Mister O(29)

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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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.