The Player and the Pixie(40)

Maybe she needed help washing her back . . .?

Restless—and by restless, I mean growing forcefully and painfully hard—I kicked off my shoes, dropped to the floor, and did pushups. When I heard the door to the bathroom open, I did clapping pushups. They helped dispel the “restlessness.”

Well, they helped until I heard her ask from the doorway, “What are you doing? Are you clapping? While doing pushups?”

I paused, glanced up just long enough to see she was dressed in a bathrobe. Which meant she was basically naked.

Bloody brilliant.

“Yes.” I pushed up, clapped, returned my hands to the floor, pressed down, repeat. I should have gone on a run. Even with the pushups I was entirely too worked up. It was embarrassing. Perhaps I should move on to burpees . . .

“Huh.”

I watched her approach in my peripheral vision. Her feet were bare.

Push up, clap, press down, repeat.

“That’s really impressive.”

I chuckled at the admiration in her voice, then asked, “You want to see something even more impressive?”

“Sure . . .” Once again she sounded suspicious.

Planking, I braced my hands just a half-inch farther apart then pushed up with more force, clapped my hands behind my back, caught myself, and pressed down. Repeat.

“Christ on a bike. That’s ridiculous.” Lucy scrambled to kneel next to me and assumed a plank position, yanking up the bathrobe in her haste. “Teach me.”

I rolled to my side and faced her. She was grinning, clearly excited. Her hair was wet and braided over her shoulder. It looked like rope.

“Sean?”

My eyes cut to her face. Her smile wavered when I stared for too long without speaking.

“Uh, yes. Okay.” I nodded, turning back to the carpet and gripping it instead of her. “We’ll start with the basic pushup.”

Lucy snorted. “I know how to do a pushup.”

“I need to watch your form.”

“I have a great form.”

“Yes. You do.”

She snorted again, this time paired with a laugh. “Now the flirting is getting out of hand. Turn it down.”

I smiled at her in response. Her lips were curved into an alluring smirk and one dark eyebrow was raised in accusation. Lucy’s eyes shone like sapphires as she looked at me.

Lovely.

“Earth to Sean. Can you stop practicing your come-hither look for ten seconds?”

I blinked at her, reentering the present. “Yes. Fine.”

Clearing my throat, I gave her instruction on how to do a single-clap pushup. She bit her bottom lip in concentration, listening intently to every word. Eventually, I had to stand over her, my hands on her hips, my feet on either side of her legs, and hold some of her weight until she mastered the movement.

She was a fast learner and was surprisingly strong. But not long after mastering the single-clap, her arms began to shake. Also surprising, teaching her had taken the edge off my impassioned frame of mind. I was no longer uncomfortably primed.

“I think that’s enough for now.” I picked her up by her hips and placed her back on her feet.

“Eee-gah!” She waved her arms in front of her, trying to recapture her balance, clearly not expecting me to pluck her from the floor. When she found her center of gravity, she turned toward me. My attention strayed to the nearly open front of her bathrobe.

“Wait, I want to do the back-clap one.” She was out of breath.

“No. We’ll try tomorrow. Your arms are tired.”

Heaving a sigh, Lucy relented. “You’re right. They are tired.”

I eyed her speculatively. “Are you too tired?”

“For what?” She rubbed her biceps through the terrycloth robe.

“For my lesson.”

Her hands stilled. All earlier amusement faded from her eyes, replaced with heat and awareness. I took that as a good sign.

She shook her head and responded softly, “No. Not too tired.”

My pulse quickened, I made a fist with my hand so as not to draw her toward me. “Good.”

She swallowed. Reaching for and uncurling my tight fist, Lucy led me into the bedroom without another word.

The bed was king-sized. Releasing me, she crossed to the head of it and selected a pillow. Turning, not looking at me, Lucy walked to the end of the bed and sat.

She placed the pillow on the carpet in front of her feet and gestured to it, finally meeting my gaze again.

“Kneel down,” she said.

I frowned, hesitating, unsure. Her tone was demanding and impersonal. I didn’t like that.

Lucy tilted her head to the side and repeated, “Kneel down.”

“Lucy.” I crossed my arms over my chest, allowing her to see and hear my displeasure. “I don’t like being ordered about, and I don’t kneel down.”