The Player and the Pixie
Page 31

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.
With these thoughts spurring me awake, I’d left, showered, and dressed in a rush. I quickly called my lawyer about the Adidas shoot, demanding he find a way to make it work with my Puma contract. I jogged to the communal dining hall intent on being with Lucy in New York for a week at least, longer if she were agreeable to an extended arrangement.
I didn’t realize until I caught sight of her halo of hair that I’d neglected to rifle through her toiletries before leaving her cabin.
Curious, that.
I pushed the thought away, unwilling to be distracted from my present course. Time was of the essence. Today marked the end of the retreat. She was bound for New York this afternoon and therefore, so was I. I needed her to agree to my hastily conjured proposition.
Last night she could have laughed at me, but she didn’t.
She could have faked it, but she didn’t do that either.
I was coming to believe there wasn’t anything fake about Lucy other than her hair color. Yet the swirling rainbow framing her gorgeous face—like sunlight through a prism—suited her perfectly.
Yes. I was going for broke with Lucy Fitzpatrick. As such, I was sweating and jittery. And nervous in a new and completely terrifying way.
“You want me to teach you?” Her dark eyebrows winged above surprised, pale blue eyes.
I nodded. “Yes.”
She leaned an inch closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You want me to teach you what exactly?”
“Everything.”
“You have to be more specific.” Her words were choked.
“Fine. I want you to teach me the art of foreplay and sex. I want you to teach me where to touch, how to touch, how long. I want you to teach me about pressure, licking, and sucking, and—”
“Stop. Please stop talking.” She covered my mouth with her hand, her eyes sharpening. “You can’t be serious.”
I gently gripped her wrist and coaxed her fingers away, kissing the tips before setting her palm on my leg. “I’m very, very serious.”
“Sean.” Her whisper adopted an urgent edge. She snatched her hand away and her eyes did a quick sweep of the table, as though to make sure no one was listening. “You don’t need me for that. You can watch YouTube videos, or do a Google search, or buy a book. I hear there’s this one called the Kamasutra that’s supposed to cover the basics.”
The urge to touch her again amplified, but I didn’t want to scare her off. I allowed my thumb to trace a circle on her shoulder. She didn’t pull away.
“I’ve watched videos, Lucy. I’ve read books. But . . .” My eyes cut away to the freckle on her collarbone. In my haste I’d forgotten to taste it last night, and she might not give me another chance.
I didn’t think she’d laugh in my face, but my gut tightened at the possibility she might say no.
“But you want a test subject?” Her whisper was accusatory.
No.
I want you.
Unable to catch my breath, I licked my lips, remembering the taste of her, the feel of her coming against my tongue. Her gaze dropped to my mouth and I heard her breath hitch, followed by a strangled whimper. “That’s not nice. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“You know what.”
I frowned, shook my head, searching her eyes. “I honestly don’t.”
A low frustrated growl sounded from the back of her throat. “You’re unbelievable. It’s as though you’re a toddler who paints like Rembrandt.”
I lifted an eyebrow at this. “Did you just compare me to a toddler?”
“Yes. Because you are completely oblivious to—” She huffed, looking away and crossing her arms. “Never mind. My point is . . . I don’t even know what my point is.”
I studied her profile, noting her neck had turned pink and the stain was creeping over her cheeks. I wanted to touch them. Her hair was a disordered mass around her shoulders. I wanted to wrap it around my fingers and pull her head back. Her lips were pursed in thought, or a pout, or something else irresistible. I wanted to kiss them and bite them.
Christ, this was torture.
Having nothing to lose, I leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Please, Lucy. Just give me a week.”
She shivered and swayed toward me, her chest rising and falling with measured breaths.
“Please teach me how to make you feel good. Teach me how to make you come.”
Her shoulder leaned heavily against my chest, as though the indecision were too heavy a burden to carry alone, so I waited. I wanted to smell her hair, but I didn’t. I didn’t move.
Finally, finally, she nodded, straightening away, her eyes flickering to mine. “Fine.”