The Player and the Pixie
Page 20

“This is a very strange conversation,” said Lisa.
“I don’t see the point,” added Cindy.
“Humor me,” I told the both of them. “There’s a point, I promise.”
Sean made a sound next to me, kind of a growly sigh.
“And tell me this,” Rick went on, seeming to enjoy the imaginary scenario, “when I go in for coffee, me and this chick, do we chit-chat, banter back and forth, or are we all business?”
“Does it have an influence on your answer?” I asked with a wide grin.
“Well, if we have a friendly vibe going on, maybe I mistakenly gave her the impression I wanted her to enter my house uninvited for oral fun. I can’t lose my shit if I’ve led her on.”
“Okay. You’re friendly to the extent that you say hello and know each other’s name, but you don’t chit-chat.”
“Right,” he chewed on his lip. “I think I’d have to respectfully ask her to leave, then report the incident to the cops. I mean, this woman is obviously psychologically unhinged.”
I sent a pointed look Sean’s way. “You see. It is creepy. I think you need to cut this whole scenario from your dirty-talk repertoire.”
My victory didn’t last very long because Sean just sat there staring at me, neither a smile nor a frown on his face. He looked like he didn’t know what to say, but also a little like he wanted to bend me over his knee and punish me for my behavior.
“Well, this has been real,” said Rick, breaking the silence with a wry expression. “But I think I’m going to go hang in my room for a while. Give a knock later if you want to take a walk or something.”
“Okay, see you later.”
With Rick’s departure, Cindy and Lisa quickly made their exits.
“I don’t think I’ve made the best impression with those two,” I said, and heard Sean let out a small huff of a laugh.
“And why ever not? It isn’t like you scared them off with all that talk of middle-of-the-night blowjob attacks,” he surmised.
“It serves them right. Cindy’s been all over Rick the last few days, and her with a husband,” I declared with feigned haughtiness.
Sean chuckled but it soon petered out, leaving us in silence once more. I wasn’t sure how to make an exit, which left me stuck in my chair, no believable excuses springing to mind.
I felt warmth hit the back of my neck when he leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table. “Tell me which room is yours, Lucy,” he breathed.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, trying not to let his deep, seductive voice affect me. Suddenly, the scenario of him coming to me during the night returned, but this time I wasn’t creeped out. No, I was . . . intrigued. What exactly would Sean Cassidy/Lucy Fitzpatrick sex look like?
An acute flash, a quick image of us together, naked, limbs tangled, rough heat, his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, and his electric blue gaze holding mine . . .
Christ, I was sweating and my heart was beating like I’d run a marathon.
. . . Maybe just once.
After all, I was dying to see that wonderful bubble butt in all its naked glory.
“You never posted the pictures to Annie’s website,” he said then, breaking me from my thoughts. I flushed, like maybe he could see exactly what I’d been thinking.
I peered at him in question. “Have you been looking?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
I exhaled. “Actually, if you must know, I deleted them.”
“You deleted them?” He reared back, almost like he was offended.
“Yes.” No.
He held my gaze for several protracted moments, his stark, summer-sky stare growing increasingly heated, as though incensed, with each passing second. I swallowed mounting unease, uncertain why I’d lied. But before I could come clean, the tense silence was unexpectedly broken.
“Hello, Mr. Cassidy, isn’t it? I just wanted to come and quickly introduce myself.” This came from Maria, the yoga instructor. He turned with obvious reluctance to face her, giving me a slicing narrowed glare.
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.