I make my way to the bar and watch people interact. Singles mingle and flirt, couples and honeymooners close-talk, eyes straying to the people on the dance floor. It’s loud in here. I survey the length of the bar and take note of the familiar long wavy blond hair. Amalie.
She’s not hiding out in her room. She’s angled toward the man leaning on the bar next to her. His intentions are clear in the way his eyes roam over her body when she crosses her legs. Nope. No fucking way am I going to allow some random douche to hook up with her.
As I close in on them I notice a few things. Her dress is a second skin, clinging to her toned, luscious body. I have my doubts Armstrong would approve of her wearing something like this in public. And I get why. I wouldn’t want anyone else to see her in something quite so provocative unless she’s hanging off my arm, and everyone in the room knows she’s off-limits.
I move in behind her, sizing up the guy flirting with her. He glances up at me, gives me one of those conspiratorial smiles that says, Watch me bag this one. I keep my gaze locked on his as I lean down until my mouth is at her ear. “Having a good time?”
Amalie gasps and spins around. Sweet mother of fuck. She looks like sin. The neckline of the dress plunges low, giving me an incredible view of her cleavage. And the dress, if it even qualifies as one, is white. And so very, very short. I bet when she stands up it barely covers her ass. Her lips are glossy pink and pouty, and those pretty blue eyes find mine.
She bites her lip, and then her tongue peeks out as a slow smile spreads across her face. She puts a hand on my chest. “Lexington. You’re here.” She makes a fist and taps on my chest. “I knocked but no one answered.” She turns back to her friend, her hand still on me. “Rick. Rich. Ricky?”
His smile is stiff. “It’s Eric.”
“Right! Eric.” She smacks her forehead and giggles. “I’m so bad with names. Eric, this is Lex. He’s my friend. He’s so nice to me. He punched my husband in the dick today.” She leans into me, her head resting on my pec as she looks up, smiling. “It was so sweet. You’re so sweet.” She pats my cheek. I wonder if she might be a little tipsy.
Eric’s smug smile drops. “Husband?”
Amalie waves a floppy hand around in the air. “Non-husband. Or he will be when he signs the annulment papers. He got a blow job at our wedding, not from me.”
“Eric, could you excuse us, please.” I smile, but it’s not friendly at all.
“He doesn’t have to go.” Amalie frowns and turns to Eric. “You don’t have to go. He’s being rude.”
He glances from Amalie to me and back again. He seems to realize that his conquest is over. “Nice to meet you, Emily. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
I move into his now-vacant seat. “Emily?”
“He got it wrong the first time and I didn’t feel like correcting him.” She sips her martini. “Why’d you send him away? I liked him. He was a good listener.” She crooks a finger and beckons me closer. “I think Eric wanted to fuck me.”
“Oh, and why do you think that?” Of course he wants to fuck her. Every guy in this room wants to, married, single, almost dead, it doesn’t matter, as long as he has a dick and it’ll get hard, they want to get in her. Myself included.
“Well.” Amalie props her chin on her fist. “He said he wanted to fuck me, so that’s how I know.”
“He what?” I scan the bar, looking for Eric, who I’d like to punch now, but Amalie fists my shirt, drawing my attention back to her.
Her eyes bounce around my face. “Do you wanna fuck me?” She drags her fingertips down my cheek. “God you’re so hot. Why’re you so hot? Did I say that aloud? I did. I can hear myself talking. That was supposed to be in my head.”
I cup her chin. “How many drinks did you have?”
“Just two? Fuck-me Eric bought me one and I had one before that on my own. Wasn’t that nice? What time is it?”
“It’s an all-inclusive resort, Amalie, he didn’t buy you anything.”
“Oh, right. Hmm. Well, now I’m less impressed.”
I laugh, because I’m not sure how to gauge her right now. She’s definitely tipsy, but not full-out drunk as far I can tell. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?”
“That’s probably a very good idea. I spent a lot of time in the sun today. Water might help me keep my inside thoughts from coming out of my mouth.”
“I like it when your inside thoughts come out of your mouth.” I signal the bartender and order water. A few drinks is understandable after what she’s been through. Although, I would prefer if she didn’t get drunk without me around to keep her safe. She’s far too vulnerable to be left to her own devices.
“Of course you do. All my inside thoughts about you are filthy.” She makes a face, like maybe she didn’t mean to say that.
I push anyway, because tipsy, filterless Amalie is fun, as long as her lack of filter isn’t directed at douches like Fuck-me Eric. “Is that right? How filthy are we talking?”
“I think I should take a vow of silence for the rest of the night. Talking to you is going to get me into trouble.” The bartender sets a glass of water in front of her. “Oh! Thank you.” She drains the glass in three long gulps. I wait until she’s done before I introduce them.
“Declan, this is Amalie. She’s a personal friend, here on vacation from New York. Amalie, this is Declan, the head bartender.”
“Hi.” Her hand shoots out. “Excuse my rudeness. It’s so nice to meet you.”
The bartender gives me a questioning look but takes her hand and kisses her knuckle. My expression must tell him I’m not pleased because he releases it quickly and offers her a refill.
I sit at the bar and chat with people most nights, but I don’t get involved with guests. That’s bad for business. Amalie isn’t a typical guest, though, and I’m taking it upon myself to make her well-being my priority.
Declan sets a fresh glass of water in front of Amalie.
“Thank you. I didn’t even realize how thirsty I was. Plus, if I’m chugging water it saves me from saying more incriminating things to this one.” She thumbs over her shoulder and pokes me in the chest. “He already knows he’s hot, so he doesn’t really need me to tell him. But seriously, so hot.” She raises her glass, takes a few small sips and chugs the rest. She frowns as the ice cubes clink in the bottom, then turns to me. “I don’t think the water is helping me censor myself the way I’d hoped.”
A few stray hairs stick to her glossy lips. I carefully pull them away, skimming her cheek. “I think we’ve already established that I don’t mind your lack of censor.”
Her eyes flutter shut, fingers coming up to graze the back of my hand. “When you touch me like that I feel it right between my . . .” Her eyes pop open and she purses her lip. I’m disappointed I don’t get to hear the end of that sentence. “I should probably go back to my room before my mouth embarrasses me more than it already has. I’m not always this unstable. I promise I don’t do this all the time. The drama or the martinis.”
I fight to keep my smile from turning into a laugh. “Would you like me to walk you back to your bungalow?”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”
“There’s that word again. Let me make sure you’re safe, Amalie.”
Her eyes are wide and searching. “You’re so nice to me. Why’re you so nice?”
“Do I need to have a reason?”
I hold out a hand and she places her warm hand in mine as she slips off her chair. Her hands are delicate, just like her face.
Her heel catches though, so she stumbles forward, grabbing for my bicep as she steadies herself. “I’m not drunk, these heels are just new.”
“However you want to spin it.”
“Seriously. It’s the first time I’ve worn them.” She uses the edge of the bar for balance and adjusts the strap at her heel.
“I’m not judging.” But I sure am checking her out.
I don’t want to think about what might�
�ve happened with Fuck-Me Eric if I hadn’t shown up when I did, though. I don’t know Amalie well enough to be able to say with any certainty how compromised her decision-making is when she’s been drinking and under stress apart from at her wedding, and those were extreme circumstances.
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 th
e 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 to 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.
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