Mister O (8 page)

She quirks her lips, considering. “I don’t get that crazy fluttery feeling in my chest when I look at him or talk to him. I suppose I probably should if I like him?” She makes it a question, her gaze locking on mine.

My own crazy, fluttering chest gives me the answer. “It’s not a bad start.” Then, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I press on. “Do you feel that way when you’re with Simon?”

Her eyes widen, and she shrugs.

“That’s not an answer,” I say gruffly. Evidently, I really like abuse.

“I haven’t spent any more time with him. You gave me orders not to see him,” she says, tossing the ball back in my court. “Though, I
did
talk to him on the phone earlier this week.”

My pen stops. A bolt of red-hot jealousy slams into me. I’m so damn glad I’m looking down, because I don’t want her to see my face, or that it drives me crazy that she’s into him. “Yeah?” I ask, in my best cool and casual tone as I return to the blue lines on her skin. “How was that?”

“Fine. We just talked about Hayden’s party in a couple weeks.”

“And you were able to speak?”

“Ha ha ha. Yes, I retained the power of
oral
communication,” she says, and I groan at the innuendo she served up. “Besides, the phone is easy for me. Especially texting.”

“Good to know,” I say, as I finish the ink on her arm.

I move my palm a few inches up her skin, raising her forearm to show her my work. As my fingers skim across her flesh, I swear for a second that her breath catches. The smallest sound floats to my ears, almost like a little gasp, and it sounds fantastic. It trips me back in time to our kiss. To the faint murmur that escaped her lips when I brushed them with mine. I want to press the button on her that controls that noise, that turns it up, that makes it music in my ears. Our eyes meet, and I’m not awash in crazy, dirty thoughts. I’m thinking about how pretty she is, how much more I want to know her, and how I don’t want this time with her to end. I can listen to her talk about cartoons and dreams, work and passion—all these deeper things, and all the simpler things, too—for as long as she wants to share them with me.

Talking to her is so easy. So enjoyable. It’s like breathing. My heart pounds as I try to memorize the expression in her eyes, the tiny spark dancing across all that sapphire blue, that makes me believe she
has
to feel the same way.

Her lips part the slightest bit, and that small shift is the
very
detail I’d draw in the picture of a girl who was starting to like a guy.

My pulse races as she holds my gaze captive. There are no fans egging us on. There’s no trick we’re trying to pull off. We might be surrounded by people, but this is a coffee shop full of white noise. Right now, it’s only Harper and me, and her shoulders dip forward, as if there’s a magnetic pull between us.

She leans into me, swaying closer, like she’s keen to finish what we started on the street. If she is, I want it all, but it has to come from her so I know this isn’t just another illusion. Every inch, every bend, every second until our lips meet has to start with her. I need to know whether this is all in my mind, or if this crackling electricity between us truly is as two-way as I want it to be.

A cup clangs from somewhere behind the counter, and the sound of it hitting the floor breaks the spell. I straighten, she flinches, and we both look away. When I dare to return my focus to her, she’s staring down at her arm, so there’s no chance I can find an answer. It slips through my fingers like smoke.

“I love it,” she says in a soft voice. “How long will it last?”

“’Til you shower.”

“But I
love
showers.”

“It won’t last long then. So unless you plan on letting yourself get pretty dirty tonight, it’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Now who’s the one saying ridiculously filthy things?”

I smirk. “Touché.”

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think Jason is going to want to, you know”—she raises her eyebrows and croons like Marvin Gaye—
“get it on
?”

“Maybe. Second date protocol suggests he might try to kiss you,” I say, trying to stay focused on the question and not my own reaction to it, which is that Jason is a
lucky fucking bastard
. “First date is to see if you actually want a second date. So you passed that test. Second date is to see if there’s any real chemistry, and so you graduate to dinner and probably a test kiss. And third date is . . .” I let my voice fade, and she raises an eyebrow.

She whispers, all conspiratorial, “Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Third date is for . . .” She slows, licks her lips, then inches the slightest bit closer so it’s like she’s imprinting her words on the air as she holds my gaze captive and purrs, “Hot, dirty sex.”

All the blood rushes to my dick.

There’s no space between us for other people. Her words are between her and me. My brain stops working, lust spins wildly through me, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “No,” I say, taking my time, too, because this is my territory. I know dirty words and deeds inside and out, and if Harper wants to go toe-to-toe, I’m in it to heat her up. “It’s for hot, dirty sex that lasts all night long.”

Now she’s caught off-guard. She blinks, swallows, and exhales hard.

I’m tense, wishing she’d start speaking in tongues like she did with Simon. Something to give me the confirmation that she’s into me, too. Instead, she bites her lip, then says, “I bet that’s the best kind to have.”

“It absolutely is, princess.” Her eyes darken when I say that last word, my voice sliding into the tone I’d use with her in bed.

Dirty. Rough. Hungry.

That’s the problem.

If I keep lingering in this zone, I’ll be participating in way more one-man shows than are good for my ego.

And I really need to get her out of my head, especially since I’m seeing her brother tomorrow.

“
B
ond
. James Bond.”

Spencer adjusts his cuffs, then eyes himself approvingly. He glances over at me as I finish off my bow tie.

“Can’t help myself,” he adds. “It’s a requirement. You can’t wear a tux and not say it. Because I do look like Bond.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You and every guy in the world thinks that about himself.”

We’re at the tuxedo shop the next day for the last fitting for his wedding, making sure the measurements are right. The petite black-haired woman, who runs the shop that’s open even on a Sunday, fiddles with the lapels on my jacket and says, “You look good. You’re all set.”

I tip my head to Spencer as I begin to undo the bow tie. “Got anything that’ll improve his situation? A paper bag, maybe?”

She smiles then turns to the groom to work on final adjustments. I change back into my own clothes, and when I rejoin them, Spencer tilts his head toward me and sniffs the air. “Why do you smell like my sister’s laundry detergent?”

It’s like a car slamming on the brakes. Everything in my head screeches, and I’m caught red-fucking-handed. My brain sputters, and tons of excuses scurry toward my tongue. Then I tell myself to chill. Tons
of people use the same soap, and just because she gave me detergent doesn’t mean I’m wearing a billboard that says
I want to bang your sister.

I just feel like I am. As if every little thing—even the most innocuous—reveals my hand. I’ve got to get my shit together especially since I have a dinner with Spencer, Charlotte, and Harper in a few days.

I slide on a poker face. “What are you talking about?” I ask, giving him a look as if he’s the crazy one.

He leans closer, arches an eyebrow, and sniffs again. “Hmm.”

“Dude,” I say, stepping away. That one word conveys everything:
this is a no-fly zone.
But inside, I panic because how good is this guy’s nose that he can tell I’m using the same laundry detergent as his sister?

“Also, nice cat,” Spencer tosses out.

My pulse pounds in my neck. “What cat?”

“On Harper’s arm,” he adds. “She was with Charlotte this morning, picking up the bridesmaid dresses.”

Oh. Right.

The evidence in ink. On Harper’s arm.

Note to self: Find out why the hell Harper didn’t shower today.

“Yeah? Charlotte liked my Bucky the cat?”

Spencer cracks up. “Absolutely. If the TV business doesn’t work out, you should start aping other cartoonist’s work for a living.”

I roll my eyes.

His expression shifts to serious. “What’s the deal though? Harper told Charlotte you were hanging out more. That you had coffee yesterday, and she gave you detergent since she spilled something on you?”

“Hot chocolate. Everywhere. Like it was a new design,” I say quickly, since that’s the truth. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with us getting a drink now and then. And then, like a frying pan to Woody Woodpecker’s head, it hits me why Harper told Charlotte the simple truth. The fact that we’re hanging out isn’t something Harper has to hide.

I’m the one with the big secret—that I’m completely fucking tempted by my best friend’s sister in every way.

Unrequited lust sucks balls. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

The tux lady pats Spencer’s shoulder. “You’re all set now,” she says to him.

He thanks her then eyes me in the mirror. “You’re just hanging out with her, right?”

My chest pinches even as I answer honestly with a nonchalant, “Yeah.”

“Good.” He sounds relieved, and part of me wants to ask why the hell I’m not good enough for her. He claps me on the back. “Because Charlotte wants you to meet her sister at the wedding. Natalie’s single, and a babe.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised, because that was not the answer I’d expected at all. I try to play it cool. “I never pegged you as a matchmaker.”

He shakes his head. “Not my idea. My bride’s. And what she wants, I want.”

“Sure. Happy to meet her.” Maybe Natalie and I will hit it off, and she’ll get my mind off the one person I need to stop thinking about.

“Wedding hookups are awesome, right?”

“They’re the best,” I say.

“And if there were anything more than hanging out going on with you and my sister, you know what I’d do to you.”

I run a hand through my hair. “You do realize neither I, nor my hair, are the least bit afraid of you. You’re like the definition of not scary, right?”

Spencer laughs. “I can be terrifying. Just ask my sister.”

But I don’t really want to talk to Harper about her brother. When I take out my phone later that day to text her, I find she’s already sent me a note.

I
must have missed
her text when it came through earlier.

I laugh at her ability to poke fun at herself. As I kick back on my couch, I respond.

T
hat’s not
the important issue. What I want to know is—have you now given up showers in protest of something?

H
er reply arrives quickly
.

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.

Y
up
. 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.

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

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

A note from her pops up.

And I deflate.

Y
es
, 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.

M
y 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.

W
hat 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.”

Go for it. I’m an open book.

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

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.

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.

Y
es
. And the first date, too.

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

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.

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

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

That’s one way of putting it.

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.

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

Kind of? Just kind of?

Almost . . .

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.

O
h
, 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.

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

P
icture 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.

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.

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

P
redilection was
one of the answers to the Sunday crossword puzzle.

I try. It’s a predilection of mine.

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

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

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

S
exy librarian
.

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.

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

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

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.