The Player and the Pixie(39)

She stiffened, her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull out of my grip. I leaned just slightly away so I could see her profile. She kept her eyes diligently forward.

While I checked in, she remained silent, making no move to separate our bodies. And when I added her to the room and presented her with a key, she accepted it, slipping the rectangle into her handbag without a word.





Chapter Nine


@SeanCassinova Where might one procure a shoe horn in NYC?

@RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova I’ll loan you my horn any day of the week, baby ;-)

@SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 Who is this and where did you get my number?

@RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova Uh, this is Twitter.

@SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 That’s a very strange name. What were your parents thinking?

@EilishCassidy @SeanCassinova Stop being an arse.



*Sean*

“What do you want to do?”

“I’d like to lick your pussy.”

Lucy choked on her water. She’d been mid-sip from an Evian bottle when I responded. I listened, perusing the room service menu, as she continued to cough and sputter.

“Sean—”

“Then I think I’d like a steak.” The restaurant had several nice cuts of meat; I decided on the prime rib.

“Sean—”

“Wine with the meal. After dinner, perhaps drinks? Then sex?”

“Sean.”

I lifted my eyes from the menu, found her scowling at me from across the room. “What?”

She huffed. “Foreplay is more than just the physical.”

I considered her statement for several protracted seconds, unsure as to what she was trying to say or how it related to my ordering of steak.

Finally, I admitted, “I don’t follow.”

She placed the cap back on the water bottle. “Part of being intimate with a person is how you speak to her.”

“Ah. You want me to butter you up.”

“Yes.” She nodded, but then frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I mean, yes. If you want me to teach you how to . . . do all the things, then it starts with how you speak to me.”

I set the menu aside, considering her. “And you don’t like it when I tell you how I’d like to lick your—”

“I’m just saying . . .” She held her hands up and spoke over me. She was now a brighter shade of red. I rather liked it. “I’m just saying, I want to be a good teacher. The first step in foreplay is how you speak.”

“Flirting,” I said as I surmised her meaning. “I can do that.”

She lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “You can do that sometimes, and usually by accident.”

“I’m a good flirt,” I said, unable to keep the defensiveness from my claim.

Her expression flattened and she lowered her voice to that of a mock-tenor, quoting me, “Shall I sneak in later? Crawl into your bed and wake you up with my head between your thighs?”

I won against my urge to smile, dipping my chin so she wouldn’t see it, but kept my eyes on her. “So, too subtle?”

She grinned, then laughed, pointing at me. “See? You just did it, you just flirted with me accidently.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You did. And you did a good job, too.”

I frowned. “What did I do?”

“That thing with your eyes, and the chin.” Lucy deposited her bag on the sofa and crossed to stand in front of me. “And the small smile, and the cheeky remark. All good things. Much better than dragging me back to your lair and clubbing me over the head with your big cock.”

I barked a laugh at the image her words conjured and was pleased by the sound of her rejoining laughter.

“You’re cute sometimes.”

“And you’re beautiful,” I said, because it was true.

“Oh. Good job.”

“Good job?”

“Yes. Another good example of flirting. Good job.” Lucy grinned at me encouragingly, patting my shoulder, and turned away. “Where is the bathroom? I need a shower.”

I stared at her back as she walked to and disappeared into the bedroom, realizing she thought I was trying to flirt rather than merely speaking my mind.

Perhaps all I had to do in order to flirt with Lucy—and therefore initiate quality foreplay—was tell her the truth.

A short while later, I heard the shower. I didn’t dwell on it, because if I thought about a wet Lucy I’d want to join her. Shower sex felt like an advanced-level technique, something to work up to.

Instead, I called for room service. Since I didn’t know what she wanted, I ordered one of every vegetarian item on the menu. Finished with my task, I flipped on the television. Nothing was on. I turned it off.

She was still in the shower.

Now my mind did wander to an image of her. Wet. Soapy. I chewed on my lip, staring at the bedroom door, which was ajar.