The Player and the Pixie(35)

He shrugged. “No biggie.”

I ate in silence while they chatted around me, my mind elsewhere. I couldn’t help thinking of Sean and the contradiction of how much he turned me on, but how clueless he was when it came to sex.

Wasn’t his nickname Sleazy Sean?

How could somebody be so renowned for conquests yet never learn anything from the experience?

Was it all so drunken and fumbling that neither party ever bothered to figure out what made the other feel good?

And he seemed to know he was bad at it. So why hadn’t he ever consulted the Internet? Why hadn’t he tried to learn how to do things right prior to now? He seemed eager enough to learn last night . . .

I was adrift in these thoughts when the noise of a chair scraping back grabbed my attention. Glancing up, I found Sean joining us at the table. His hair was wet and he’d changed his clothes. For a moment, I felt bad for leaving him to wake up in my cabin all alone.

His gaze held mine for a beat, his expression somber. I tore my eyes away from his, fighting a fierce surge of heat threatening to overtake my neck and cheeks.

I will not blush. I am not shy. I am an adult woman who likes having sex. So what if I had to teach him how and it was sexy as hell?

I lifted my gaze to Sean once more. He was still looking at me and the heat behind his gaze, the intensity and vulnerability of it, obliterated all my reasoning and good sense. He looked at me like I was the center of something important. Like I was important to him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I blushed.

Then I cursed under my breath and stabbed my porridge with my spoon, resolved not to make eye contact again. This was all in my head—it had to be. I couldn’t go imagining last night meant something to Sean Cassidy.

Sleazy Sean, I reminded myself of his nickname again. This did not make me feel better.

He ate and chatted with the others for a few minutes while I regulated my breathing, then his thigh moved against mine as he leaned in close and murmured in my ear, “We should talk.”

I raised a brow at him speculatively, ignoring the goosebumps caused by his hot breath against my neck. “About what?”

He leaned back, studying me, and pressed his lips together. “Things.”

“Oh.” I exhaled the word.

Smiling, he shook his head. “No need to look so frightened.”

“I’m not frightened.” I was a little frightened.

He pondered me a moment, his voice holding a hint of self-deprecation. “Perhaps that wasn’t the correct choice of word. Traumatized is probably more fitting.”

“I’m really not following you.”

He sighed, his smile growing brittle, his words halting and tinged with apology. “Last night, I didn’t exactly live up to what you expected.”

“I didn’t have any expectations, Sean,” I lied, stunned by his self-effacement.

He scrutinized me for several moments, like I was an unsolvable equation, then pressed, “Be that as it may, I want to make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me?” I squeaked, imagining all the things that statement could mean.

“Yes, but first . . .” He frowned, still examining my face, and turned in his chair, his arm coming to rest along the back of mine. With a painfully sincere expression—one that made my heart both flutter and squeeze—he whispered, “I want you to teach me.”





Chapter Eight


@SeanCassinova How is sex like a party?

@THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova Ok I’ll bite. How is sex like a party?

@SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech It’s more fun when everybody comes.

@THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova You’re only figuring this out now?



*Sean*

There’s this idiom I’d never fully appreciated until I sat across from lovely Lucy Fitzpatrick and asked her to teach me how to fuck, good and proper.

Go for broke.

Last night had been a nightmare. Then it had been a dream. And she’d been an angel.

My angel.

I wasn’t quite sure what to think about that.

But waking up this morning, the bed still warm from her body—our bodies together—and heavy with her scent, my first conscious thought was of her face as she’d hit her orgasm. I closed my eyes and relived the pulsing of her reflexive response, the aftershocks of her pleasure, the way her skin flushed pink, and the beads of her rose-colored nipples drawing firm and tight.

And, fuck me, lying in her bed, remembering her, smelling her, I was hard. I was needy for her raw arousal. I couldn’t wait to have her again.

And though I probably should have been, I wasn’t embarrassed or emasculated by the memory of my blunders. For once. No. Something about this girl, this woman, gave me the distinct impression of acceptance. It was as odd and disorienting as it was invigorating.