The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  I nod to the staff as we make our way through the lobby and outside into the warm night air, my arm threaded through hers to help keep her steady. She’s watching her feet, her steps deliberate as we descend the stairs.

  “Hold on.” She pulls me to a stop and pets my arm. “This is pretty. I mean the tattoos, not your arm, well that’s pretty, too, but the art is nice. I like it. It’s sexy just like the rest of you.” She blinks up at me with a grin. “Sexy Lexy.”

  “That’s the only time you get to call me that.” I think I like her with her guard down.

  “Really? I thought it was a great nickname.” She shakes her head. “Oh! Sorry. I’m a little distracted tonight.” Her breasts press against my arm as she lifts her foot and takes off one shoe and then the other. “These are giving me blisters.”

  “Probably safer this way, considering the hazards of the deck boards. The last thing you need is a twisted ankle.”

  “God, that would be awful. Thanks for this. Again. I’m going to owe you so many favors.”

  My mind makes every single one of those sexual in nature. “Your company is favor enough.”

  “Does it get lonely, being somewhere so beautiful, surrounded by all these couples? Especially since you’re here on business and not just for fun?”

  “Most of the time I’m too busy to think about it, but downtime can be a challenge. I can’t really go to the bar just to have a drink and unwind. I’m always on, unless I’m in my suite, and then I’m on my own.”

  “That sounds depressing.”

  “It’s not really that bad. Most of the time it’s all work with a beautiful backdrop.”

  Amie stumbles and I tighten my hold on her.

  “Ow! Shit! I stubbed my toe!”

  “You’re having a rough night, aren’t you?”

  “Seems to be a trend for me.” She hobbles the last few feet to her bungalow. It takes her a few seconds of rooting around in her purse to find her keycard and open the door. She drops everything on the floor and makes her way cautiously to the bed. Spinning around, she flops down on the mattress, her skirt riding obscenely high, her legs parted enough that I have a very, very clear view of the scrap of fabric between her thighs. It’s pale pink. Lacy. I’m assuming it’s probably a thong since I didn’t notice panty lines in the bar when I was checking out her ass.

  I probably shouldn’t be in here with her right now. Not while she’s under the influence of martinis, and not while I’m thinking about how easy it would be to push that tiny skirt up over her hips and yank those panties down her thighs. What I should do is go back to my own bungalow and rub one out in the shower. But it’s not really all that appealing.

  “I can see up your skirt.”

  She presses her knees together and tugs on the hem. “I’m wearing panties.”

  “I know.”

  Her eyes light up with mischief. “They’re pink.”

  I cough. I have to fight with my body to stay on this side of the room. I head for the fridge and grab a bottle of water. “I know that, too.”

  “Did you know that Armstrong only likes white lingerie? Or at least on me he does. Did. He liked to pretend he was conquering a virgin every time we have sex. Had sex. Because we will not have sex ever again.”

  Amen to that. I can totally understand the allure of Amalie in white. She has a sweet face. Pair her delicate features and curvy, lean body with white lingerie and she would be the perfect picture of sexy innocence. I, on the other hand, can also appreciate how hot she’d look in black lace, or leather, or any other color and fabric combination the lingerie industry can come up with. I don’t say any of these things, because I think it would be a bad idea to express my opinion on this. Instead, I say, “Armstrong is an asshole.”

  “That he is. And I married him. I don’t even know what I was thinking. On the bright side, at least I don’t have to fake orgasms anymore.” She pushes up on her elbows and blows her hair out of her face. “My toe really hurts.”

  She really is all over the place. Although, I can’t blame her for being that way considering the day she’s had. Straightening her leg, but keeping her knees together, she inspects her foot. “Oh, wow! I’m bleeding! Check it out!”

  As I move closer, she lowers her foot enough that I can see the red pooling in the nail bed of her big toe. It’s a significant amount of blood.

  “I think I cracked the nail.” She brings her knee to her chest so she can get a better look, giving me, once again, an excellent view of her panties.

  “Amalie.” I close my eyes. Fuck. My dick is pretty goddamn desperate to get out of my pants right now and into what’s under that pale pink satin and lace.

  “Oh yeah, the nail is definitely cracked. Ooooh. It’s pretty gross. Why’re your eyes closed? Are you afraid of blood?” I motion to her with one lid half-open. “Your panties.”

  “You’re afraid of my panties?”

  I give up on not looking and pointedly glance at her crotch. She drops her gaze. “Oh. Oops.” Closing her legs, she reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a tissue, dabbing at her toe while she sucks in a breath.

  Part of me wishes I hadn’t pointed out the panty display. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah, but probably only because I can see the damage. This is like, way bad.”

  “Is that your clinical diagnosis?”

  She gives me the eye. “You know, you could be helpful by getting me the first aid kit instead of standing there, poking fun at me when I’m bleeding to death over here.”

  “Dramatic much? And if I do that I might miss out on you flashing me your panties.”

  “You’re the one who keeps telling me to close my legs. Make up your mind, Lexington, do you or don’t you?”

  I can’t tell if she’s baiting me or not. This isn’t the Amalie I’ve dealt with at family functions and events over the past year. That woman is poised and controlled. She’s polite, sweet, warm and yet a bit reserved. This version is brazen, lippy, and fucking hot. I want to know which one is the real her. Or maybe it’s both. Maybe this is the Anarchy Amie she was referring to on the plane. The one who wears obscenely short dresses and picks up guys named Fuck-me Eric at bars, then flashes her panties.

  “I’ll get the first-aid kit.” I toss the bottle of water on the bed and cross through to the bathroom. There’s one in every linen closet for such emergencies. I pause for a moment when I cross the threshold. It’s like a woman’s makeup case vomited all over the vanity.

  But that’s not where my attention goes. It’s the glass dildo with the spiral of pink through the center, one end round, the other torpedo shaped, the length of it textured, sitting on a hand towel. A small travel bottle of cleaning solution sits beside it. Did she clean it because she used it recently, or because those security guards put their hands on pretty much everything in her carry-on?

  My hard-on is raging now, and requires adjusting. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next ten minutes without doing something I shouldn’t, let alone the next two weeks. But God, do I ever want to. And if I’m reading her correctly, she would like very much to show me what’s under those pretty pink panties.

  Sex with Amalie is probably a bad call. Picking her up from the other resort will inevitably cause more problems. Armstrong—paranoid dickwad that he is—will definitely believe that this was planned and he’ll likely convey that to Gwendolyn, who will inevitably say something to my mother. The reality is, I’ve done just as many reprehensible things to him as he’s done to me over the years.

  But this is different. I’m not stealing something he thinks is his. He fucked this up. He ruined the good thing he had. That’s not my fault. And if I’m completely honest with myself, I don’t want the Fuck-Me Erics on this resort to get anywhere near her again. If she keeps pushing I’m likely to break, and I think I might be okay with that.

  “Did you find the first-aid kit?” Amalie calls from the other room.

  “Yup. Got it.” I bring it back t
o the main room, along with a towel so she doesn’t get blood on the sheets. Amalie’s sitting on the edge of the bed, inspecting her big toe. I notice the water bottle has been opened and most of the contents have disappeared, which is good. I drop the case on the bed and flip it open, plucking out the things I need. I tap her hip. “Scoot back and let me take a look.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “So can I.”

  She smiles wickedly. “Is this your way of getting in bed with me?”

  I slip an arm under her knees and one behind her back, lifting her until she’s settled against the pillows. I edge a knee between hers, holding myself above her. What the fuck am I doing? Her eyes are wide, full of surprise and heat. Longing and maybe just a hint of uncertainty follow. “Is that what you want, Amie? Me in your bed?”

  She bites her lip, teeth pressing gently into the skin as she regards me. “What if I do?”

  “That’s the martinis talking,” I whisper, trying to make it a joke when what I really want is to just give in.

  “It’s not the martinis talking,” she whispers.

  “What if tomorrow I’m a mistake you can’t take back?” I sit back on my heels and press her knees together. I run my hands down the back of her calves. Her skin is so smooth, soft, warm.

  When her eyes drop I know I have my answer. I might want her, and she might think she wants me, but I don’t want to be her regrettable decision. Not the kind she wants to erase like the last year of her life. I lift her foot and set it on my thigh, taking in the damage.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Taking care of your toe, like I said I would.” It really is a mess. The nail is cracked in half and there’s a piece missing. It needs to be disinfected, clipped, and bandaged.

  I pick up the antiseptic spray and Amalie tries to jerk her foot from my grasp.

  “You can’t use that! It’ll hurt.”

  “It’ll be fine. This needs to be cleaned.” I give it a couple of quick squirts.

  Amalie shrieks like I’ve just sprayed her with acid and then her mouth turns down. “Oh. That wasn’t so bad.”

  I chuckle at her chagrined expression. “I told you it would be fine.”

  “Yeah, but fine usually means the exact opposite, so I expected it to be not fine.”

  “In this case fine doesn’t have an alternate meaning. I’m going to clean up the nail so it’s not so jagged, okay?” This is easier to deal with. The taking care of her part I can manage, when there’s a task to focus on, so I’m distracted from the other, less acceptable things I want to do to her.

  “Okay.” She exhales quickly, then pulls her other leg up to her chest, tucking her toes under her knee, obstructing any view I might have of those damn panties.

  I get out the little pair of scissors, and the first snip is fine, but she jumps at the next one. “Amalie. You need to hold still.”

  “It hurts!”

  “Stop looking and it’ll hurt less.”

  “I hate you right now.” She flops back on the bed and grabs a pillow, pulling it over her head. It’s pretty entertaining. She stretches out her other leg and tucks it under mine, her toes digging in as I keep clipping the nail back as far as I can, smoothing out the rough edge.

  I have a feeling she should probably have this looked at, but we’ll know better in the morning when the bleeding has stopped. Or she’ll know, since I won’t be here by then.

  Once I’m finished, I wrap it in gauze so she doesn’t catch it in her sleep or bleed on the sheets. I pat her knee. “All done.”

  One eye peeks out from under the pillow. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” I put everything back into the first-aid kit and move to the edge of the bed.

  “Where’re you going?”

  I pause. “To put this away.”

  Amalie starts to pull her knees up to her chest, but thinks better of it. “Are you going to leave after that?”

  I should. Definitely. “Do you want me to?”

  With a shake of her head she tucks her hair behind her ear. “I was alone all day. I don’t want to be alone again. Yet.” And there it is, that innocent look. I wonder if she even realizes the kind of power she has, or if she’s oblivious to it.

  “I’ll stay for a while on one condition.”

  Her tongue peeks out and a small smile curves those luscious lips. “What’s that?”

  “You change out of this dress.”

  “What’s wrong with my dress?”

  “Absolutely everything.”

  She looks down at herself with a frown. “I thought it looked . . . nice.”

  “Nice is not the word I would use to describe this.” I motion to the dress.

  Her mouth drops open, then snaps shut in irritation. “It’s sexy!”

  “Ya think?” Before I really consider my actions I slip my hands under the backs of her knees and bend them, giving me an incredible view of those motherfucking panties. I hold her knees tight together, otherwise I’m going to find myself between her legs. “I’m human, Amie, I can only behave myself for so long.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to behave.” I can feel pressure on my palms, as if she’s trying to push her knees apart.

  “Amie.” It’s as much as warning as a plea.

  She places her hands over mine, keeping them there. “Did you really mean what you said?”

  “Probably, I don’t have a reason to lie to you, but it would help if I knew what exactly you’re referring to.” I’ve said a lot of things that I probably shouldn’t have tonight, on the plane, the night of her wedding.

  “That ‘no was the last thing you wanted to say.’” She drops her head. “Or were you just being nice? Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “You think this is me being nice?”

  She lifts her shoulder and lets it fall. I don’t know how to read her, one second she’s pushing all my buttons and the next she’s timid and uncertain.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” Her face falls so I elaborate. “About ‘no being the last thing I wanted to say.’ That wasn’t fair to you.”

  How badly had I wanted to say fuck it and get in her then? It feels like a lifetime ago, not days. But the memories, the sensations, they’re all still vivid; the feel of her body on me and under me. The taste of her tongue, bathed in champagne and desperation, her pleas, her tears, her humiliation, and her anger. God her fury was stunning, but her devastation was sobering.

  Her blond hair falls, covering her face. She tries to pull away, but I’m still holding on to her legs.

  “I meant it. I didn’t want to say no. But I would’ve been an asshole if I hadn’t. I would be an asshole right now if I didn’t at least attempt to control myself.”

  Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth for a moment. “You’re just being nice again.”

  My laugh is dark. “I’m really not that nice.”

  She traces the edge of my fingers pressed against her skin. “You’ve been nice to me.”

  “It’s very self-serving, Amalie.”

  She tips her head up, defiance in her gaze. “How?”

  “Look where I am right now.” I motion to her bed. “I don’t want anyone else to be invited back here.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re vulnerable and you’ve been drinking.”

  “I had two martinis and too much sun. I’ve consumed a gallon of water in the past half hour. I know what I’m doing right now.”

  I don’t know why I’m being such a pussy about this, why I can’t commit one way or another to a decision. Do or don’t. Give in or get out. “Regardless, I can’t knowingly take advantage of you, not when you’ve been hurt the way you have.”

  “I don’t need you to protect my poor heart, Lex.” Anger makes the words sharp. “I’m not about to let anyone else get near it after what Armstrong did to me. The least you can do is stop chasing guys away and let me get laid while I’m here instead of sending all these mixed signals and messing wi
th my head. It’s already messed up enough.”

  “I’m not letting some random douche take advantage of you.”

  “What if I want to be taken advantage of?” She heaves a frustrated sigh. “That didn’t come out right. I’m on an island, on what’s supposed to be my honeymoon. I should be fucking my brains out, having the best sex of my life, but instead I’m hanging out at the bar alone, getting hit on by questionably sleazy guys who can probably sense how messed up I am, and then I’m forced to come back here and get myself off. Also alone. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to think about how fucked up my life is. I just want to get laid. I just want to feel something other than this goddamn emptiness that’s sucking all the fucking fun out of this trip.”

  “You just wanna get laid?” Out of everything I could’ve taken from that, this is a bad question to lead with. The worst and the best question ever. But fuck it. There’s no way I’m letting another nameless Fuck-me Eric have her. If anyone’s going to get to put their hands on her it’s going to be me. She has two weeks left here. She should enjoy it. And if she wants me to, I’m going to make sure that happens, and that it includes lots of orgasms. And toys if she’ll let me into her tickle trunk.

  “Yes, I want to get laid!” She throws her hands up in the air. “I’m tired of seeing all these happy couples, knowing they’re all going back to their little huts to fuck their faces off and I don’t get to.”

  “Do you want me to fix that for you?”

  Amalie’s eyes go wide as I move in closer.

  “If you’d like some assistance with the fucking your face off part, I’d be happy to help out.” I loosen my tie.

  She pushes on my chest. “Don’t play with me!”

  I grab her hand and fit myself between her legs, pressing my hips into hers. I’m hard. I’ve been hard since I walked into the bar and saw her in this skimpy little nothing of a dress. Her mouth drops open.

  “I’m assuming you can feel that.” I roll my hips, just to be clear what that is.