Mister O(47)

“No. The activity schedule,” Harper says, running her foot up my leg. She’s flirty, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this affectionate side of her. She’s across from me at a table for two. The restaurant is dimly lit, with candles perched on red and white checkered tablecloths.

“Ah. You mean we had dessert before dinner?”

“Yes.”

“We’re unconventional. Mixing it up,” I say, as Harper reaches for a slice of bread from the basket. Loose strands from her high ponytail frame her cheeks. After we cleaned up, she changed once more, pulling on a tight green sweater and jeans, along with short high-heeled boots. As we walked here, the struggle not to check out her ass the entire time was real. Sorry to report I received an F on that test.

Wait. Not sorry at all. The view was worth it.

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I like this reverse schedule, too. I liked everything today,” she says softly. “But seriously . . .” She lets her voice trail off. “Did you like it?”

I scoff. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it. I loved every second of every single thing we did.”

She lights up, her blue eyes sparkling now. “I want it to be good for you, too, because for me, it was amazing.”

“It was the same way for me,” I say, and I’m tempted to slide my hand across the table and hold hers. But something stops me. Maybe because that seems like way too much of a couple thing. She wants to be temporary lovers, teacher and student, and all I want is to simply get her out of the starring role she’s been playing in all my solo flights. A few more nights and I’ll definitely be able to relegate Harper Holiday to a supporting part, then absolutely downgrade her to an occasional cameo, and bam, before I know it she’ll stop occupying so much precious real estate in the dirty-thoughts lobe of my brain. Which, obviously, is the biggest one. For now, I zoom in on our lessons. “Let’s recap today’s classwork. We tackled dirty talk. Turns out you’re a natural.”

She wriggles her shoulders proudly, brings her index finger to her tongue, and pretends to wet the air, letting it sizzle.

I point at her. “You also learned that you can, indeed, have multiple orgasms, one right after the other.”

“I had four in an hour,” she says with a big grin.

“Show off,” I tease, then stop. “Wait. One was solo.”

“I’m still counting it, since looking at you on the train was my foreplay.”

And like that, I’m ready to go again. She is a sexy little cupcake, and I want to bite into her. “And you also learned that the G-spot isn’t a myth.”

“Oh, I believe in it big time. I’ll be building a shrine to it, in fact,” she says, ripping off a corner of the bread and popping it in her mouth. When she finishes, she lowers her voice. “Want to know one more thing I learned about what I like?”

“I do,” I say, and my muscles tense, not from worry, but anticipation. I want to know her. What she likes. What she dislikes. What makes her feel good.

Her eyes lock on mine. “Seeing you undress for me,” she says, and her voice slides into that vulnerable tone she uses every now and then. The faintest of smiles tugs at her lips and pulls at my heart. We’re talking about sex, but we’re also not. She’s saying something else it seems, something about what it means to open up to someone, to let him in. Or maybe I just want to think that. I half wish I had that Harper decoder ring and could translate what she just said into what some part of me wishes it meant. But I’m not sure how to get in touch with that part. For so long, I’ve been primarily focused on one thing with women—driving them wild. With Harper I want that in spades, but I want something else, too.

More.

Even though I know I can’t have that with her, and there’s no point in dwelling on it.

I grab a piece of bread, instead, and bite into it to keep from saying anything too revealing in response. The waitress arrives with a glass of wine for her and a beer for me, bringing to an end the serious moment.

The rest of the meal is easy. We talk about work and movies, agreeing that The Usual Suspects has the best twist, then books, and which Harry Potter spell we’d most want to do. We both choose the ability to apparate. “Instant transportation. No more airplanes, no more cars, no more waiting,” I say, pressing my index finger to the table for emphasis. “We could just go to Fiji right now.”

“Next stop, Bora Bora.”

We even chat about the crossword puzzle, and she’s surprised when I tell her I finish it nearly every week.

“Every week?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“When you signed up to ride this ride, did you think you were only getting beauty here?” I gesture to myself then tap my temple. “There’s brains, too.”

“The Sunday crossword is just really hard.”

I shrug. “I like puzzles.” Like you. You’re a mystery to me sometimes.

“Me too,” she adds, and sometimes we have so much in common it scares me.



We stroll along Central Park after dinner. The evening air is cool, and a flurry of golden brown leaves skip past our feet in the night breeze.

“I love fall in New York City,” she muses, glancing up at the trees, their branches bursting with color, canopying us as I walk her home. “It’s my favorite season.”