive, unnecessary action. I need to stop flirting with him and save it for someone else. Some single hottie in Bora Bora looking for a good time who I’ll never have to see again once I leave.
I quickly move my hand to my own lap, smoothing down my skirt. “And sparkling water, please,” I add. Too much more in the booze department and there’s no way I’ll be able to keep Anarchy Amie on a leash.
Lexington passes me the champagne first and then the glass of sparkling water. I sip it daintily, and when the attendant moves on I chug the rest.
“You all right there?” he asks, as if that moment never happened. As if I hadn’t almost considered kissing him again.
“Fine. Just thirsty.” I struggle with the champagne. The flight attendant didn’t even offer to open it for me.
“Need some help with that?”
“I’ve got it.” I put the bottle between my legs and attempt to twist out the cork.
Lexington’s hand covers mine and his fingers curl under to stop me. �
�You’re going to take your eye out, or soak yourself, or both.”
“I can cork a bottle,” I snap defiantly.
“I’m sure you can, but I’m trying to be a gentleman, Amalie.”
I realize I’m being unnecessarily difficult, so I let him take the bottle and remove the cork with a soft hiss. He leans over enough that his arm grazes my breast as he pours me a glass, and I might lean into him to help maintain the contact.
His eyes dart to mine.
“Thank you.” Dammit. Why do I have to sound so breathless?
“Anytime you need to be corked, you just find me and I’ll help you out.”
I roll my eyes and sip my fresh champagne.
“And if you’re bored while you’re working on your tan, or you need any assistance with that treasure chest in your carry-on, I’m more than happy to lend a hand with that, too. Both, actually.”
And we’re back to the flirting. “Is that right?”
“I could be your beta tester.”
“Beta tester?”
“That’s a thing, you know. I’m sure the wrist strain must be difficult to manage. You’re on holiday, you should be relaxing. I could help out. Take the pressure off.” He winks.
I scoff even though I suddenly feel hot everywhere. And there’s an ache between my legs again that I’d like to take care of. Actually, I’d like Lex to take care of it for me. Which is just . . . so messed up.
“Thanks for the offer, but I can manage myself just fine.” I cross my legs. Uncross them, smooth my skirt out, and cross them again. I need to stop fidgeting.
“I’m sure you can. I’m sure you’re orgasmically good at it.” He puts away his lap tray and grabs his armrests.
“What’re you doing?”
He pauses, his forearms flexing and points to the overhead storage. “Just getting something. You need me to grab anything from your carry-on while I’m up?”
“Wouldn’t you just love it if I said yes.” I flip open my magazine, dismissing him.
He chuckles and stands. I sneakily check out his package. At least I think I’m being sneaky.
He drops back down beside me, arm touching mine as he whispers, “Wondering whether what I have is better than what you’ve got in your treasure chest?”
I choke back a snort, flip the magazine shut, and decide a pretend nap is a smart idea. How did I get into this situation? Why does he have to be so flirty and hot? I always assumed that Lex’s reputation with women was a given truth. But I’m really not so sure. In all the time I’ve known him he’s never had a girlfriend—not one that I’ve seen. And then there was that one rumor about how well he took care of his bachelor auction date last year—she paid over one hundred grand, so I suppose it’s possible he gave her full service, but it’s all just gossip.
The part of me that I’ve kept buried for the past year, the part that says fuck all the consequences, would very much like to find out if the rumors are true. That’s asking for trouble, though.
So much trouble.
But I kind of want to get into a little of that while I’m in Bora Bora. Or maybe a lot.
Eight: Don’t Touch That
Lexington
Amalie fell asleep an hour ago, which is a good thing. I can’t flirt with her when she’s unconscious. I can, however, be considerate and thoughtful.
I tipped her seat back and pulled out the footrest—all without disturbing her. I’m that smooth. I secured a pillow for her and even tucked it under her head, twice, but she seems to prefer my shoulder. She’s currently curled up on her side, hugging my bicep. I’ve used my jacket to cover her from the waist down, because her skirt keeps riding up, exposing the lacy top of her thigh highs. I’d like to say I’ve covered her up because I’m a decent human being, but the truth is, there’s an old guy to the left of us who keeps looking over every time she moves. It’s okay for me to check out her thigh-highs—him, not so much. Also, it’s giving me a hard-on I can’t do anything about.
Amalie’s not a silent sleeper. She makes these soft little sounds, moans and sighs. She mumbles too, and based on the way she keeps inching closer, she’s a snuggler.
I hate that the image of her curled around my cousin’s arm pops into my head. I hate that he’s had her, been inside her, knows what she sounds like when she comes. I hate that he’s humiliated her in such a public way, made her question her value as a person, her worth. I hate that he asked her out before I could.
I’d been watching her all night, just completely in awe of the way she handled the room, her interactions with people. I’d wanted a chance to find out what was under that sweetly polished exterior. I never should have left her side the night I met her. If I’d been smart I would’ve taken her with me to the bar, and kept her away from Armstrong. But then, even if I’d managed to get her to go out with me, he would’ve found a way to fuck it up for me. He always has. I don’t intend to allow him another opportunity to mess with me. Not after this.
I move stray hairs from her cheek. She really is absolutely gorgeous. The vibe she gives off isn’t quite sex kitten. Her face is too sweet, her features fine, delicate. It’s what makes the fact that she has a trunk of sex toys that much more intriguing. She certainly doesn’t look like the kind of woman who would be toting a collection of butt plugs. And that stainless-steel number. Fucking hell. I’d give my left nut to put that to use. Okay, maybe not a nut, but I’d give up something good to have that opportunity.
It’s gratifying to know that Armstrong hasn’t benefited at all from her collection, pretentious prick that he is. I’ll bet he felt threatened. I’ve seen him strutting around in the locker room. He doesn’t have anything to peacock about.
Amalie makes another little noise and presses her cheek against my arm. I return my attention to spreadsheets and the figures on the screen instead of perverted thoughts, but it’s a losing battle.
The flight attendant pauses when she reaches me and passes over two blankets. “For you and your girlfriend.”
“Thank you.” I don’t correct her.
I don’t remove my jacket from Amie’s legs. I just drape the blanket over her and tuck her in. I give up on working. I’ll have plenty of time when I get to Bora Bora to review the rest of the material. Sleep hasn’t been great the past few days. I have meetings four hours after I arrive with the resort manager, and I’ve reviewed the critical details. I should get some sleep.
I pull up my leg rest and recline, pushing back Amie’s chair until we’re both fully prone. The console makes it impossible for her to get any closer, which is probably a good thing.
I adjust her position and try the pillow again, but it doesn’t seem to dissuade her. In fact, now that we’re both prone, she pushes her forehead against my bicep, and she starts murmuring, my name is in there, a soft, tiny whisper.
As I close my eyes and settle in, I have to wonder what the purpose of all of this is. The series of events that put me beside Amalie on this plane seem like too much of a coincidence to ignore. I have a woman with a shattered heart at my side. A causality of Armstrong’s endless need to screw with me. I missed my chance before, but maybe now I can be part of what helps put her back together.
* * *
“Excuse me, sir.” Light tapping on my shoulder becomes slightly more vigorous until I open my eyes. I blink against the brightness and look up into the smiling face of our flight attendant. “We’re serving breakfast prior to landing.”
Prior to landing? How long have I been asleep? “Oh. Okay. How much longer until we land?”
“Just under two hours, sir. Would your travel companion be interested in breakfast, as well?”
It’s then that I take stock of Amalie, cuddled up next to me. Her face still pressed against my arm, as if she hasn’t moved in the time we’ve been asleep. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept for that many hours consecutively. My gaze drops lower, to where she’s thrown her blanket off and her skirt has ridden up obscenely high. Her top has done the same, e
xposing a strip of toned stomach. I quickly pull her blanket back in place.
“Yes, please. That would be wonderful.”
“I’ll leave the menu with you and give you a few minutes to decide.” She moves on to the old man, who I’m sure has been enjoying the view, based on his upside-down magazine.
I shift Amie so her head is on her pillow before I right my seat and fold down the footrest. Once more, I contemplate the purpose of this—us being thrown together in unconventional circumstances. I don’t buy the divine intervention bullshit. But, knowing I’m going to be near her for the next few weeks—that’s a strange kind of torture.
“Amie.” I give her shoulder a gentle shake and smile, appreciating the shortened version of her name now that I know how she came by it.
She blinks and looks around, disoriented. She scrambles up, the blanket falling away, giving me yet another glimpse of those blue-ball-inducing garters. She looks around frantically, blows out a breath, and settles in her seat. She touches her lips. “I had the strangest dream.”
“Oh yeah, what was it about?”
Her cheeks flush as she looks me over. “Oh, um . . . I can’t remember.” She busies herself, adjusting her skirt and blouse. “I’m a wrinkled mess.”
“You’re gorgeous.” I realize I’m staring and focus on the menu. “They’re serving breakfast. Are you hungry?’
“Starving.” She yawns and stretches. “Wait, breakfast? How long have I been asleep? How many more hours until we land?”
“Less than two according to the flight attendant.” I set the menu on the console between us.
“Seriously? I slept for nine hours? I think the last time I did that was in high school.”
“You obviously needed it.”
“Clearly.” She browses the options. “Everything sounds good. Oh God, waffles. I think it’s been more than a year since I’ve eaten a waffle. What’re you getting?” She leans in, her forearm resting against mine.
It really shouldn’t feel this natural to wake up beside her. “I was thinking the yogurt parfait or the muesli.” I tap the options under the healthy selection.
The Shacking Up Series Page 39
