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.