The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  They hug me and send me through the security checkpoint. Alone. On my way to my dream honeymoon destination half a world away. Without a husband. No one here knows that my husband got blown at my wedding by someone other than me. As far as they’re concerned I’m just a single woman going on vacation.

  I lift my carry-on onto the belt and watch it move down the line. I start daydreaming about relaxing in the VIP lounge, a perk of flying first class, since they serve alcohol no matter what the hour. I plan to order a bottle of champagne and drink the entire thing on Armstrong’s dime as I’m still in possession of one of his credit cards. I don’t think it’ll take much to get a solid buzz going considering my lack of sleep or food over the past few days.

  I step into the full-body X-Ray, noting commotion at the carry-on conveyor belt and hope someone hasn’t brought something they shouldn’t. That’ll delay my champagne plans. The rules and regulations are clearly outlined on the website. Armstrong reviewed it at least three times and crosschecked his luggage at least three more. His meticulousness was endearing at first, but now I can admit that after a while it became frustrating and annoying. I don’t need to be reminded a dozen times that I can’t bring scissors on a plane.

  I smile at the well-built, attractive security guard when he motions me through. I wouldn’t mind having this one frisk me right about now. I have plans to get frisked repeatedly on this honeymoon of mine, but not because I’ve broken the law. I’m going to let my wild side out just as Ruby suggested.

  “Carry-on check!” another guards yells.

  Security guy doesn’t return my smile. He seems rather unfriendly. Instead, his somber expression grows even more somber as he looks to the yelling guard.

  I step toward the line of people putting on shoes, collecting purses and phones, and do the same, but my carry-on isn’t on the belt. I look around for it, worried someone has taken it by accident. I’m relieved when I spot it over on a separate bay where a serious-faced guard stands with his fists on his hips, engaged in a conversation with the unfriendly one who didn’t return my smile.

  I make sure I have the rest of my things, including my passport, and wave at them. “Hi, hello!” I tuck my hair behind my ear and smile again, hoping Serious Face is friendlier, and that I come across as sweet and unassuming. “Um, can I just—” I reach for my carry-on but they both put up a hand to stop me.

  “Is this your bag, ma’am?” Unfriendly asks. They’re both attractive in an authoritative, uniform-wearing kind of way. Or maybe it’s the only reason they’re attractive. That and the fact that Unfriendly has a sleeve, which immediately puts him in my Anarchy Amie Bad Boy Fuckable category.

  I really need to get laid on this trip. A lot. A year of polite sex is more than anyone should have to tolerate.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry. Pardon?” Have I really just been ogling two security guards? The answer to that is yes. For a second I feel shame and then I remember that my marriage is a sham and I can ogle whoever I damn well want. I could even offer oral services if I felt like it, not that I would, just that I’m free to do as I please.

  It’s at this moment that I notice a humming sound. I rub behind my ear, thinking maybe it’s ringing thanks to extreme exhaustion. Or maybe it’s my phone. Except the hum isn’t coming from my purse, it’s coming from behind the guards.

  “Are you carrying any weapons?” Unfriendly asks. He doesn’t have a nametag, so that one is sticking.

  “Excuse me?” What the hell is he talking about?

  “Do you have arms to declare?”

  What an odd question. I can’t imagine I look like someone who would carry a weapon. “Arms? Apart from the ones attached to my body, no.” Neither of them smiles at my joke.

  “Carrying an undisclosed weapon is a serious offense, punishable by law, ma’am.”

  “I understand that, and agree wholly with that law, however I’m not carrying any weapons. All I have in my purse are tweezers. I thought those were okay.” Oh my God. Why are my palms damp?

  They look at each other, and then me. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you one more time if there’s anything in your carry-on that could be considered a weapon.”

  I mentally review the items in the bag: I have a change of clothes, my makeup, jewelry, extra panties, and . . . “Oh God.” I slap my hand over my mouth as I note the winky emoticon sticker on my carry-on bag. I have two carry - on - sized bags packed for this trip, which are coincidentally the same color. The one with all my special items is marked with the winky face. The emergency, if - my - bag - gets - lost carry-on doesn’t have a sticker at all. The wrong suitcase is on its way to the baggage hold.

  Serious Face’s hand goes to his holster. Sweet lord, he thinks I’m a criminal. “We’re going to have to check your bag, ma’am.”

  “No!”

  I take one step toward him and he puts his massive palm out. “Do not take another step, ma’am, or I’ll be forced to restrain you.”

  People are watching. I’m causing a scene. Well, I’m not, but my suitcase is. And this unfriendly, dickwad security guard. I lower my voice. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You don’t need to check my bag.”

  “I’m afraid we do, ma’am.”

  “You don’t understand. I checked the wrong bag. That one has all my . . . special items in it.” My plea has absolutely no impact. The one opening my bag pauses to glance at me. Unfriendly’s eyes widen just a bit. It’s the most expression he’s had since this whole debacle started.

  Serious Face carefully flips my bag open. The buzzing grows louder. Oh shit. I threw my favorite vibrator in there as an afterthought, and I forgot to take the batteries out. This is the second time this has happened with this stupid vibrator. I should’ve learned this lesson by now.

  Unfriendly glances in the bag. Serious Face adjusts his ball cap and his gaze flips up to me. The hint of a smirk tugs at the right side of his mouth. I’m not sure if it’s actually possible to die from embarrassment, but I would really like to right now. Or I’d like to be Hermione Granger and perform a memory erasing charm on everyone currently witnessing this.

  Serious Face must take pity on me, because the vibrating ceases. Thank God. Except he can’t leave it there. He twists the end and the vibrations start up again. “This has some power,” he says to Unfriendly.

  Awesome, they’re making fun of me. Well fuck them. I can make them just as uncomfortable as they’re making me. Probably even more. I let Anarchy Amie take the wheel. “It’s actually amazing for prostate stimulation.” I give them a conspiratorial wink.

  Serious Face fumbles the vibrator and drops it back in the case, where it continues to bump around ominously.

  I drag my finger down the side of my neck and bat my lashes. “The bulbous, curved head is specially designed for that exact purpose. The sensation it produces is quite intense. Of course I would never suggest using a toy like that without the appropriate preparation.”

  They look anywhere but each other.

  Serious Face nervously reaches back in to my bag and quickly shuts off the vibrator, then unscrews the end and dumps the batteries out. He places the unit on the steel table, possibly in retaliation to the prostate stimulation revelation. Jerk.

  He takes a little stick—as if the contents of my bag are lethal—and pokes around in it some more. A few lingerie pieces make an appearance, along with a studded thong that he holds up for far too long.

  I think I’m finally safe, but then he unzips the other side, which contains all of my fun plastic, glass, silicone, and stainless-steel friends. All of them. Because my plan for this week was to introduce Armstrong to the amazing world of sex toys and show him just how much fun they can be. Could’ve been. Also, I actually wanted to be able to orgasm without a whole hell of a lot of effort. I figured I might as well bring all of it along to ensure there would be no shortage of orgasms for me.

  Serious Face peeks inside. His eyebrows climb his forehead. This should be interesting.
He seems particularly fascinated by the steel butt plug. He opens the bubble wrap envelope and withdraws the contents, which are also covered with more bubble wrap. I’m very cautious with my toys since they’re rather expensive. At least it’s mostly out of view of the people still rubber-necking as these goons search my carry-on for weapons. I suppose some of these could be considered weapons—of pleasure.

  I cross my arms over my chest. I’m past mortification and have moved into annoyed territory. “Please be careful, that’s glass.”

  I blow out a breath as he finishes unwrapping it and frowns. Boys, so clueless.

  “It’s a glass dildo.”

  “Fuck,” Unfriendly mutters.

  “That’s exactly what it’s for.”

  This time I get a smile out of him. I don’t like his teeth. They’re too white. And he’s only smiling because he wants to be the one to use that on me. I suppose the one important thing I’ve discovered about myself is that I own an extraordinary number of sex toys and it’s a real shame I was dumb enough to marry a man who is too insecure to enjoy them with me. I guess I can thank Brittany Whore-ton for forcing me to see the light.

  “This should be okay for your carry-on.” Serious Face returns it to the padded envelope.

  I think I’m almost free when he pulls out a very sizable bottle of lube. And the anal lube. And my toy cleaner. None of which conform to carry-on regulations. I know this. It’s why they’re in what was supposed to be my checked bag. I had high hopes for the coming weeks.

  I close my eyes, worried that I’m moving from annoyed embarrassment to the tearful kind, and pray to some random God, hopefully a female one, that this will all be over soon. When I open my eyes, the guards are inspecting my bottles of lube. I glance to the line of waiting, would-be flyers. A few look my way, but quickly avert their eyes when they see my delicates vomiting out of my case.

  And then I think I’ve completely lost my mind. Passing through the X-ray machine, dressed in a navy suit, with a five o’clock shadow that could kill a specter, is Lexington Mills. I blink. And blink again. “No effing way.”

  I’m going to fuck you and you’re going to like it. I said that to him the last time I saw him. While attempting to choke him with his tie. For all intents and purposes that’s considered sexual assault.

  He fastens a watch around his wrist. Who even wears a watch these days? Lexington pockets his passport, phone, and wallet and shoulders his messenger bag. It’s masculine for a man-purse, just like he is. I felt just how masculine he is between my legs when I begged him to have sex with me. Oh God, I begged him. Now that I’m past the shock stage and fully immersed and basking in my anger, I can clearly see how unhinged I was. My mortification is doubled by my suitcase of fuck toys.

  Before he slips his feet back into his shoes I note his socks. They’re patterned. And not just with dots or diamonds or some pretentious houndstooth check. His socks are bright blue with what appear to be little bacon strips decorating them. Who is this man?

  As I take a moment to reverse the circuit, checking out his ass on the way back up to his face, I realize he’s staring back at me. I look away quickly, but pretending I don’t recognize him isn’t going to work. Especially since these guys are still going through my damn bag, and my sex toys and lingerie are on display for everyone passing by, including Lexington.

  He seems just as shocked to see me as I am to see him. His expression grows serious as he shoves his feet in his shoes and surveys the area around me.

  I brace myself for some kind of confrontation as he heads toward me, but that’s not what happens. I’m stunned when he pulls me in for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Keeping his hold on my arms as he backs away, tight smile still in place. “Amalie! So good to see you! Are you traveling alone?”

  I’m speechless at first, unable to understand why he’s being so pleasant. “I-I. Yes. I’m alone.” I feel my chin start to quiver. Dammit. I can’t cry right now.

  “That’s good.” He nods, eyes moving over my face, seeming strangely concerned. “I was worried—”

  When he doesn’t finish the sentence, I fill the awkward silence. “I thought I deserved an escape.”

  “You do. Definitely.” He glances at my open luggage, and leans in to whisper. “Is that yours?”

  I purse my lips and nod. This feels a lot like a pap. I might as well show everyone my vagina with all the things I generally put on, or in, it, already available for public viewing.

  He steps back, his expression somewhere between amused and intrigued. I wait for some snarky comment to add to my humiliation that never seems to end, one that will send me over the edge, back into the land of tears and sadness. Anger is so much easier. “It’s a real shame you have to attend the conference alone.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  Lexington turns his megawatt smile on the guards. “Amalie is the queen of sex, obviously.” He gestures to my bag. “I’m so glad to see you’ve brought so many of the new products for the Extreme Pleasure line.”

  I cough. The Extreme what? I don’t get what’s happening here.

  Lexington points to the black bottle. “Do you mind?”

  I look to the guards who seem very confused. “You know this guy?”

  “We work for the same company,” Lexington says.

  I’m so discombobulated. I don’t understand where he’s going with this.

  He leans close to me again and whispers. “Follow my lead.” Then he gives me a knowing wink as he grabs the bottle, addressing the guards. “This is great stuff.” He flips it in his hand, possibly judging the heft as he checks the label. It’s not even close to full. I’m sure he’s noticed. He turns his charming white-toothed smile on me, his tongue peeking out just a little.

  My stomach twists uncomfortably. I kissed him. On my wedding night. I had my tongue in his mouth. I know how soft his lips are. It was short-lived, because he was fighting off my advances—sort of—but I still remember every second of it. Especially the part where his tongue tangled with mine briefly.

  He rolls the bottle between his palms, as if he’s warming it up. “Very effective, isn’t it, Amalie?”

  It finally dawns on me that he’s trying to save me, and it’s possible that he can tell I’m on the verge of tears since he’s witnessed me shed them rather recently. I clear my throat and do my best to play along. “Oh, yes.” I nod. “Extremely effective.”

  “So much better than products that numb, wouldn’t you agree?” He’s still holding my gaze, his concern still obvious even though he’s pretending this is a normal conversation to have in the middle of airport security. Meanwhile the lines continue to build behind us.

  I return his smile with a wavering one of my own and address the security guards, who look so incredibly confused. “Definitely. I one hundred percent agree. What would be the point of using something that numbs? Then no one feels anything, and that defeats the whole purpose.” I place a hand on his bicep, the squeeze for me, but also to demonstrate my appreciation for what he’s doing.

  “That’s right, Amalie.” He leans toward the guys, lowering his voice. “This is a muscle relaxant, to help accommodate for larger insertions.”

  Both guards look at me, then back down at the contents of the bag. As it is, I’m working to hold back the hysterical laughter that very well may turn into tears. Lex leans in further and taps the stainless-steel plug. It’s new. I haven’t used it before. I’m not even sure I’m ready for something like that. The two smaller ones are silicone. Obviously I’ve been using them by myself because the only anal thing about Armstrong was his personality.

  Lexington strokes the steel like a lover while he holds my gaze. “This beauty right here is exactly what I’m referring to.”

  And I think I just came in my damn panties.

  Serious Face gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, until he speaks. He sounds like a pre-pubescent teen. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t allow you to take the liquid items on th
e plane. It’s against regulations.”

  I wave him off, relieved the tension seems to be broken. “It’s fine. I have travel sizes of everything anyway.” Why did I say that out loud?

  Lexington puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. I must really look like I’m about to lose it if he’s being this nice after what I did to him. “She’s always prepared. A regular Girl Scout of sexpertise.”

  They begin the process of repacking my bag, leaving out the items that have been confiscated; so, everything apart from my gigantic bottles of lube and my brand-new bottle of toy cleaner.

  At least the embarrassment is over. I hope. I just need to keep it together long enough to finish repacking my bag and then I need to get away from Lexington, because my emotional hold is close to snapping.

  Six: Fuck Toy Warehouse

  Lexington

  I think my brain might explode. Amalie—poised, put-together (apart from the night of her wedding, understandably) demure, sexy-as-fuck Amalie—has the Willy Wonka equivalent of a portable sex shop stored in her goddamn carry-on.

  “I’m going to have to clean everything,” she gripes.

  The security guards are acting as if they’ve found a bag of candy and they’re about to fight over who gets to eat it. She’s right about the cleanliness issue. Those two have touched pretty much every item in that bag. Although they are wearing gloves.

  I have to wonder what happened to make them open it in the first place. She hardly looks the criminal type. In fact, she’s exactly the opposite. Amalie’s appearance fits into the sweetly sexy category, and she’s become infinitely sexier thanks to the fuck toy factory she’s warehousing in that bag. The stainless-steel plug is rather intriguing. Amalie appears to be a naughty, dirty girl. Which begs the question: why the hell was Armstrong putting his dick in other mouths?

  “May I please assist? The steel and the glass shouldn’t be next to each other.” Amalie’s voice is matter of fact, sweet like sugar with a hint of a waver. But her posture reflects her annoyance.