The Player and the Pixie
Page 35

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.”
Her expression softened and a small smile danced over her lips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to order you about. I’m a little nervous.”
I narrowed my eyes at her and saw the truth behind her words. “Don’t be nervous.”
Her shoulders lifted then lowered with a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll try. But sometimes nerves are a good thing.”
I snorted derisively. “Not in my experience. When I’m nervous is when I’m worst at this.”
She gifted me another smile and her words adopted an instructional air. “Kneeling at the end of the bed is much more comfortable than craning your neck and supporting your weight while on the bed. It’s a better position for me, too.”
“Why? Why is it better for you?”
“Because it’s easier for us to make eye contact if you’re not hovering over me on the mattress. Plus, you’ll be able to, uh,” she swallowed, cleared her throat, “you’ll be able to see more as well. Of me. Down there.” I didn’t miss the encroaching heat staining her cheeks.
I mulled this over, liking the idea of seeing more of her, down there. And I liked the idea of being able to watch her face again.
Decision made, I cast pride aside—for the moment—and slowly lowered myself to the pillow, holding her gaze the entire time and pushing her knees apart.
“Fine. I’m kneeling.” I flexed my fingers on her legs.
“Okay. What do you want to do now?”
“Everything.”
She released a light, melodic laugh that I felt at the base of my spine. My erection pressed against my jeans uncomfortably.
So much for taking the edge off.
“Specifically, what is the very next thing you want to do? What do you want to move and where?”
I licked my lips. “My first instinct is to spread your legs and dive in.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “How about, instead, sliding your fingertips lightly up my thighs? Or tracing them in circles behind my knees?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it feels good and builds tension. It prolongs the act.”
“Prolongs the act,” I repeated, turning this concept around in my mind and considering it from all angles.
“Yes. For a woman, if you want her to come before you do, you need to find that delicate balance between prolonging the act and providing fulfillment. You can’t provide fulfillment if you haven’t built tension. It would be like trying to force-feed me before I’m hungry.”
“Hmm . . . you want me to make you hungry.”
“Exactly.”
My eyes drifted to where her bathrobe opened. I stared at the creamy expanse of skin. An idea gripped me.
I lifted my fingers from her legs and untied the robe. I slid my hands inside, finding her body hot and smooth. She shivered.