The Player and the Pixie
Page 34
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 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.”
