The Player and the Pixie(43)

For a split second, I thought I would get my wish because he opened his mouth as though to contradict me.

But he didn’t.

“Fine,” he said, his lips curving into a quick grimace of a smile, his expression growing distant. Sean lay back on the bed, moving his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Crappers! I felt like a total bitch. He’d just given me the elusive double orgasm and I was leaving him hanging.

“Yes. Absolutely.” I tried for cheerful, but didn’t quite manage it. “And tomorrow we’ll focus on you. Sorry to leave you hard up.”

Sean shook his head, his voice sounding distant in a way that made my heart ache. “I’ve told you before, you should never apologize for not wanting to have sex with someone.”

My steps faltered on the threshold to the bathroom and I hesitated, wanting to correct him. I did want to have sex with him. I wanted to have more than sex with him. And that was the problem.

Instead I said, “Tomorrow afternoon should be fine, but I’ll only be able to stay for an hour.” I didn’t have to leave after an hour, but I needed to set some boundaries for myself.

“Fine.” He nodded, then grabbed a pillow, pulled it to his chest and turned his back to me. “Turn off the lights, would you? I think I’ll take a nap.”

***

Nothing like a long bath, an hour of quiet yoga alone in my apartment, and marathon episodes of Blackadder to pull me out of my weird sentimental funk. Well, that and a good, stern self-talking-to.

Also a big help, doing a Google Image search for “Sean Cassidy Girlfriend” and being positively dumbfounded by the sheer number of Sean +1 bimbo images. The most recent one was from a few weeks ago and the woman had taken a selfie with Sean while he slept . . .

While. He. Slept.

Bloody weirdo.

But I couldn’t help but notice that the only woman he’d appeared with more than once was Brona O’Shea. Now I knew his involvement with Brona had been a deception, I was no longer surprised that Sean was so terrible between the sheets.

No woman had stuck around long enough to tell him he was rubbish, or that premature ejaculation was the sex equivalent to jumping the shark.

Feeling considerably more centered, this last thought gave me an idea.

I could repay Sean for his oral kindness while at the same time teaching him some self-restraint. And I could provide instruction without allowing myself to get tangled up in fanciful ideas again.

Therefore, armed with a plan, I knocked on his suite door exactly five minutes after noon.

“Lucy,” he said, both frowning and smiling at me, his eyes alight with confusion. “Why didn’t you use your key?”

Instead of answering, I stepped into the suite, dropped my bag by the front door, and lightly pushed him backward with a hand on his chest.

“You need to lay on the bed and take your pants off.”

Sean’s eyebrows jumped, but he moved where I led him and his hands were already unfastening his belt. “Why?”

“So I can give you a blow job,” I answered simply.

He let out a choked laugh, his gorgeous blues darting over my face, a warm, interested smile on his. “Far be it from me to be uncooperative.”

Toeing off his shoes as we entered the bedroom, Sean dropped his pants along with his red—yes, red—boxer briefs, and stepped out of them. I stood in front of him with my hands on my hips as though surveying his progress, though I itched to tug his shirt over his head.

Thankfully, he removed his shirt all on his own. I had to close my mouth before I drooled on the plush carpet. Obligingly, he lay back on the bed, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Don’t get excited just yet,” I tut-tutted, my eyes trailing down his body to find his erection already at full mast.

Crickets! Was this guy ever not hard?

My thighs clenched instinctively at the idea of putting his beautiful, perfect cock in my mouth . . . um, what was I saying again? Oh right, I was about to tell him about the catch. “You’re not allowed to come for ten whole minutes.”

The room grew very quiet. All warmth and amusement fled his expression.

Finally, he asked, “Pardon?”

I ignored his incredulous expression, which really just said it all. Ten minutes was nothing. Still, I kept my voice soft and sultry when I asked, “Tell me something. When you have sex with a woman, how long do you usually last?”

He looked toward the window and shrugged. “I don’t know. Am I supposed to time that shit with a stopwatch or something?”

“Don’t be clever. You know what I mean. In general, how long, Sean?”

He wouldn’t look at me as he answered, “A few minutes, maybe.”