Mister O (9 page)

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

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

S
he 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.

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

M
y phone rattles
.

It feels even better.

Imagine . . .

H
er reply is
enough to fuel a million fantasies.

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.

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.

E
nough 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.

So you don’t?

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.

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

I glance down at my belly. Check.

W
hat else
?

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

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?

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.

M
ore
. Tell me more.

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.

W
hat kind of kisses
?

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.

A
nd so are
kisses that go on and on.

That turn you on.

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 . . .

T
hat take your breath away
.

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.

* * *

N
ot 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.

S
o
, 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.

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

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.

I step away from the desk, pace across my apartment to the kitchen, then restlessly head to the bay window, staring out on the night sky of New York with the skyscrapers and neon gazing at me. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, and I don’t want to send her racing back to Veiled Harper land, so as I pick up my phone I choose a safe response, but one that acknowledges all her quirks.

Y
ou deserve all of that
. I want you to have that.

And quirks should never be changed. Keep all your quirks, Harper. I like them.

* * *

I
’m addicted
to my phone. That’s something I’ve always tried to avoid, but I never know if she’s going to send me something that turns me on.

Except pretty much all her messages do, so I’m living in a state of suspended desire.

It’s fantastic and terrible at the same time. It feels amazing and also completely foolish. But this dizzy, heady sensation of wanting? It’s in charge right now, and it leads me on. I’d like to think this newfound infatuation with her texts is good for my show. Because this next episode is coming together like a dream, and after I leave a meeting with the head animator the next day, I make my way to the elevator so I can take off uptown to meet Tyler at Nichols & Nichols.

“Mister Hammer.”

The voice curdles my stomach.

“Hey, Gino.”

The network head strides up to me and straightens the jacket on his pin-striped suit. “Been thinking about
The Adventures of Mister Orgasm
,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I like to think I have several things in common with the hero.”

I stifle a cringe and just suck it down, so hard I might choke on it. “That so?”

He tugs at his tie. “I’m a bit of a ladies’ man myself.”

“I bet you are, sir.”

“And you know, I
did
create a show myself back in the day.”

Of course, he has to mention his brief flirtation with the other side. “I heard it was fantastic,” I lie.

He waves his I’m-so-humble wave. “It was a damn fine show. But here’s the thing. It wasn’t quite as racy as yours. Which got me to thinking,” he says, as he furrows his brow. His eyebrows are like two caterpillars riverdancing. “What if
The Adventures of Mister Orgasm
were more, say, family-friendly? I wonder if we could go broader, make it less naughty, and find an even bigger audience?” he says, giving me whiplash with his Mister Orgasm meets
The Brady Bunch
ideas. “Think about it.”

He slaps my back and takes off, and I scratch my head as I leave to see my attorney. The Uber I ordered waits by the curb so I slide in, say hello to the driver, and return to my new favorite thing—my text messages. It’s like hitting the jackpot, because there’s a note waiting for me.

Tell. Me. Now.

Dragging my hand over my face, I sink down in the leather seat. Like that will hide this problem. I breathe out hard. Like that will make this steel rod in my pants fucking disappear before I walk into my attorney’s office. There are certain words that flip a switch on a hard-on, and she just used one of them.
Lingerie.

W
hat kind
? What color? What style?

I raise my face, and stare out the window. Maybe there’s a store somewhere with a tub full of ice. Maybe I can just go sit in it for a couple of hours to make this lust dissipate.
Bows on panties that can be untied?
C’mon. No man is strong enough to withstand those words.

Especially not a man who was sent a black satin bow with pink polka dots. A scorching heat wave crashes into me as I mouth
holy shit
. When Harper sent me the pencils tied with ribbon, it was like she left me a little hint before I even knew what it was. A clue to all her desires, to her secret fantasies. It’s like a woman undressing as she walks down the hallway, glancing back at you, her eyes saying
follow this trail
.

And I will follow.

L
ike a black satin
bow with pink polka dots?

I’m not sure I’ll ever look at it the same way again.

Jesus fucking Christ. I tug at my shirt. No way can I make it through this meeting. But there’s no way I can stop.

I
did
. I love untying little bows. In fact, ‘untied’ is my new favorite word.

Have I told you I’m a human thesaurus for dirty words?

Then you know me so well.