Mister O (17 page)

* * *

“
S
o this is your bedroom
,” she says, glancing around a few minutes later.

My room is simple—blond hardwood floors, a king-sized bed, and a bureau with a handful of framed family photos, as well as stacks of sketchbooks and pens. On my wall is a drawing of a duck taped to bricks, aptly titled “Duct Tape.”

“Maybe you’ll show me your bedroom someday soon,” I say, as I kiss her neck.

“Actually, you’ve seen it.”

I arch a questioning eyebrow.

“My apartment is a studio. I sleep on the purple couch. It’s a pull-out.”

“I have fond memories of what I did to you on that couch yesterday. Had no idea it was your bed too.”

She taps my nose. “Don’t know if you know this, Mr. Brains and Beauty, but Manhattan is a teeny bit expensive,” she says, holding up her thumb and forefinger. “Especially for an almost twenty-six-year-old magician.”

I nod, aware that her situation is different than mine. We’re both skilled enough to do what we love, but I’ve had bigger breaks.

“But I’m lucky to have that place,” she adds. “My parents bought it years ago as an investment, so I basically rent from them. They wanted to let me live rent-free, but I insisted on paying.”

“Hopefully they gave you a good deal.”

“They did. For a place in the 90s, it’s better than rent-controlled. And it lets me live in Manhattan, working kids’ parties for the most part.”

I prop myself up and run my fingers along her hipbone. “Is that the end game? I’m not saying you should do more. I’m just curious.”

“I’d like to do a few more corporate events since the pay is better, but for now, I’m happy.”

“Would you ever want to do a big, grand show, like in Vegas?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I really like working with kids. They’re fun and appreciative, and they believe in the illusion. They believe it’s all real.”

“You have no idea how badly I want to ask you to show me how to do the pencil trick.”

“You know I could never do that.” She stretches an arm to my nightstand, grabbing a pencil. She presses her finger to my lips. “I’m not going to
tell
you how it’s done,” she says, then brings her right hand to her nose, while her left hand is curved next to it. In a flash, she puts the pencil in her nose.

Or so it seems.

Equally quickly, the writing implement emerges in her other hand, as if she pulled it out her ear. Even though I know she didn’t put the pencil in her head, and even though I’m sure she hid it behind her hand, it’s still a cool trick. Because it
looks
real. Her sleight of hand is that smooth.

“Want me to do it again?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

This time she’s just as fast, but she swings her leg over my waist as she does the trick, which rolls her an inch closer, giving me the slightest peek at her curved left hand, where she hides the pencil.

I smile, awareness hitting me of what she just did. It’s a small thing, and a small trick, but it’s pure Harper. Revealing, without exactly revealing. Letting me into her world.

“Now teach me the secret to drawing a great cartoon,” she says, playfully demanding.

I raise my hand and brush her red strands over her ear. “Here’s the trick. You have to
like
what you’re drawing,” I say, my eyes on her the whole time.

She has no clue what I’ve just told her. She can’t have any idea that I’ve drawn her, and how much I like her. So much that it’s way beyond “like” right now. She just smiles and says, “Good thing you like drawing a caped crusader who can make a woman arch her back and curl her toes in pleasure. Especially since you’re so good at that, too.”

Screw Fido. Screw that stupid jealousy. Fuck any jealousy. Right now all I feel is one hundred percent satisfaction over a job well done.

Speaking of jobs . . .

“Would you want to come to a work party with me?” I ask, then I explain about the cocktail party that Serena asked me to attend this Friday.

“Do I have to throw a bowling match this time?” She taps my chest. “Speaking of that, you still owe me a rematch.”

“I promise you’ll get one. But will you come with me? Gino is such a capricious ass,” I say then hold up my palm. “Wait. Ass is good, we decided. He’s a capricious weasel, and he’s just jerking me around. But even so, I need to play the game and go. And I’d really like for you to be there.”

“Of course I’ll go. And as for Gino, fuck him.”

I point at her, my eyes lighting up. “Hey. That’s another one. Why is fuck an insult?”

“Hmmm. That’s an excellent point.”

“Right? Everyone says
fuck him, fuck this, fuck off.
But fucking is pretty much the greatest thing on earth.”

“We’ll start a new dictionary. We’ll take back the word fuck, and we’ll turn it into—”

“I know! We’ll say it like a blessing.” I soften my voice, and make it sound reverent and adoring. “
Fuck you, my child. Go in peace
.”

“Or,” she says, her voice rising in excitement, “we can use it when we like something. Fuck can go into our dictionary as
like
.”

I curl my hand over her hip. “Hey, you know what, Harper? Fuck showers.”

I take her to the shower and introduce her to the tiled wall, as well as my bottomless appetite for her. She’s pretty ravenous, too, and it’s fantastic to have her again as the water slides down my back, and her legs wrap around me, and she falls apart once more in my arms.

When she comes down from her high, she whispers in my ear, softly, sweetly, “Fuck you.”

I laugh lightly. “Fuck you, too.”

“
I
don’t know
how I’m going to resist her,” Wyatt says with lustful longing in his voice the next morning in Central Park.

“Natalie?”

He shakes his head. “Little Cocoa Puff. Look at her. How am I not supposed to take her home? She can fit in my tool belt,” he says, practically cooing as he gestures to the chocolate Min Pin he’s walking. By my side is a dachshund mix.

“You don’t even wear a tool belt,” I say, as we turn down a path. “You just love to hold on to the
handyman
image, even though you’re behind a desk half the time.”

“What can I say? I’m good with tools, as well as juggling my growing empire.”

“Then you should take Cocoa Puff home with you,” I say, goading him on as I point to the pooch. “Think about how much help she can give you when it comes to women. She’s a chick magnet, and let’s be honest.” I drape an arm over his shoulder sympathetically. “You need all the help you can get, Woody.”

“Randy,” he retaliates with a huff. “Our parents gave us the worst middle names.”

I laugh. “Pretty sure they wanted to torture us, starting at birth.”

He stops in the middle of the path and gives me some sort of knowing eye inspection. “But let’s not talk about middle names. Let’s talk about . . . hey, how about girls with alliterative names? HH, ahem.”

“You know what alliteration is?” I ask, deflecting, as I wind the dog leash tighter around my wrist.

He shakes his head dismissively. “I do. In addition to a working brain, I also have a powerful nose to sniff out your bullshit,” he says, and I pretend to be preoccupied with the dachshund’s exploration of a bush.

Wyatt soldiers on, his voice stripped free of sarcasm or our usual trash talk. “When are you going to say something to Spencer?”

“About what?” I scowl. I’m doing an awesome job feigning confusion.

He laughs. “C’mon man. Drop the act. I know there’s something between you and Harper. I saw you dancing with her.”

“It was just dancing.”

Just dancing. Just kissing. Just fucking. Just the best nights of my life. My chest warms with memories of the last few nights with Harper.

Wyatt sighs. “Nick,” he says, and I can tell he’s serious, since he’s using my first name. “I saw her coming to your apartment last week. I saw you dancing with her at the wedding. I saw the way you looked at her on the train.”

Alarm bells go off. We were so cautious. Could my brother tell something was up just by looking at us?

“If you like her, just say something,” he adds, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

I scoff.

Because it’s not that simple. Harper and I aren’t doing something that needs to be
discussed
or
approved
. We’re not going anywhere beyond the bedroom. I don’t even have to ask her to know her feelings on that topic. They’re crystal clear, and have been from the moment I witnessed her secret language with men at Peace of Cake. Not only do her actions speak clearly, but so do her words. For starters, she acts normal around me. She’s never once fumbled on words, or turned into a
hot mess
with me, as she does with Simon. On top of that, the woman has been amazingly specific when it comes to voicing what she wants. She asked me point-blank for dating help with other guys. Then she kicked it up a notch and requested lessons in sex and seduction.

She never expressed an interest in having me as her boyfriend, and that’s one hundred percent fine with me. Best of both worlds. I’m having her in the bedroom, and we still can hang out together when these lessons come to an end after this week.

“There’s not anything to say. It’s just not like that with her,” I explain with a casual shrug.

Wyatt brings his dog to heel by his side. “Listen, you can tell yourself it was just dancing, but you’re not fooling me. The question is, are you fooling yourself?”

His question echoes. It sounds important, the way it lingers in the cool fall air, drifting through the leaves on the trees. But I’ve had my eyes wide open from day one. “Nope. I totally know the score.”

He sighs. “Fair enough. But in a few days, Spencer will return,” he says, reminding me of the expiration date. I hardly need the reminder. I’m well aware that Spencer makes landfall after his honeymoon in Hawaii after midnight on Sunday. Six nights from now. But who’s counting? “And you need to think about the fact that you’ve got something going on with his little sister,” Wyatt adds. “The sooner you figure out what it is, the better off you’ll be.”

But Spencer is out of sight, out of mind. He’s on the other side of the world, and I don’t need to worry about him right now, despite what his cat and my brother might think.

T
he next few
nights roll by in a haze of orgasms for Harper, and hey, I’m not complaining that I get to have plenty, too. Turns out Harper’s quite a giver, and she insists on working on her blow job technique. Who am I to deny the woman her practical training? If she likes taking me in her mouth, she should damn well avail herself of the opportunity.

Blow jobs from Harper just might be proof that somewhere, in some other lifetime, I was a very good person. That’s the only way I can possibly explain what I did to deserve the reward of her wicked mouth on my cock.

Like right now, on Wednesday night. She lies on her back on my bed, her head extended over the edge of the mattress, her hands clutched to my hips as I stand, deep in her throat, pumping my hips.

With her neck stretched like that, I can see the outline of my dick as she sucks. She loves trying new positions, like bent over the couch last night, like 69 earlier this evening—though it was closer to 61 since she was riding my face so blissfully, she couldn’t keep me in her mouth. And this one, too—the upside-down blow job. The best part? It’s not how spectacular this feels—though trust me, she sends me straight to some kind of ecstatic oblivion with her tongue and lips and mouth—the best part is I can tell how much she likes it by the way her back bows off the bed, and how she rocks her hips up and down. I’m loving everything, too. The way her hair spills wildly over the covers, how her nails dig into my flesh, and most of all, how when she moans, she’s literally
humming
around my dick as she sucks me hard.

I’m moaning, too.

That’s the problem. I could come in another minute if I let her go on like this. But I just can’t. I’m not that selfish. I love her orgasms more than my own. Even as a fresh round of pleasure crashes into me, I find the will—Herculean task though it is—to pull my dick out of her lush mouth.

Her eyes are dazed as she stares at me, upside-down.

“Sit on me, Dirty Princess,” I tell her as I sink down to the bed, grab a condom, and cover myself in seconds. I pull her up, then position her reverse cowgirl style on my cock.

We groan in unison as I bury myself in her. I loop my hands around her and cup her tits as she thrusts up and down, picking up the pace quickly, her back flush to my chest.

“This won’t take you long, will it?” I whisper in her ear.

She shakes her head against me as she moans.

“Play with your pussy,” I instruct her. “Touch your clit as you fuck me.”

Her right hand slips between her legs, and she rubs as she grinds on me. “I’ve gotten off to you so many times, Nick.”

Those words send me spinning. Lust spirals in me, torquing into something more potent and powerful. Something that’s born of late-night fantasies and months of longing. “Me too, princess. I think about you all the time. I’ve fucked you so many times by myself.”

“Was it this good for you?” she asks, her breath uneven as her fingers fly over her clit, and my cock pushes in and out of her tight, wet heat.

“No,” I grunt, as her gorgeous back slides against my chest. “Nothing compares to the real thing with you.” Because she is all my fantasies, only better, so much better.

“It’s so good with you,” she says on a broken pant. She shudders, her breath hitches, and her words come out in a hot whisper. “I’m going to come all over you.”

“Do it, princess. Come on me,” I growl, because she loves to talk, she loves to announce her orgasms, and she loves to tell me when she’s coming, and I relish every single dirty, sweet, and filthy word to fall from her lips.

She circles her hips, rubs faster, and slams down hard as she cries out, “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

Her sounds and her shudders flip the switch, and I follow her to my own sweet annihilation. My entire body jerks as my climax crashes over me, assaulting me with pleasure. I groan against her neck. “You kill me, Harper,” I say roughly in her ear. “I come so hard with you, you know that?”

She sighs, a sexy murmur telling me how much she likes hearing those words. “I love it when you come,” she says, in a breathless admission. “I love hearing your noises. I love the way you grip me tighter, how your breathing goes wild.”

It’s such an intimate moment, unraveling for someone, letting go of all control. And, yeah, giving orgasms is my favorite hobby—but it’s fucking awesome that she wants mine so much. Maybe that’s why they’re so good with her. Because I feel even more. More intensity. More vulnerability. Like she
knows
me.

“That’s what you do to me,” I tell her, brushing my lips to her cheek. “You make me go crazy.”

She leans her head back against my collarbone and loops her arms behind my head.

When her fingers play with my hair, I shudder. “I love that, too. What you’re doing,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says, her voice so soft. “You’ve always liked it when I touch your hair.”

Electricity sparks in my body, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftershocks or some new high from what she just said. Because it’s not just that she knows me. It’s that she’s figured me out. She’s learned my likes (numerous) and my dislikes (so very few), and then my absolute favorites, and she seems to want to give me as many of those as she can. She launched into this project ready and eager to discover what she liked, but she’s quickly discovered me. And hell, I’m not picky—but I have my turn-ons, too. The lingerie she wears, the words she says, and the dirty things I can say to her, too.

“It’s like you’re studying me,” I say, something like wonder in my tone.

“Maybe I am. Does that bother you?”

I scoff. “God, no.”

She pushes her back closer to me. “I like giving you what you want.”

I press my lips together, holding in my words.

You’re what I want
.
All of you
.

* * *

A
little later
, after we clean up, she takes my hand and tugs me to the kitchen. “I brought you a present tonight.” Her eyes twinkle.

“Another present?” I ask, reining in a grin. I love her gifts.

She nods. “I slipped it into your freezer when I arrived.”

“How did you do that without me seeing?”

She rolls her eyes and flashes her hands. “Nick, it’s what I do. Sleight-of-hand. Misdirection.”

She opens the freezer and takes out a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. “Your favorite,” she says with a smile.

I can’t help but grin, too. Because . . . this girl.

I wanted to just screw her out of my system. I desperately needed to just focus on the sex. But every little thing she does is magic to me—lingerie, ice cream, shower showrooms. And the way she talks to me in the heat of the moment, opening up, sharing, making herself so vulnerable, I nearly let myself believe this can go on, and that we can eat ice cream together every night.

Okay, maybe not every night. Gotta stay in fighting shape. But enough nights. Only, that’s not what she wants. The here and now will have to be enough, so I’m going to just enjoy every second of this time with her until it ends.

With a sly grin, I back her up to the fridge, sneak a quick kiss, then steal the ice cream.

“No fair,” she says, trying to grab it back.

“If you’re good, I’ll share,” I tease as I hold the pint high, open the utensil drawer, and take out two spoons.

“You better share,” she says, and then she eats mint chocolate chip ice cream naked with me on the couch. I kiss her, and yes, the taste of the ice cream on her tongue is as good as I once imagined.

Wait. I’m wrong. It’s better. Everything with her is.

That’s why I give her a gift, too. It’s a small thing, but it’s something she told me she wanted. I grab the Sunday crossword puzzle from my coffee table, and hold it up in front of my chest, as if it’s a plaque I received to honor an accomplishment. “Voila. Finished it today.”

“Is this for me?”

I nod proudly. “It is.”

“Aww. You’re like a kitty cat bringing me a dead mouse that you killed.”

I laugh at her analogy. “Would you like to pet me in approval?”

“I would,” she says, running one hand through my hair and talking to me the way she did to Fido. “You hunted all the words. I’m so proud of you.” With her other hand, she turns over the newsprint. “What’s this?”

I tense momentarily when I see a gray outline. What was I doodling on the back of the crossword? She tilts the page at me, and it’s a cartoon of a puppet wearing a tight top, breasts spilling out. The bubble by her mouth reads: “
How to send naughty texts: a dirty puppet tutorial.
”

“
Nick
.” One corner of her lips quirks up. “I had no idea you learned all your skills from puppets.”

I laugh, relieved that she didn’t uncover a drawing of her, just of her co-stars in the doodles she inspired. I wiggle my fingers. “Don’t underestimate the filth appeal to a cartoonist of something you operate with your fingers.”

She laughs. “You are so bad. Tell me more about your puppets, Mr. Dirty Cartoonist.”

“I would, Miss Naughty Magician, but it might be hard for me to talk when my tongue is all over your hot body,” I say, then I spoon some ice cream onto her nipple and lick it off. Then on her belly, where I run my tongue across the cool dessert on her skin. She practically purrs.

Soon, the ice cream left in the pint is melting, and Harper is too, as I travel down her body and shut myself up in my most favorite way in the universe.

If I don’t keep my mouth occupied, I’ll tell her about all the times I’ve drawn her, and then she’ll know how hard it will be for me to let her go.

Even though this isn’t supposed to be difficult at all. This little fling should be the easiest thing in the world.

Only it’s not.