The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2)

by Penny Reid

  “Get my number from Lucy. I’ll take you to my favorite pub in the city. We’ll have steak.”

  Astonished by the offer, it took me a moment to respond. “I will.”

  He nodded once, then left. I watched him pull into traffic, a curious, hollow sensation in the middle of my chest.

  “I think he likes you.” Lucy nudged my arm with hers, drawing my attention to her. Her gaze teasing and smiling as she added in a sing-song voice, “And I think you like him.”

  I frowned and responded automatically, “Nobody likes me.”

  The smile fell away from her eyes and was replaced with surprise, then determination. “Well, I like you. And so does Broderick. So, once again, you are wrong.”

  I studied her open features, the fullness of her bottom lip, the point of her chin. “Do you like me enough to have dinner with me?”

  Her lashes fluttered. “S-sure. When? Tomorrow?”

  I stepped into her space and wove our fingers together. “Tonight. Now.”

  “Oh.” Obviously caught unaware, Lucy blinked at our surroundings, perhaps searching for her bag. “I, uh. Well, I need to go home and change.”

  “We’ll order room service.” I tugged her toward the hotel entrance and held the door as I ushered her in. “No need to change. I had the bellhop take your bags up to my room.”

  She glanced at me from the corner of her eyes. “Presumptuous much?”

  “I’m a problem solver.”

  “I’d like some clean clothes.”

  I shrugged, leading her to the VIP check-in desk. “We’ll send your laundry out for washing.”

  “Sean . . .”

  “Or I can buy you something new. The hotel has a shop.”

  “No.” Her tone was flat and dismissive.

  I wrapped my arm around her waist, drew her to my side, and whispered in her ear, “Or we could be naked.”

  She stiffened, her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull out of my grip. I leaned just slightly away so I could see her profile. She kept her eyes diligently forward.

  While I checked in, she remained silent, making no move to separate our bodies. And when I added her to the room and presented her with a key, she accepted it, slipping the rectangle into her handbag without a word.

  Chapter Nine

  @SeanCassinova Where might one procure a shoe horn in NYC?

  @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova I’ll loan you my horn any day of the week, baby ;-)

  @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 Who is this and where did you get my number?

  @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova Uh, this is Twitter.

  @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 That’s a very strange name. What were your parents thinking?

  @EilishCassidy @SeanCassinova Stop being an arse.

  *Sean*

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’d like to lick your pussy.”

  Lucy choked on her water. She’d been mid-sip from an Evian bottle when I responded. I listened, perusing the room service menu, as she continued to cough and sputter.

  “Sean—”

  “Then I think I’d like a steak.” The restaurant had several nice cuts of meat; I decided on the prime rib.

  “Sean—”

  “Wine with the meal. After dinner, perhaps drinks? Then sex?”

  “Sean.”

  I lifted my eyes from the menu, found her scowling at me from across the room. “What?”

  She huffed. “Foreplay is more than just the physical.”

  I considered her statement for several protracted seconds, unsure as to what she was trying to say or how it related to my ordering of steak.

  Finally, I admitted, “I don’t follow.”

  She placed the cap back on the water bottle. “Part of being intimate with a person is how you speak to her.”

  “Ah. You want me to butter you up.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, but then frowned. “No.” She shook her head. “I mean, yes. If you want me to teach you how to . . . do all the things, then it starts with how you speak to me.”

  I set the menu aside, considering her. “And you don’t like it when I tell you how I’d like to lick your—”

  “I’m just saying . . .” She held her hands up and spoke over me. She was now a brighter shade of red. I rather liked it. “I’m just saying, I want to be a good teacher. The first step in foreplay is how you speak.”

  “Flirting,” I said as I surmised her meaning. “I can do that.”

  She lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “You can do that sometimes, and usually by accident.”

  “I’m a good flirt,” I said, unable to keep the defensiveness from my claim.

  Her expression flattened and she lowered her voice to that of a mock-tenor, quoting me, “Shall I sneak in later? Crawl into your bed and wake you up with my head between your thighs?”

  I won against my urge to smile, dipping my chin so she wouldn’t see it, but kept my eyes on her. “So, too subtle?”

  She grinned, then laughed, pointing at me. “See? You just did it, you just flirted with me accidently.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. You did. And you did a good job, too.”

  I frowned. “What did I do?”

  “That thing with your eyes, and the chin.” Lucy deposited her bag on the sofa and crossed to stand in front of me. “And the small smile, and the cheeky remark. All good things. Much better than dragging me back to your lair and clubbing me over the head with your big cock.”

  I barked a laugh at the image her words conjured and was pleased by the sound of her rejoining laughter.

  “You’re cute sometimes.”

  “And you’re beautiful,” I said, because it was true.

  “Oh. Good job.”

  “Good job?”

  “Yes. Another good example of flirting. Good job.” Lucy grinned at me encouragingly, patting my shoulder, and turned away. “Where is the bathroom? I need a shower.”

  I stared at her back as she walked to and disappeared into the bedroom, realizing she thought I was trying to flirt rather than merely speaking my mind.

  Perhaps all I had to do in order to flirt with Lucy—and therefore initiate quality foreplay—was tell her the truth.

  A short while later, I heard the shower. I didn’t dwell on it, because if I thought about a wet Lucy I’d want to join her. Shower sex felt like an advanced-level technique, something to work up to.

  Instead, I called for room service. Since I didn’t know what she wanted, I ordered one of every vegetarian item on the menu. Finished with my task, I flipped on the television. Nothing was on. I turned it off.

  She was still in the shower.

  Now my mind did wander to an image of her. Wet. Soapy. I chewed on my lip, staring at the bedroom door, which was ajar.

  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.”

  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.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.” The word was hushed.

  I traced a single finger from her bellybutton, between the valley of her breasts to her collarbone. I hooked it around the robe’s lapel and peeled it away, finding the distracting freckle on her collarbone.

  Grasping her arm, I gently tugged her forward and licked the spot. She shivered again.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time.”

  “What?”

  “This freckle. It taunts me.” I used my teeth, careful to nip instead of bite.

  I placed my other hand on her knee. Then, as per her suggestion, lightly skimmed my fingertips higher, opening her legs, and drawing barely there circles on the interior skin of her thighs.

  Her hips shifted. I moved my hand away. She whimpered.

  “Tell me how to touch you, lovely Lucy.” I lowered my mouth to her pink nipple and licked it.

  She gasped. “Don’t stop.”

  Her little noises drove me mad. I pressed my hips against the mattress, trying to find relief for the stiffy in my pants.

  “Don’t stop what?”

  She hesitated, then said softly, “Don’t stop touching me.”

  “Where?”

  “Your fingers, on my . . . rub your thumb over my clit.”

  Despite the pain in my groin I grinned, enjoying how shy she sounded as she coached me. “Gladly. Gently?”

  “Yes. At first.”

  I did as instructed
, parting her and rubbing the pad of my thumb over the fleshy bud between her legs, and an odd thing happened.

  Her sounds changed. And I listened to them.

  I tried biting her breast and she grunted. So I tried swirling my tongue around her nipple and was rewarded with a breathy groan.

  Trailing my mouth down her body, placing the light kisses she’d enjoyed during our first time together over her ribs, I pushed her back to the bed and spread her legs farther apart.

  I blew on her.

  She panted, moaning tightly, and I nearly came in my pants.

  Fuck.

  Wanting to improvise and improve rather than just replicate last night, I swirled my tongue around her clit in much the same way I’d just done to her nipple.

  “Oh God.” Her hands lifted and threaded into my hair, holding me in place.

  I backed off, using just the tip of my tongue and spreading her with my thumbs. I waited to see how she would respond, remembering her words about building the hunger.

  She seemed to enjoy it at first, sighing lightly and moving her hips. After a time she grunted restlessly. So I sucked her, because I could tell she wanted more. And also because I wanted to. Because I loved the feel of her flesh against my tongue and lips, the taste of her arousal, the slick sweetness of her. Yet I kept the pressure gentle, because Lucy seemed to need gentle.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God—fuck!”

  I lifted my eyes to hers, found her watching me, felt the first tremors of her release against my tongue as she threw her head back and moaned. Actually, it was more of a howl, and it was sexy as fuck.

  Her nails were painful as they dug into my scalp, but fuck. It felt so fucking good because I recognized it as a mindless response. She was beyond thought. Because of me. Of what I was doing. Before her tremors subsided, I realized I hadn’t placed any fingers inside her. I slipped two into her perfect warmth and was immediately rewarded with a strangled cry, her thighs tightening as her hips bucked off the bed.

  “Sean! Oh fuck! Sean . . .” Thinking she liked that.

  Her pulsing quickened, renewed, intensified, and I groaned against her delicious suppleness. Because she was coming again. And it was perfect.

  Chapter Ten

  @LucyFitz Would you rather live the rest of your life with a human head and a horse’s body, or a horse’s head and a human body?