Mister O Read online

  I push my head back into the couch pillow. Yeah, I’m picturing that perfectly. Almost like I’ve imagined it a million times before. Hot water streaming down her hair, droplets slipping over her tits then sliding down her belly and between her legs.

  Yup. Got that image one hundred percent clear. But a picture always helps.

  I can’t resist, even though I know there’s no chance she’ll ever send me a naughty photo. In fact, I’m not even sure she’s going to reply, since my phone is silent for several minutes, long enough for me to grab the paper and hunt for the Sunday crossword puzzle. This is the only reason I get the paper. The puzzle will take me all week, but I can almost always finish it.

  As I find the section, my phone buzzes.

  With an image.

  Oh shit. There is a god. Wait. Make that a goddess.

  Harper stands in her bathtub fully clothed, lifting her face to the showerhead that’s not on, snapping an image of herself reenacting her shower from this morning. This is hot, and my dick is going to thank me later for this photo when I can really spend time with it. She’s not even undressed, but she’s wearing a V-neck shirt that gives me a fantastic glimpse of cleavage. I want to bite that swell of her breast, draw her nipple between my teeth, then suck hard—make her moan, and writhe, and whisper my name. As I drink in the rest of the picture and how her neck is stretched long and inviting, I know I want to spend a lot of time there, too. I bet she’d like neck kisses. I’m certain she’d like my mouth all over her skin. I could do things to this girl to drive her out of her mind with pleasure.

  And I really fucking want to.

  I open the message, and write back.

  Hard to see. I think I’d have a better idea if you turned on the water.

  Well, she does have a white T-shirt on. I mean, c’mon. A man has to try.

  A note from her pops up.

  Princess: Seriously, though. I just told Charlotte you and I have been hanging out. Did she say anything to Spencer?

  And I deflate.

  Yes, but there’s nothing to worry about, and pretty soon he moved to the next topic—he wants to set me up with someone at the wedding.

  My phone goes quiet, and I hear nothing from her. Not a peep for several hours. Maybe she’s jealous. That would be kind of cool if she was. I work my way through the puzzle, taking breaks to talk to my attorney, Tyler, work out at the gym, and make dinner. As I eat, I draw, returning to the naughty puppet cartoons I sketched out yesterday, and the story of their crazy-hot, redhead mechanic who’s flirting with a guy who just dropped off his car for a lube job.

  “Wait. I meant brake job,” he says, embarrassed.

  She juts out a hip, her perky breasts making his eyes pop out. “But the lube job will feel so much better on the drive shaft.”

  What can I say? I like crude humor. I close my sketchbook and return to the puzzle. About the time evening slides into Manhattan, my phone buzzes once more as I’m filling in the squares for a twelve-letter word for “special liking” with “predilection.”

  Princess: Hi . . . so . . . I want to ask you a question . . . about dating. Since you’re the love doctor.

  Go for it. I’m an open book.

  Princess: It’s about the first, second, third date protocol you talked about.

  Yup. I’m well versed. Ready to answer. Fire away.

  Princess: Did you kiss the romance novelist on your second date?

  This is the second time she’s asked, and she really seems to want to know what I’ve done. From my spot on the couch, I contemplate how to answer. The phone bleats again.

  Princess: BTW, I was at a party all day. Incidentally, I KILLED it with the six-year-old crowd.

  Which means she’s not pissed that Spencer wants to set me up with someone. She was just busy. Dammit. I drag a hand through my hair, wishing she was jealous. Then I scold myself, because my mission is to be her coach.

  Yes. And the first date, too.

  I move to another clue, and in seconds she responds.

  Princess: That’s so unfair! You’re applying different rules to me. Anyway, what else did you do on your dates with her?

  Um . . . we didn’t really date that much. We met, we kissed, we screwed. We screwed again, and again. She asked me to tie her to the handle of the refrigerator and do it standing up, so she could test that bit of mild bondage for a scene in her book. I obliged. She wanted me to fuck her on her desk to make sure she knew how all the parts would align. I did my service. She insisted we get it on by the window, too, so she could press her hands on the glass of her Park Avenue penthouse and have me fuck her hard from behind.

  I suspect that chapter in her novel was quite accurate as well. The relationship was great and completely absurd at the same time.

  As I begin to respond, another note arrives.

  Princess: I’m just trying to figure all this out. That’s why I’m asking.

  Quickly, Harper and I fall into a rhythm, and the texts fly fast and furious.

  They weren’t entirely traditional dates in the drinks, dinner, and a movie sense.

  Princess: Gee. I wonder what that means. You spent a lot of time in your birthday suit?

  That’s one way of putting it.

  Princess: What sort of things did you two do? Is that too forward to ask? I’m curious. I’m honestly curious. Okay, maybe I’m nosey too. :)

  I stare at the screen, contemplating the depths of Harper’s curiosity. I wish I could grasp why she’s asking—if this is part of her effort to understand the modern man, or if there is any undercurrent. But I’ve got to accept that I just don’t know. And fuck, if sex is on her mind, then at least we have that in common right now. Welcome to my wavelength. Let’s spend some time together.

  You really want to know? You want to go there?

  Princess: Yeah, I think I do. You said you’re an open book. I kind of want to know.

  Kind of? Just kind of?

  Princess: Fine. I REALLY want to know. I really, really, really want to know. Believe me now?

  Almost . . .

  Princess: I want to understand the protocol. The dirty details . . .

  Fine. She wants the nitty-gritty. This is my specialty. This I can do. I’m not the shy, quiet guy she knew in high school. I’ve studied women. I’ve learned what they like.

  I start to type, to tell her about the fridge, the desk, the window. To say my ex liked to be tied up with rope, scarves, and one time with her pug’s leash. But when I stare at those words, I can’t send that to Harper. I can’t tell Harper what an ex of mine liked in bed. It’s wrong to J, wrong to me, and wrong to Harper. But I don’t want to lose this moment, with all its possibilities, so I say something else.

  Oh, Miss Princess Curious . . . sex is my favorite topic in the entire universe . . . but what if we tried rephrasing that? I’m happy to answer the question more generally. Like, if you were to say, ‘what sort of things do you like,’ I’d answer that.

  Princess: WHAT SORT OF THINGS DO YOU LIKE?

  Now we’re getting somewhere. And I’m getting horny just thinking about the answer. Make that hornier.

  Picture a menu at a restaurant. One of those diners that has everything. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, drinks, à la carte, sides, entrees. I’m looking at it. I’m ordering one of everything. I LIKE EVERYTHING.

  Princess: Really? EVERYTHING? That’s pretty broad. Everything???

  If we were having this conversation in person, I’d run my finger across that eyebrow of yours because I know it’s arched skeptically.

  Princess: It might be. But ‘everything’ encompasses far too many things. You must have a favorite thing. Do you have a favorite position? A preference? A predilection?

  A slow smile spreads across my face as I read that last word.

  Predilection was one of the answers to the Sunday crossword puzzle.

  Princess: You do the Sunday crossword puzzle?

  I try. It’s a predilection of mine.

 
; Princess: I’m impressed. I want to see a finished copy. Do you do the crossword naked?

  To answer your veiled question, I’m wearing jeans, boxers, and a T-shirt right now.

  Princess: What kind of boxers? Do you smell like springtime?

  Black boxer briefs. Yes, I do. Want to sniff me?

  Princess: I bet you smell yummy. Now tell me more about your predilections. Do you like hot cops? Sexy librarians? Catwoman? Schoolgirls? Dominatrix?

  I laugh at the last one, and though hot cop would absolutely work for me, there’s no question as to my answer.

  Sexy librarian.

  Princess: Do you like doggy style? Woman on top? Man on top? Bent over the bed? (You said I could ask anything! I’m asking!)

  Holy fucking turn-on of all turn-ons. Just seeing those words from her heats my skin all over. An intense, aching want spreads to every corner of my body as Harper asks me about sex. She wasn’t kidding at all when she said texting was easier for her. Her message becomes an image in my mind. I’m seeing her before me on all fours on my couch, ass raised. I run a hand down her back, spread her open, and sink into her. Then, I picture her riding me, those luscious tits bouncing as her hips move in wild circles. I switch positions, and now I fuck her hard and fast, her legs hooked on my shoulders. Then, she’s bent over the end of the couch, and my fist is around her hair, pulling, yanking.

  I don’t just like all of that. I love all of that. But you forgot a few. 69 rocks. Woman sitting on my face is fantastic. Up against the wall is terrific.

  Princess: You really do like to sample the whole menu.

  I can’t think of anything better than an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  Princess: But you really don’t have a preference among those?

  How about I just list some of my favorite things to do?

  Princess: Tell me.

  My fingers hover on the keypad. I’m dying to tell her everything, to lay it all out for her, but if I do, we’re leveling up. We’re moving from practical texting, to flirty texting, to full-on dirty texting.

  Yeah, when I think about it like that, it just makes me type faster and hit send with a flourish.

  Kissing. Licking. Touching. Tasting. Kissing. Feeling. Fingering. Biting. Fucking. Eating. Spanking. Kissing. Caressing. Pinching. Nibbling. Fucking. And kissing. Always kissing.

  She doesn’t answer right away. As I wait, clutching the phone in my hand, my dick on high alert, my skin sizzling, I’m keenly aware of how much I want to do all those things to her. I run my palm over my jeans and against my straining erection as I stare at the screen and wonder if her hand is slipping between her legs. Gliding inside her panties. If her back is bowed and her lips are parted. If her fingers are flying so fucking fast that she’s making herself come before she writes back.

  I write one more note, because I can’t help myself with her. And because I want to put this picture in her mind.

  Actually, my favorite thing to do is to make a woman come so hard she loses her mind with pleasure.

  My phone rattles.

  Princess: That’s. So. Hot.

  It feels even better.

  Princess: I can only imagine.

  Imagine . . .

  Her reply is enough to fuel a million fantasies.

  Princess: I am. Right now.

  Screw fantasy. Reality rocks. Because I’ll bet a million bucks she’s on her bed, her phone in one hand, the other hand down her panties.

  This time, I know I played a role in getting her there. What I’m also far too certain of is if she wants me the same way, I’m not sure I could turn her down.

  13

  I can slice and dice it a million ways, but there’s no denying I sexted Harper. Or that she sexted me back.

  And it doesn’t seem to be stopping.

  The next morning as I ride the subway to the Comedy Nation building in Times Square for a promo meeting, I click on the thread, and tap out a new message.

  Enough about me. What do you like? Do you have a favorite thing?

  I leave the question open-ended, so she can answer however she wants. With a noun. A verb. A position. Hell, she can even mention her favorite food group if that’s easier. She’s one of the boldest, most confident people I know—except when it comes to love, sex, and romance. I wouldn’t call her shy in those areas, especially not after last night. But she’s more like someone who has laced up ice skates for the first time, wobbly as she tries to move on sharp blades.

  Princess: I’ve never been one to play favorites . . . until I have a favorite to play with.

  So you don’t?

  Princess: It’s not that I don’t. More that I don’t know yet.

  Interesting. That tells me her experience in the bedroom might parallel her dating experience. The train bends around a curve in the tunnel as I write back.

  All right. Let’s figure it out. Tell me what you like in a guy.

  Princess: I like abs. Firm, toned abs.

  I glance down at my belly. Check.

  What else?

  Princess: I like strong arms.

  Oh yeah. Got your number there. Before I can ask anything else, my phone dings again.

  Princess: I like black boxer briefs.

  I crease my brow as the train stops at the next station. Well, that’s interesting. Pretty sure that’s exactly what I told her last night I had on. I exit onto the platform, joining the crowds of New York pushing their way up the steps to work, bent over their phones.

  I like your answers. What else do you like?

  Princess: Smart guys.

  I grip the phone tighter as I head up to Forty-Second Street, resisting the impulse to make a comment about smart guys in glasses. Because, ya know, it’s not the glasses that make the guy smart. It’s what’s inside the brain. But society has decided glasses are a symbol for intelligence, so if she wants to see me as a smart symbol, fine. I mean, sex symbol. Either one is good with me.

  More. Tell me more.

  Princess: I like soft lips and hungry kisses. Lots of kisses.

  A bolt of heat courses through my body as I flash back to last night’s messages. To my long note about fucking, and kissing, and more kissing. Maybe I’m reading into this, but it’s like she’s giving some of that back to me. Like she wants the exact same thing—the next chapter in that kiss that started outside her home. So I reply.

  What kind of kisses?

  Princess: Kisses that make me melt.

  That’s the best kind.

  I don’t want to stop this conversation. I’m greedy for more of her words, so I keep up the volley.

  And so are kisses that go on and on.

  Princess: And kisses that stop time.

  That turn you on.

  Princess: That turn to more. That start soft and slow, and then you can feel them in your whole body. All over your skin. Deep in your bones.

  My throat is dry, and my mind is immersed in the memory of those fifteen seconds and the possibility of what might have happened had the seconds stretched into minutes. Maybe just one more note . . .

  That take your breath away.

  Princess: And drive you wild.

  Metal connects with my thighs, and a loud oomph escapes my lips. I just walked into a trash can. I put the phone in my pocket and try not to think about kisses that make her melt, since I’d rather not get to know any more trash cans in this city.

  Not only do we not stop, we speed up. We change lanes. We take turns. We veer off course. And we text and sext and write more.

  The next night, I crack open a beer and settle in at the standing desk where I do most of my computer animations. I take a drink, spend some time with my drawing tablet, then write to her.

  So, we’ve got arms, abs, briefs, brains, and lips. Anything else you like?

  I swear I can feel her smile in the one-word reply that lands immediately.

  Princess: Eyes :)

  Though it might be the emoticon that’s giving me the warm-fuzzy. Or maybe just her when
she adds another message.

  Princess: I want to look into someone’s eyes and feel like he knows me, gets me, understands me. I want him to see my quirks and accept them, not try to change them. I want to know what that’s like.

  Damn, her words are intense and so . . . naked. Something about this small screen makes her open up and reveal parts of herself to me. The sides she doesn’t show anyone. Except, she showed them to me at Speakeasy, and then at the coffee shop, and now it’s like an unveiling. The pieces of Harper she hides inside her top hat, or behind the red scarf, or just beyond a witty joke or quip. Most of the time she’s all now you see it, now you don’t. But this is a whole new part of her. Take away voice, face, and body language. Lean only on words and she . . . blooms.