The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2) Read online

  His arms held me to him, his massive body warm and encapsulating me entirely. I lay awake for a few minutes and briefly considered waking him, but in spite of everything, I didn’t want him to leave. It had been a long time since I’d spent the night with a man and I just wanted to enjoy being held, feeling safe and warm. It was nice.

  Closing my eyes, I snuggled close to him, and before long I fell asleep, too.

  When I woke up Sean was still there, sound asleep, and I was roasting. The heat from his body was lovely but a little overwhelming. As carefully as I could, I extracted myself from his hold without waking him. After paying a quick visit to the bathroom, I threw on some clothes and stepped outside to take a walk. I covered almost the entire grounds of the retreat and then made my way to the dining hall for breakfast.

  Armed with a bowl of porridge and some fresh fruit, I went to join Broderick where he sat with Cindy and Lisa.

  “Sorry I missed dinner,” I told him. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  He shrugged. “No biggie.”

  I ate in silence while they chatted around me, my mind elsewhere. I couldn’t help thinking of Sean and the contradiction of how much he turned me on, but how clueless he was when it came to sex.

  Wasn’t his nickname Sleazy Sean?

  How could somebody be so renowned for conquests yet never learn anything from the experience?

  Was it all so drunken and fumbling that neither party ever bothered to figure out what made the other feel good?

  And he seemed to know he was bad at it. So why hadn’t he ever consulted the Internet? Why hadn’t he tried to learn how to do things right prior to now? He seemed eager enough to learn last night . . .

  I was adrift in these thoughts when the noise of a chair scraping back grabbed my attention. Glancing up, I found Sean joining us at the table. His hair was wet and he’d changed his clothes. For a moment, I felt bad for leaving him to wake up in my cabin all alone.

  His gaze held mine for a beat, his expression somber. I tore my eyes away from his, fighting a fierce surge of heat threatening to overtake my neck and cheeks.

  I will not blush. I am not shy. I am an adult woman who likes having sex. So what if I had to teach him how and it was sexy as hell?

  I lifted my gaze to Sean once more. He was still looking at me and the heat behind his gaze, the intensity and vulnerability of it, obliterated all my reasoning and good sense. He looked at me like I was the center of something important. Like I was important to him.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  I blushed.

  Then I cursed under my breath and stabbed my porridge with my spoon, resolved not to make eye contact again. This was all in my head—it had to be. I couldn’t go imagining last night meant something to Sean Cassidy.

  Sleazy Sean, I reminded myself of his nickname again. This did not make me feel better.

  He ate and chatted with the others for a few minutes while I regulated my breathing, then his thigh moved against mine as he leaned in close and murmured in my ear, “We should talk.”

  I raised a brow at him speculatively, ignoring the goosebumps caused by his hot breath against my neck. “About what?”

  He leaned back, studying me, and pressed his lips together. “Things.”

  “Oh.” I exhaled the word.

  Smiling, he shook his head. “No need to look so frightened.”

  “I’m not frightened.” I was a little frightened.

  He pondered me a moment, his voice holding a hint of self-deprecation. “Perhaps that wasn’t the correct choice of word. Traumatized is probably more fitting.”

  “I’m really not following you.”

  He sighed, his smile growing brittle, his words halting and tinged with apology. “Last night, I didn’t exactly live up to what you expected.”

  “I didn’t have any expectations, Sean,” I lied, stunned by his self-effacement.

  He scrutinized me for several moments, like I was an unsolvable equation, then pressed, “Be that as it may, I want to make it up to you.”

  “Make it up to me?” I squeaked, imagining all the things that statement could mean.

  “Yes, but first . . .” He frowned, still examining my face, and turned in his chair, his arm coming to rest along the back of mine. With a painfully sincere expression—one that made my heart both flutter and squeeze—he whispered, “I want you to teach me.”

  Chapter Eight

  @SeanCassinova How is sex like a party?

  @THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova Ok I’ll bite. How is sex like a party?

  @SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech It’s more fun when everybody comes.

  @THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova You’re only figuring this out now?

  *Sean*

  There’s this idiom I’d never fully appreciated until I sat across from lovely Lucy Fitzpatrick and asked her to teach me how to fuck, good and proper.

  Go for broke.

  Last night had been a nightmare. Then it had been a dream. And she’d been an angel.

  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 thou
gh 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.”

  The impulse to stand from my seat and toss her over my shoulder—so we could get started immediately—was strong. Strong, sudden, and completely out of character.

  I nodded tightly, trying not to smile too widely. “Good.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  She glanced at me once more, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She lifted an index finger and jabbed me in my chest. “But this is between us, Sean. Do you understand? No one—and I mean no one—is ever to hear about it. If you tell anyone I’ll put your balls in a blender.”

  Her phrasing choked a laugh out of me, but I quickly capitulated. “Yes. Of course.” I hadn’t thought through the particulars any further than the next week, but I’d agree to just about anything at this point.

  She issued me one more searching glare, then stood abruptly. Her chair scraped, drawing the attention of the entire table.

  Lucy looked around at our tablemates, twisting her fingers, then announced a little too loudly, “I have to go pack.”

  She left. I watched her go. And I grinned.

  There was something inextricably enticing about the dichotomy of her. For a softly spoken fairy princess with a rainbow mane, she had a remarkably tart mouth.

  When I realized I was staring after her like a fool, and grinning at nothing specifically, I promptly stopped. I cleared my throat, replacing the smile with a frown, and searching my surroundings to ensure I hadn’t been caught.

  I stiffened when my eyes connected with Broderick’s. We were alone at the table, the women having left without my realizing. He was observing me. His usually, as far as I knew, impassive features were etched with the barest hint of a smirk.

  I’d been caught.

  “You have something to say?” I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. The chair protested, groaning under my weight.

  “No.”

  My frowned deepened. He was an odd sort. And he definitely wasn’t a lamb.

  “Then do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Depends on the question.” Broderick, still smirking, sipped his coffee.

  “Would you consider it racist for me to call you a Mocha Frappuccino?”

  Broderick coughed his surprise. Coffee sprayed on the table and he covered his mouth with a napkin, his eyes widening as he glared at me.

  I waited for him to collect himself, offering no assistance.

  “You must have taken Lucy at her word,” he rasped, wiping his mouth.

  “About what?”

  “That I’m a lamb.”

  “Does she call you that often?”

  “Often enough.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him. “You’re no lamb. You’re a black wolf in black sheep’s clothing.”

  “And you’re a white sheep.”

  “In white wolf’s clothing?”

  “No. Just a plain, everyday white sheep.”

  My frown intensified into a scowl. “You think I’m so ordinary?”

  “Ordinary?” He shrugged, as though considering the word, then added, “Average is the word I’d use.”

  “Really?” I drawled, his assessment extraordinarily irritating for some unknown reason. I questioned sarcastically, “What makes me average? Is it my height?”

  “It’s because you think you want to be average.” He lifted his eyebrows, indicating to my brain. “Wanting to be average makes you average.”

  I stared at him for a beat. “I think I want to be average?”

  “Yes,” he said, blowing on his coffee, and taking another sip. Disturbed steam traveled upward, disappearing into the atmosphere above his eyebrows.

  “Lucy attempts to psychoanalyze me as well.” I rolled my eyes away from him, though I recognized he wasn’t trying to insult me. His words held no malice. “Is that what you two do all day? Analyze each other?”

  Broderick wasn’t . . . well, he wasn’t at all apish. Nor was he mean. He was quiet—like a lamb, yes—but also clever. He was surprising.

  “I was in the Navy. We don’t analyze people. We label them, easier that way, more efficient. Everyone has a role, it’s defined for them so they can fill it.”

  “And what is Lucy’s role?” I asked, humoring him.

  I was not at all curious about his response.

  And I was definitely not impressed or uncomfortable with his succinct assessment of what I wanted.

  “She’s not average.”

  Despite myself, I fought a smile. “You certainly have a way with words.”

  “I know.” Broderick’s features rearranged themselves, settling back into impassive neutrality. “Everything out of my mouth is goddamn poetry.”

  I surrendered to the smile and fought a laugh. “Loveliness, the incarnation of beauty in spoken form.”

  “Like a fucking butterfly, but with sounds.”

  And now I surrendered to the laugh. He laughed as well. We laughed together in a way two people cannot and do not laugh alone.

  It was a novel experience, not laughing at another’s expense, but rather together. It was something I’d only ever done with my Eilish. Lucy had been right. Where she was concerned, Broderick was a lamb. And I liked him the better for it.

  ***

  Broderick drove.

  I sat in the front by default because my legs were far too long for the backseat of his BMW. In truth, my legs were too long for the back seat of almost any vehicle.

  Lucy sat behind Broderick. In order t
o catch a glimpse of her, I had to turn completely around. I found this to be most irritating. I’d offered to call a car service, have a limo pick us up for the hours-long journey to New York City.

  She’d flushed a delectable shade of pink and declined with a prim, “No, thank you.”

  Unfortunately, she said very little during the drive, leaving Broderick and me to converse without her. Though I did catch her staring at me from time to time. I ignored her lingering stares, not wanting to give her any reason to be self-conscious. She could look her fill. I rather liked it. In fact, she could do whatever she pleased just as long as our agreement held.

  Broderick carried most of the conversation. Typically, I cared very little about a person’s past. Most people were boring. They’d led insignificant little lives doing insignificant little things.

  As an example, I consider myself boring.

  Broderick was not boring.

  “You were stationed in Guantanamo? At the naval base?”

  He shrugged, turning on the street and maneuvering around two yellow taxis parked outside the hotel. “Just for three years.”

  “What did you do there? Did you guard the detainees?”

  “I was the triage officer for the base. We’re here.” He gestured to the Ritz Carlton with his chin, placing the automobile in park.

  I made no move to exit. “What does the triage officer do?”

  We’d been talking—or he’d been talking—for the last several hours, though it felt like hardly any time had passed. I could see why Lucy liked spending time with him.

  “I’ll save that story for another day. I need to get back to the studio.” Broderick lifted an eyebrow at me, then his attention caught on the rearview mirror. “Lucy, mind if I drop you off here? Heading uptown is crazy during rush hour and I’m running late.”

  “Uh, no problem. Thanks for driving.”

  We piled out of the car and a bellman jogged over with a cart. A spur-of-the-moment idea had me requesting he load Lucy’s bags next to mine while she and Broderick exchanged goodbyes.

  To my surprise, before turning to go, Broderick stepped forward and shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

  “Yes. You as well.” And I meant it.