I felt warmth hit the back of my neck when he leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table. “Tell me which room is yours, Lucy,” he breathed.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, trying not to let his deep, seductive voice affect me. Suddenly, the scenario of him coming to me during the night returned, but this time I wasn’t creeped out. No, I was . . . intrigued. What exactly would Sean Cassidy/Lucy Fitzpatrick sex look like?
An acute flash, a quick image of us together, naked, limbs tangled, rough heat, his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, and his electric blue gaze holding mine . . .
Christ, I was sweating and my heart was beating like I’d run a marathon.
. . . Maybe just once.
After all, I was dying to see that wonderful bubble butt in all its naked glory.
“You never posted the pictures to Annie’s website,” he said then, breaking me from my thoughts. I flushed, like maybe he could see exactly what I’d been thinking.
I peered at him in question. “Have you been looking?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
I exhaled. “Actually, if you must know, I deleted them.”
“You deleted them?” He reared back, almost like he was offended.
“Yes.” No.
He held my gaze for several protracted moments, his stark, summer-sky stare growing increasingly heated, as though incensed, with each passing second. I swallowed mounting unease, uncertain why I’d lied. But before I could come clean, the tense silence was unexpectedly broken.
“Hello, Mr. Cassidy, isn’t it? I just wanted to come and quickly introduce myself.” This came from Maria, the yoga instructor. He turned with obvious reluctance to face her, giving me a slicing narrowed glare.
As soon as his eyes left me I gathered a deep breath, grateful she’d snagged his attention. Feeling relief, I realized it was now or never. I took the opportunity provided by Sean’s distraction to escape.
Rising from my seat, I hurried from the dining hall, figuring that—by the time he looked back—I’d be gone, cocooned safely in the comfort of my room.
Chapter Six
@SeanCassinova If dreams are the subconscious’ attempt to live desires, then I need to buy my subconscious a drink. And a house.
Sean
I didn’t sneak into her cabin that night and wake her up with my head between her thighs. Instead I dreamt of Lucy and her head between my thighs. I woke with a start, sweating, having just climaxed.
Rolling my eyes back into my head, I cursed. The sheets now needed to be washed and, unfortunately, I realized I really wanted to fuck Lucy Fitzpatrick.
Before you clutch your pearls with righteous outrage, or faint under the weight of my uncouth barbarism, allow me to explain why my wanting to fuck Lucy—or any woman specifically—was a thing I dread.
Pragmatic couplings, a means to an end, a way to secure an evening free of constant chill—those I could do with no trouble or effort. A few strategically placed kisses. A whispered assurance of mutual want. Robotic movements meant to expedite the act. She always faked it. Sometimes I faked it . . .
Huh.
Lucy’s psychoanalyzing words from our truncated dinner back home in Dublin returned to me. Perhaps Lucy was right. Perhaps buried deep, an underlying emptiness possessed me. So I took toiletries from bathroom cabinets. Little forbidden treasures to fill the void.
The thought was sobering.
And depressing.
And far too pitiful, aggrandizing, and introspective.
Therefore, I refused to believe it. I didn’t feel empty. I was cold.
Just . . . cold.
Plus, no one was harmed during the exchange. We both got what we wanted, after all. The women I slept with secured their trophy—a picture, a story for her girls—and I secured a night of warmth, of unencumbered sleep. These sorts of currency exchanges were commonplace for me.
Unfortunately, with Lucy, I wanted something altogether different.
She wasn’t the first woman to arouse my interest. But after several frustrated efforts in my past, I’d learned to never fuck a woman I truly wanted. Seeing the disappointment or pity in a woman’s eyes after a night of clumsy, albeit sincere, attempts at pleasure was an exercise in masochism.
I consider myself more of a sadist.
My want of Lucy made my plan to seduce Lucy a good deal more complicated. But not insurmountable (figuratively or literally). I merely needed to control the event, ensure it would be a hurried, frenzied copulation rather than an encounter of any length.
To that end, armed with a bottle of champagne, sundry food items, and a basket of strawberries, I tracked Lucy down.