The Player and the Pixie(24)

As soon as his eyes left me I gathered a deep breath, grateful she’d snagged his attention. Feeling relief, I realized it was now or never. I took the opportunity provided by Sean’s distraction to escape.

Rising from my seat, I hurried from the dining hall, figuring that—by the time he looked back—I’d be gone, cocooned safely in the comfort of my room.





Chapter Six


@SeanCassinova If dreams are the subconscious’ attempt to live desires, then I need to buy my subconscious a drink. And a house.



*Sean*

I didn’t sneak into her cabin that night and wake her up with my head between her thighs. Instead I dreamt of Lucy and her head between my thighs. I woke with a start, sweating, having just climaxed.

Rolling my eyes back into my head, I cursed. The sheets now needed to be washed and, unfortunately, I realized I really wanted to fuck Lucy Fitzpatrick.

Before you clutch your pearls with righteous outrage, or faint under the weight of my uncouth barbarism, allow me to explain why my wanting to fuck Lucy—or any woman specifically—was a thing I dread.

Pragmatic couplings, a means to an end, a way to secure an evening free of constant chill—those I could do with no trouble or effort. A few strategically placed kisses. A whispered assurance of mutual want. Robotic movements meant to expedite the act. She always faked it. Sometimes I faked it . . .

Huh.

Lucy’s psychoanalyzing words from our truncated dinner back home in Dublin returned to me. Perhaps Lucy was right. Perhaps buried deep, an underlying emptiness possessed me. So I took toiletries from bathroom cabinets. Little forbidden treasures to fill the void.

The thought was sobering.

And depressing.

And far too pitiful, aggrandizing, and introspective.

Therefore, I refused to believe it. I didn’t feel empty. I was cold.

Just . . . cold.

Plus, no one was harmed during the exchange. We both got what we wanted, after all. The women I slept with secured their trophy—a picture, a story for her girls—and I secured a night of warmth, of unencumbered sleep. These sorts of currency exchanges were commonplace for me.

Unfortunately, with Lucy, I wanted something altogether different.

She wasn’t the first woman to arouse my interest. But after several frustrated efforts in my past, I’d learned to never fuck a woman I truly wanted. Seeing the disappointment or pity in a woman’s eyes after a night of clumsy, albeit sincere, attempts at pleasure was an exercise in masochism.

I consider myself more of a sadist.

My want of Lucy made my plan to seduce Lucy a good deal more complicated. But not insurmountable (figuratively or literally). I merely needed to control the event, ensure it would be a hurried, frenzied copulation rather than an encounter of any length.

To that end, armed with a bottle of champagne, sundry food items, and a basket of strawberries, I tracked Lucy down.

Though the retreat grounds were spread over several acres, covered in meandering rocky paths surrounded by tall, unknown trees, Lucy wasn’t difficult to find. Most of the large group yoga classes took place in an open-air studio made entirely of a dark wood.

Aesthetically, on the outside, the studio resembled the love child between a barn and a rustic cabin. Inside the floor was glossy and well polished, and with no dividers. It was an expansive, unencumbered space. Folding doors had been pushed aside, leaving structural beams and the roof as the only impediment to the outside, sending a reverberating Ooohhhhmmmm through the woods and over the lake.

I mounted the stairs to the studio, leaving my goodies on the porch and approaching the end post with quiet steps. Peeking around the corner as unobtrusively as possible—because, as I learned yesterday when I arrived, these seekers of inner peace grew enraged when their mellow was disturbed—I scanned the studio for Lucy.

I spied her immediately. Surprisingly, it wasn’t her rainbow mane that caught my attention. It was her arse. I’d been admiring it yesterday when I arrived, but hadn’t realized that I’d memorized it as well. The entire class was bending over, giving me their backsides, so I indulged myself, taking a moment to appreciate it.

Everything about Lucy was small, waiflike, and delicate (in appearance). Everything except her arse. It was perfectly round—almost spherical—and disproportionately big for her small frame. And it made my mouth water.

The class ended far too soon for my taste, driving me away from my hiding spot before I was caught lurking. Leaning against a porch post, I waited for Lucy to emerge.

When she did she was smiling.

But when she caught sight of me, it fell from her face.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” I grinned despite her brusque question, my eyes skating over her body. When they again settled on her upturned face I was both pleased and surprised to find her gaze unfocused, perhaps even dazed, as she studied my face.