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  MISTER O

  ABOUT

  Just call me Mister O. Because YOUR pleasure is my super power.

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  Making a woman feel ‘oh-god-that’s-good’ is the name of the game, and if a man can’t get the job done, he should get the hell out of the bedroom. I’m talking toe-curling, mind-blowing, sheet-grabbing ecstasy. Like I provide every time.

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  I suppose that makes me a superhero of pleasure, and my mission is to always deliver.

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  Sure, I’ve got an addiction to giving, but step right up, and you'll also find a man with a hot exterior, a kickass job, a razor-sharp wit, and a heart of gold. Yeah, life is good…

  * * *

  And then I'm thrown for a loop when a certain woman asks me to teach her everything about how to win a man. The only problem? She's my best friend's sister, but she's far too tempting to resist--especially when I learn that sweet, sexy Harper, has a dirty mind too and wants to put it to good use. What could possibly go wrong as I give the woman I've secretly wanted some no-strings-attached lessons in seduction?

  * * *

  No one will know, even if we send a few dirty sexts. Okay, a few hundred. Or if the zipper on her dress gets stuck. Not on that! Or if she gives me those f*&k-me-eyes on the train in front of her whole family.

  * * *

  The trouble is the more nights I spend with her in bed, the more days I want to spend with her out of bed. And for the first time ever, I'm not only thinking about how to make a woman cry out in pleasure --I'm thinking about how to keep her in my arms for a long time to come.

  * * *

  Looks like the real Adventures of Mister Orgasm have only just begun....

  Prologue

  Ask me my three favorite things and the answers are so easy they roll off my tongue: hitting a homerun for my softball league, drawing a killer cartoon panel, and—oh yeah—making a woman come so hard she sees stars.

  Not gonna lie. That last one is my favorite by about a mile. Giving a woman a sheet-grabbing, toe-curling, mind-blowing orgasm is pretty much the Best Thing Ever.

  A woman’s climax is like summer break, Christmas morning, and a vacation in Fiji all rolled together in one fantastic package of window-shattering bliss. Hell, if we could harness the beauty and energy from women coming, we could probably power cities, stop global warming, and bring about world peace. The female orgasm is basically the manifestation of everything good in the world. Especially when I deliver them, and I’ve given thousands upon thousands. I’m like a superhero of pleasure, a good-deed doer, the once-upon-a-shy-guy-now-a-stud, and my mission is to dispense as many climaxes to my lovers as possible.

  How have I managed to achieve this amazing feat? Simple. I’m both a student and a master of the art of giving Os. I consider myself an expert because—in the interest of full disclosure here—I’m completely, one hundred percent obsessed with a woman’s enjoyment between the sheets. Getting her off is the name of the game, and if you can’t get that job done, you should get the hell out of the bedroom.

  But, hey, I’m also humble enough to admit I’m still a learner. Because there’s always something new to discover with a woman.

  Does she want it soft, hard, fast, light, rough? Does she like it with teeth, toys, my cock, my tongue, my fingers? Does she crave a little something extra, like a feather, a vibrator, or a combination of the above? Every woman is different, and every path to her pleasure is its own erotic journey with so many fantastic stops to make along the way. I take mental notes, study her cues, and always get out and do the fieldwork.

  I suppose that makes me the Magellan of the female orgasm. A true explorer, venturing forth, fearless and ready at any moment to map the terrain of her pleasure until she cries out in rapture.

  Fine, some might say I have an addiction. But really, is it a bad thing that I love to make the woman I’m with feel good? If that makes me a guy with a one-track mind, then I’m guilty as fucking charged. I’ll freely admit that when I meet a woman I’m into, I picture in seconds what she looks like coming, how she sounds, how I want to send her soaring.

  The trouble is, there’s one woman I just can’t go there with, even though lately my brain desperately wants to figure out how to drive her wild. It’s been an epic battle, and I’ve had to keep her in a special drawer, sealed and locked, the key thrown away, because she is the definition of hands off.

  Which sucks royally because she’s about to make things even harder with the words that come out of her mouth.

  1

  They say men have sex on the brain 99.99 percent of the time. You’re not going to catch me trying to dispute that.

  Why would I? It’s pretty much dead-on accurate, especially when you consider the remaining 0.01 percent of brainpower is tirelessly dedicated to finding the remote.

  In my case though—and I suppose, in my defense—sex is part of my job.

  And so is schmoozing and signing autographs. Ergo, here I am at An Open Book, a cool bookstore on the Upper West Side. When this signing shindig started a few hours ago, a long line of fans snaked out the door. The event my network set up is almost over, so the line is winding down. The crowd has been fifty-five to forty-five in favor of the fairer sex, which is absolutely nothing I’m going to complain about, especially since my fans were pretty much all dudes several years ago.

  Some still are. Like this guy.

  “My favorite episode is based on that one,” a squeaky-voiced, messy-haired, awkward teenager says, as he points to a panel that features Mister Orgasm rescuing a dozen busty beauties from a remote island where they’d been deprived of sex for far too long. The upshot? Only a cartoonish caped crusader could replenish their depleted stores of pleasure, which had dwindled to terrifyingly low levels.

  I shudder at the thought of what those women must have gone through before the hero arrived to save the day.

  “Yeah. That one does rock,” I say, flashing the kid a quick grin and then nodding seriously. “Mister Orgasm did a great service for the ladies, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” the kid says, with wide, earnest eyes. “He helped them so much.”

  It’s weird, because he’s probably sixteen, and there’s a part of me that thinks why the fuck are you watching my raunchy TV show? But on the other hand, I get it. When I was his age, I didn’t have a clue about girls either. Which probably explains why I started drawing The Adventures of Mister Orgasm, the once online cartoon, now late-night television sensation, which includes the storyline about the aforementioned act of good citizenship performed by the titular hero.

  Titular.

  I said titular.

  In my head.

  Anyway, that had definitely been a popular episode, and one of the reasons my network packaged up some of my old strips into this graphic novel by yours truly, Nick Hammer. Special edition and all, like the embossed gold stamp on the cover says.

  “Can you sign it to Ray?” he asks, and as I raise the black Sharpie, I catch a flash of gold out of the corner of my eye, then a hand in a pocket.

  Oh, shit.

  I think I know what the woman lined up behind Ray just did.

  I finish signing and hand him the book. “Go forth and give pleasure, Ray,” I tell him, as if it’s a mantra. I knock fists with him, and he stares briefly at his hand afterward, as if he’s been blessed by a master.

  Of course he has.

  “You have my word. I want to be a pleasure purveyor,” Ray says solemnly as he clutches the book to his chest, reciting one of Mister Orgasm’s famous lines.

  Man, someday that dude is going to blow the minds of the ladies. He’s got some serious determination. But not yet. Because, ya know, he’s sixteen.

  I turn my eyes to the next person in line, and I’m practically blindsided by the sheer amount of breast on display. It’s pretty
much enough to activate a full-on man trance, that glazed-eye, struck-stupid look that only tits can induce in a guy. I’m not immune to it, because . . . tits.

  They are one of my favorite playgrounds.

  But I’ve had some serious training in combating the condition. Part of my job is interacting with the public, and I can’t just walk around slack-jawed, staring at chests. This woman is going to put my skills to the test though. She’s wearing a scoop-neck white T-shirt. That’s kryptonite for most men.

  She leans forward, making sure I get a front-row seat. I cast my eyes around, hoping Serena, the very pregnant, perennially smiling, but oh-so-savvy PR woman who works with my show at Comedy Nation, will return quickly from yet another bathroom break. She’s a pro at knowing when to hold the eager ladies at bay.

  Look, I’m not complaining. I do not mind whatsoever that some of the show’s viewers get a little frisky at events like this. It’s all good. But I’ve got a feeling this one isn’t supposed to be playing.

  “Hey there,” I say, giving a smile to Bleached Blonde. Interact. Engage. That’s part of the job. Be the public face of the hit TV show currently crushing the motherfucking competition in the eleven p.m. timeslot—and all the programs that run earlier in the night, too. That both thrills the head of the network, and drives him bat-shit crazy, but that’s a story for later.

  The woman brings her hand to her chest, trying a time-honored tactic to invoke the trance. I remain stoic. “I’m Samantha, and I love your show so much,” she coos. “I read the profile of you in Men’s Health the other week, too. I was so impressed with your devotion to your craft, as well as your body.” The profile—’cause it’s Men’s Health—featured a shot of me working out. Then, because she’s not subtle, she roams her gray eyes along my ink-covered arms, over my chest, and well, let’s just call a spade a spade. She pretty much tries to mate with me via eye contact right here in the bookstore.

  “Devotion is my middle name,” I say with a smile, and push my glasses higher. She makes me edgy, and it’s not the ample cleavage but rather what she did in line a few minutes ago in her pocket.

  She bends closer, gliding the book across the table to me. “You can sign right here if you want,” Samantha whispers, dragging her finger across her cleavage.

  I grab the book with quick hands. “Thanks, but I’ve found the title page is an equally excellent location.”

  “You should leave your number on it,” she adds, as I sign Nick Hammer and hand her the book.

  “Funny thing, I don’t actually know my number,” I say with a harmless shrug. “Who can remember numbers anymore? Even our own?”

  Where the hell is Serena? I hope she didn’t give birth in the ladies’ room.

  Samantha giggles, then drags a long, candy pink nail across my signature. “Hammer,” she says coyly, letting it roll around in her mouth. “Is that your real name, or is it a term of endearment about—”

  No, no, no.

  Abort.

  Cannot go there. Will not play the Dirty Synonym game featuring my last name with Samantha, who’s about to run those sharp nails down my arm.

  “Oh, excuse me. Did you drop something?”

  I straighten my shoulders when I hear a familiar voice—deadpan humor and pure innocence at the same time.

  The blonde startles. “No,” she says with a snarl, snapping at the questioner. “I didn’t drop anything.”

  “Are you sure?” The tone is of complete and utter concern.

  I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, because I know the woman behind the voice is up to something sneaky.

  Harper Holiday.

  Red hair. Blue eyes. Face of a sweet, sexy angel, body of a badass, ninja-warrior princess, and a mouth adept at pitch-perfect delivery of sarcasm. I’d play Dirty Synonyms, Dirty Antonyms . . . Dirty Anything with her.

  Harper steps from behind the blonde in line and opens her palm. “Because I’m pretty sure this is your wedding ring,” she says, a worried look in those bright blue eyes as she plucks a gold wedding band from her hand and offers it to the hungry blonde.

  “That’s not mine,” the woman says defensively, all that flirty sweetness swiped clean from her voice.

  Harper smacks her other hand against her forehead. “Oh, my bad. You put yours in your pocket a few minutes ago. Right there.”

  She points to the woman’s right pocket, and sure enough, there’s the outline of what looks to be a wedding band. That’s exactly what I’d suspected she’d done in line. Stuffed it away. Probably had forgotten she was wearing it and then tried to hide it at the last minute.

  The married woman’s face goes pale.

  Busted.

  “This one,” Harper continues, holding up the ring and letting it catch the light from the ceiling, “this is the one I keep handy for situations like this.”

  Samantha mutters bitch under her breath, turns on her heel, and marches away.

  “Enjoy the book,” Harper calls out, then looks to me, cocks her head, and shoots me an I-just-saved-your-ass grin. In her own imitation of the Mister Orgasm groupies, she says, “Nick Hammer. Is that your real name?”

  Just like that, I hope Serena stays in the restroom for a lot longer.

  2

  My real last name is Hammer.

  I get asked that question all the time. Everyone thinks it’s fake. Like it’s a stage name, or pen name, or my stripper name from back in the days when I worked hard for the money.

  Just kidding. I was never a stripper.

  But I was lucky enough to land a kick-ass last name, and I’m doubly lucky because if I’d been a girl, my parents were going to name me Sunshine. Instead, my mom named her bakery Sunshine and her sons Wyatt and Nick. Our little sister came a few years after the bakery was born, so she dodged the hippy name too, but Josie definitely got the vibe. She’s a free spirit.

  I point at the ring Harper has in her hand. “Did you jet off to Vegas this weekend and marry Penn? Or wait. Was it Teller?”

  “No. Criss Angel,” she says, as she stuffs the ring inside a red purse so big it could provide safe harbor for refugees.

  “Seriously, though. Why do you carry a wedding band around?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d be breaking Code 563 in the Magician’s Handbook of Secrecy, which was written to keep mere mortals such as yourself in the dark.”

  I tap my chest and shake my head. “I beg your pardon. I’m not a mere mortal. ’Fess up.”

  She cups the side of her mouth and stage whispers, “It’s fake. I picked it up so I could do a little sleight-of-hand trick at a party last weekend.”

  “Did the trick work?”

  She nods, her lips curving in a grin. “Like a charm. Turned this into the Green Lantern’s ring. The kid was in awe.”

  “As well he should be. By the way,” I say, tipping my chin in the direction of the long-gone lady, “thank you. For a second there I was thinking maybe she had a magic bullet in her pocket.”

  Her eyes widened. “Has that happened?”

  I nod, rolling my eyes. “Once. At a fan meet-and-greet.”

  “A fan rubbed one out in line?”

  “Either that or was just priming the pump for later. But don’t worry. I’m pretty psyched that you saved me from the sneak-off-the-wedding-band tactic, too. I think you might be a superhero.”

  “That’s me. I swoop in out of nowhere and rescue unsuspecting men from married women with dangerous husbands who would want to crush the life-force out of wildly popular cartoonists. You’ll probably want to take me out for a coffee when I tell you her husband is about ten feet tall, has arms the size of cannons, and wears brass knuckles. Saw him outside the bookstore before I came in.”

  “Does he lead an underground fight ring, too?”

  She nods in mock seriousness. “Yes. He’s Vicious. That’s his fight name.”

  “I clearly owe you the coffee. Maybe even a slice of cake, just so you know how much I appreciate you saving me
from Vicious.”

  “Don’t tease me. Cake is my religion.” She lowers her voice. “I was debating for the longest time whether to use the ring trick or to give her these,” she says, dipping her hand into her bag and producing a pair of purple eyeglasses, “and suggesting she wear them to help her eye-fuck you better.”

  I crack up at her choice of words. “Are they specially designed for that? If so, I’d really like to get a pair.”

  To use on you.

  She nods again. “There’s a shop in the East Village that sells them. They need to be special ordered, but I can hook you up,” she says, then roots around in her bag. It’s like Hermione’s purse. Yes, I read all of Harry Potter. It’s only the best story ever told.

  She grabs a copy of my collection from inside her bag and sets it on the table. “Can you sign it to Helena?”

  I shoot her a look when I see the receipt inside the book. She bought it here. “Harper, you didn’t have to come here for me to sign a book. I would have given you one.”

  She winks. “Good to know I’m on the short-list. For now, I have a client who is secretly in love with you. So I’m giving her this as a gift.”

  “Tell Helena, Mister Orgasm says hello,” I say as I sign it.

  When I look up, Harper is wearing the purple glasses.

  I blink.

  Holy shit. She is red-hot in them. As a guy who wears glasses, I dig a chick in glasses, and I’ve never seen Harper wear them before. Not gonna lie—the sexy librarian fantasy is strong in this one. This one being me, and I’m thinking pencil skirt, tight white blouse enticingly unbuttoned, and Harper bending over a desk, ready to be spanked for mis-shelving some books.

  She ogles me like the woman in line was doing, and whispers in a naughty tone, “Do they work, Nick?”