Amie

“You’re going to Bora Bora?” I’m trying not to show my shock. I’m sure I’m failing.

“I am. And, it appears, so are you.”

“That’s rather coincidental.” I don’t understand how this is possible. Why can’t my nightmare of humiliation just end?

His expression is carefully neutral. “It very much is. But rest assured I had no idea this was where you were going.”

Spending an hour in the airport with Lexington is not the same as coming to the realization that we’re heading for the same destination.

Bora Bora is small and he’s on hotel business. My honeymoon was booked in a Mills hotel. Because they’re the best. There’s a better than average chance we’re going to be in the same place at the same time during my three weeks on the island. I don’t like how excited my entire body seems to be about that. No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.

I do not need to be thinking about what he said, or how desperately irrational I was during those inerasable minutes. Or how much I wanted that retribution and maybe still do. Except I’m not sure it would be retribution anymore. I might be past that point. I’m not sure how to feel about that, other than conflicted. I can certainly admit that I’m attracted to Lex and have been from the moment I met him. But acting on that attraction isn’t smart beyond the harmless flirting we’ve been doing. Except now we’re going to the same place, on the same plane. That’s bad. Very, very bad, because the Anarchy part of me thinks it’s very, very good.

I reach across the table with a trembling hand and pick up the nearly empty bottle of champagne. It’ll cost at least five hundred dollars, if not more. I’m looking forward to charging it to Armstrong’s credit card, and finishing what’s left.

Except when the bill comes, it hasn’t been separated and Lexington refuses to let me pay for my share.

“Please let me get this.” It’s a statement, not a question, and the lilt of his voice is both authoritative and gently persuasive.

“The whole point is to charge that bottle to Armstrong’s card,” I argue.

“It might be best to wait until you’re out of the country, don’t you think? You can rack up charges on the plane, on your whole damn holiday if you want.”

There are no charges to rack up on the plane since I’m in first class, and the honeymoon is all-inclusive. I relent, but only because he makes a good point. Spa services aren’t covered at the resort, so I can charge those, and any clothes or jewelry that catch my eye. I may need to do a lot of shopping, at least until Armstrong realizes I’m charging things to his card and cuts me off.

While Lexington pays for my extraordinarily expensive bottle of champagne, I gulp down what’s left in my glass. There’s still an inch in the bottle, and if it didn’t look extremely tacky, I’d drink that too. Instead, I gather my purse and coat, smooth out my skirt—yes, I’m wearing a skirt on an eighteen-hour flight. I wanted to at least look good should I run into anyone I know. So on the off chance it got back to Armstrong, I at least appear as if I’m unfazed by all of this. Unfortunately, the change of clothes I’d packed, yoga pants and a T-shirt, are safely stowed in the undercarriage of the plane, so I’m stuck in this.

The champagne hits me as I stand. I wobble, grabbing the closest thing to steady me, which happens to be Lexington’s arm. His rock-hard arm. His rock-hard arm that I know is decorated in a very elaborate tattoo, hidden under his white dress shirt and navy jacket.

The Mills men like body art. Bancroft has a half sleeve, which runs from his shoulder to the middle of his bicep. Lexington’s spans his entire arm. I’ve seen the entire thing once. Although, at the time, I didn’t take the opportunity to admire it, as it was during a Halloween soirée last year. He was dressed as a gladiator. His costume was brilliant, and it showed off the incredible body currently hidden under his suit, which raised more than a hundred thousand dollars during our charity bachelor auction.

He gives me a knowing, dimpled smile. He really is very attractive and in exactly the opposite way Armstrong is. His hair is dark to Armstrong’s light. He’s built where Armstrong is lean. His features are chiseled as opposed to regally pretty. Lexington is polished, but beneath that smooth exterior is the kind of bad boy I’ve always found myself hopelessly attracted to.

The kind of man with full-sleeve tattoos. The kind that suggests flying to Vegas to elope within two minutes of meeting me. The same kind of man who flashes an entire room at a Halloween soirée and gets away with it. Or at least he gave off the impression of being a bad boy. I’m not entirely sure that’s true anymore with the way he’s come to my rescue more than once. And most of what I’ve been told about him has come from Armstrong and highbrow gossip, the truth of which is always up for debate.

While I probably would’ve thrown myself at any available man at my farce of a wedding, all of these traits certainly made it a lot easier to do the other night.

He whispers, “Champagne hitting you harder than expected?”

I realize I’m holding on to him rather tightly, so I release his arm and attempt to find my balance. “I’m fine.”

His fingers press gently against the dip in my spine. “Aren’t you glad I insisted you eat?”

I brush his hand away, unnerved by the way the contact is heating me up from the inside and that I’d like more of it. Which is inappropriate. I can’t want this man. He’s my estranged husband’s cousin. He’s my best friend’s boyfriend’s brother. I’ll see him constantly at events. It’s bad enough that I’ve already thrown myself at him once and been rejected.

No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.

I shake my head and reach for my carry-on. Unfortunately, little sleep and almost an entire bottle of champagne renders me inebriated, even with the breakfast I stuffed in my face. I miss the handle and stumble forward.

“Whoa.” Lexington’s wide palms wrap around my waist, preventing me from face-planting into the floor.

Crap. I need to get it together. I’m embarrassing myself in front of him yet again. He pulls out a chair, turns me around, and forces me to sit down.

“Drink this, please.” He hands me the glass of orange juice I ignored up until now.

“It has too much sugar in it.” I realize it’s a ridiculous excuse, and one I don’t need to use anymore since fitting into a dress is no longer a priority.

He laughs, then grows serious. Grabbing the chair by both arms, he leans in close. It’s intimate and dominating, the way he has me penned in. Energy crackles between us and I can’t decide if it’s in my head, or maybe because I’m slightly intoxicated, but for a very protracted moment I want to be alone with him. Naked and alone. I want to forget the mess my life is.

He keeps his eyes on mine, his voice low, reserved. “You just polished off most of a bottle of champagne and you’re worried about your sugar consumption? You need liquid that is not alcohol in your system if you want to get on that plane.”

And I’m no longer thinking about him naked. They won’t allow me to board if I’m shit-faced. If I don’t get on that plane now I’ll be stuck here, dealing with the aftermath of my failure of a relationship. I chug the glass and he trades it for the tumbler of water, which I also drain. Lexington pulls a pack of gum from inside his breast pocket. It crinkles as he pushes a square free of the packaging and pops it into his mouth. Repeating the action, he holds the square up to my mouth. Instead of using my fingers, like I should, I part my lips and take what he’s offering.

“Good girl.” His barely audible whisper sends a shiver down my spine.

Our flight number is called again for boarding, this time first class along with zones one and two.

He straightens, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”

I regard his wide palm and long fingers, then lift my gaze to meet his. “Why’re you being so nice to me?”

“Because I want to. Because you don’t deserve what’s happened to you.” His smile is more than sad, some emotion I can’t quite pin down lingering in his gaze. “Come. Let’s get you on that plane.”

I place my fingers on his palm and let him help me out of the chair. The water and juice have dulled the effects of the alcohol marginally, but I accept his assistance when he threads his arm through mine and takes my carry-on in his free hand.

Since we’re seated in first class, we don’t have to wait. Lex keeps a protective hand on my back as we walk down the ramp to the plane. He allows me to go first. As soon as I’m in the cabin I make note of one very important detail: There are only two empty seats in first class and they’re next to each other. Of course we’re sitting together.

I glance at him, then at the seats. “Do you have the window or aisle?”

“I’m fine with either, so you take the one you want the most.” His fingertips press into my spine, urging me forward.

Usually when I traveled with Armstrong I had to take the aisle because he hates it when his elbow gets bumped by the flight attendant’s cart. I selfishly take the window seat.

“Do you need anything from here before I stow this?” Lexington taps the side of my carry-on, a devilish smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

I resist the urge to flip him off, especially since he just bought me expensive champagne and saved me from being denied access to the plane. I smile cheekily instead and bat my lashes. “I should be fine, thanks, though.”

That smirk of his stays firmly in place as he lifts the bag over his head, securing it in the overhead bin. He moves out of the aisle to allow passengers to pass. I busy myself with the contents of my purse while Lexington shrugs out of his jacket. He’s precise about folding it before he lays it across the arm of his seat. Dropping down beside me, he unfastens his cuff links and rolls his sleeves halfway up his forearms, exposing the colorful artwork on the arm closest to me.

I try not to stare, but it’s so very pretty, and his forearm is so . . . defined. Thickly muscled. All of his muscles are thick. Even the one in his pants. Oh God. I’ve felt his penis.

My cheeks flush and I avert my gaze, focusing on the luggage carts moving across the tarmac outside.

I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. My brain isn’t even working right. I’ve hardly slept since the wedding and I’m a little drunk. Maybe more than a little. Karmic intervention has nothing to do with us ending up on this plane together. It’s just a strange coincidence.

The feel of my purse being lifted from my lap startles me awake. I reflexively grab it. Strong, warm hands cover mine. “It’s okay, Amalie, it’s just me. I’m not stealing your purse.”

I blink blearily and look around. Right. I’m on a plane. With Lex. Not my husband. Or non-husband. “What’re you doing?” It comes out all slurry.

“We’re taking off. We have to stow this under the seat.”

His use of we makes my heart hurt because I’m just a me now, and my we status lasted less than twelve hours. “Oh. Right.” I relinquish my hold.

Lex leans forward, his shoulder brushing my knee as he carefully places my purse under the seat in front of me. The contact is brief. “You can go back to sleep,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.

I let my eyes fall closed again. I want to thank him, but everything feels too heavy and blackness is so much more alluring than life. So I let consciousness melt away.

Awareness returns with a vengeance. I need to use the bathroom. Badly. Also, my neck is sore. As I adjust my position, it becomes clear that Lex has been functioning as my pillow. I don’t really have time to be embarrassed—yet again—because my bladder is literally screaming at me. Also, Lex is asleep, so maybe he didn’t notice my snuggling with his arm.

I fight with my seatbelt, groaning when I don’t get it on first try. I have to kegel like crazy as I finally manage to unbuckle myself. At least I’m not drunk anymore. Or as drunk. Standing only makes it worse and my knees nearly buckle. Lex’s legs are spread wide, hands clasped in his lap. He looks so put together even while sleeping, and with all that five o’clock shadow covering his jaw. I try to shuffle around him, but my foot gets caught on my purse strap and I stumble, falling right top of him. I brace a hand on each of his shoulders so I don’t smother him with my boobs.

He startles awake. “What the fu—” His hands go to my hips. Low on my hips. Fingertips pressing into the fleshy part of my ass. I’m straddling one of his legs and my skirt is hiked up, the lace band of my thigh-highs barely visible. This is the most impractical outfit to fly in. I should’ve just worn my yoga pants, T-shirt, and flats. Who cares if someone saw me. I could’ve bought a pair of sweats or something in the airport instead of crying in the bathroom, but now I’m stuck in this until we land.

Lex’s confused gaze falls on my chest, which is right in front of his face, and then moves down to where his hands are, and then lower.

“So sorry. Need to pee.” My heel is still caught in my purse strap, though, so I can’t escape. I try to bend to get it, but I can’t reach and I’m making this situation worse with the way my chest bumps his face. I can barely think around my need to pee.

“Hold on. Let me help.” Lex’s hand trails down the outside of my thigh. I grip his shoulder, unsure whether the aching throb between my legs is related to my bursting bladder, or if the feel of his hand skimming the entire length of my leg is creating a different kind of ache. He turns his face, his cheek pressed up against my hip as he wrestles with my tangled purse strap.

“Okay, you’re good.” He pats my ass and sits back in his seat.

His eyes go wide, just like mine, but I don’t have time to call him on the ass tap because my bladder reminds me just how precarious my situation is, and how much more embarrassing it could get.

I rush down the aisle, more grateful than I’ve ever been in my life to see that little green vacant sign. I throw myself into the bathroom, pull the door shut, hike up my skirt, and drop my panties. They’re sapphire blue satin with black lace accents. I bought them a long time ago, before Armstrong and his “I only like white lingerie” ridiculousness. Now I get to wear them whenever I want. I wonder if Lexington would like them.

“Stop it,” I chastise myself. I can still feel his hand on my butt, though. It was clearly an accident. I shocked him awake with my boobs in his face. The ass tap was purely reflexive.

I sigh with relief as the pressure in my bladder slowly dissipates, but that ache, the one low in my belly, still remains. I have no idea how many more hours I have on this plane with Lex, but it’s going to be serious torture to sit beside his hotness, replaying the humiliating, albeit clit-throbbingly, amazing moments in which his mouth was connected to mine and his hard-on was between my legs.

As I’m reliving that moment in my head, a sudden bout of turbulence shakes the plane and rattles the door. I hope it’s an isolated event and that this isn’t going to be one of those flights where I spend the entire time white-knuckling the armrests. I rush to finish my business so I can get back to my seat before we’re hit with more turbulence. I open the door, still adjusting my stupid skirt so it covers the damn garters, and find Lex standing on the other side, wearing a placid smile. My cheeks are once again hot as I move past him, muttering “Excuse me” to the man waiting behind him.

I return to my seat and check my phone for the time. We’ve only been in the air for little more than two hours. Awesome. More than fifteen hours to go and the embarrassing moments keep running like ticker tape. I realize I didn’t even let Ruby know I made it through security safely, or that I’m in the air. I quickly connect to WiFi and compose an email.

Made it through security. Full carry-on search—which was awesome considering I packed ALL of my toys and checked the wrong bag. My humiliation is extreme and overwhelming. I also have an interesting seat partner on the plane. I’ll call when I land and tell you all about it.

XO

Anarchy Amie

I fire it off just as Lexington sits back down. The flight attendant stops by with drinks and snacks. I accept some champagne, because it’s free and I might as well get my buzz back. Or fall asleep again if I’m lucky. Lexington orders coffee and water. He’s too well behaved to be the bad boy I originally thought he was.

He smiles wryly at my champagne, pulls out his laptop and a couple of files, and unfolds his seat tray from the armrest. I pretend to leaf through the airplane magazine while I sip my bubbly, watching curiously as he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a small case. Flipping it open, he withdraws a pair of glasses and slides them on.

Dear sweet lord of all things panty melting, this has to be the sexiest man to ever walk the planet. The only thing that would make him sexier would be if he was holding a puppy, or better yet, a baby.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” It comes out all soft and breathless.

He touches the frames, and for the first time he looks a little embarrassed. “I don’t wear them often, mostly just when I’m on the computer for long periods of time.”

“They suit you.”

That earns me a smile. “Thanks.”

I gesture to his laptop, struggling for topics of conversation. I don’t know why I’m bothering. Clearly, he wants to work and I should just leave him alone. “You expect to get a lot done during the flight?” I don’t know Lexington well apart from the occasional mutual dinner parties we attend, mostly because I’ve only ever been around him with Armstrong present, and their dislike for each other has always been very apparent. My first impression of him, which initially was of his overwhelming attractiveness and his intense flirty-ness, was also tainted by Armstrong’s warning that he was bad news. Based on what I now know about Armstrong, I’m not so sure I should’ve listened to him in the first place.

Lex shrugs. “We’ll see. I have a few properties I have to visit and some projects to work on, so it doesn’t hurt to start laying some of the groundwork before I get there. Besides, I fully expect my father to come at me with a million questions within an hour of landing, so it helps to be prepared.”

Lexington tugs at his tie, loosening it until he can lift it over his head. He unfastens the top two buttons on his shirt. I gasp and skim my fingertips over the faint purple mark low on his neck. Touching him feels like running my fingers past a live wire. He jerks at the contact and I snatch my hand away, pressing it to my lips. I can both smell and taste his cologne.

“I’m so sorry about that,” I say from behind my fingers.

He chuckles and strokes the dark spot. “Don’t be. It makes me nostalgic for my teen years.”

I bite my lip to contain my grin. “Oh my God. I was grounded for a month the first time I came home with a hickey.”

“First time? Were there multiple infractions?”

“I had a boyfriend in high school who liked to mark his territory. Needless to stay, he was not a family favorite.” But he sure was good with his mouth. I don’t mention that while I was in high school he was in his second year of college.

“I dated a girl who hickeyed her name across my stomach.” Lexington’s eyes light up with the memory.

“Did she at least have a short name?”

“It was Jennifer, but she went by Jen with one N, so it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Well, that’s not true. She made those letters big and it was pool weather.”

“Oh my God.” I can totally imagine Lexington with abs covered in hickeys.

“I was a lifeguard. I had to wear a tank top in the water for almost two weeks. Mimi was not happy.”

Mimi, or Meredith—Lex’s mother—is a lovely, mostly proper woman, but every once in a while I catch a glimpse of what might be impishness. It’s just the little things she says, the digs she gets in with her sister, Gwendolyn—Armstrong’s mother. “How old were you?”

“Maybe seventeen or eighteen. She was concerned about the negative influence on Bancroft, not that she had to worry, he was all sports, all the time. I don’t think he even knew girls existed until college.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Especially with the way he is with Ruby. Those two treat sex like it’s an Olympic sport. I want that kind of connection with someone. I’d hoped I would have that with Armstrong, eventually, but in the back of my mind I think I knew it would never be like that.

“He was a bit oblivious.”

“What about Griffin?” He’s the oldest of the Mills brothers, Lexington being in the middle.

“He was born ready to fall in love. He dated the same girl all through high school and was crushed when it ended. He dated another girl in college for three years, but she moved to Texas for medical school and it just didn’t work out. Then he met Imogen.”

“He’s only had three relationships?” I can’t even imagine that. I dated so much in high school and college.

“Yeah. Three long ones.”

“What about you?” I cringe at the inappropriateness of the question considering our circumstances. “You don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine.” He traces the edge of his laptop. “And I actually mean that it is fine to ask. I didn’t really do serious relationships in high school.”

“Too busy getting hickeys?”

“Something like that. What about you? I bet you had a high school sweetheart and when you moved to New York you broke his poor, lovesick heart.”

I laugh at that. “Not quite. I didn’t have very good taste in boys when I was young. Well, clearly that hasn’t changed, but I used to chase the bad ones, or more like they used to chase me.”

His gaze moves over my face. “I bet the bad boys loved you.”

I wag my eyebrows. “I looked a lot more innocent than I was. Ruby used to call me Anarchy Amie.”

“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.