Mister O(49)

“It’s cute,” she says, and she sounds a little dreamy, like she likes him.

That’s it. I snap. “Don’t go. Don’t f*ck him.”

She wrenches back and looks at me as if I’ve sprouted two heads. Snake heads, based on the vitriol in my tone. She parks her hands on her hips. “What the hell does that mean, Nick?”

I scrub a hand over my jaw. I try to let go of the jealousy, but it’s not a green-eyed monster for nothing. “Just not yet, okay? Don’t f*ck him while we’re f*cking,” I say, keeping my words as crass as can be. I can’t let her see that the thought of anyone else touching her eats me alive.

“I would never do that.” Her tone is full of hurt.

“Well, how do I know?”

She pushes my chest, shoves me hard. “Get real. Seriously. I told you I haven’t slept with anyone in a few years. I told you I barely know what I’m doing in bed. I’m not going to sleep with you and someone else at the same time. I’m not even going to date him right now.” She slices a hand through the air. “I would never be with you and someone else. Never.”

And I’m an *.

“I wouldn’t, either,” I say softly. “I don’t want to be with anyone else right now, either, and I didn’t mean to suggest you would.”

She stares at me and exhales. Her eyes seem to soften, but she crosses her arms over her chest. I’m not forgiven yet.

I reach out and wrap my arms around her. She lets me hold her, but doesn’t reciprocate. “It’s just we never said we wouldn’t while we do this.” Whatever this is.

“I didn’t think we had to. Isn’t it obvious we won’t? I won’t. You won’t. It’s that simple. It’s not even a rule we need to establish. It’s just an is.”

And f*ck, the way she says that, so certain and determined, so clear on who she is, hooks into my chest.

I am so utterly f*cked with this girl. And I don’t just mean f*cked in that way. I mean it in every way.



After I return to my home, I text her.



I’m sorry. I acted like a dick



I shower, slide under the sheets, and grab my phone. There’s no reply, and all I can think is I screwed up badly.





22





I wake up far too early for my taste. As I grab my phone from the nightstand, a twinge of hope rises in my chest. It’s then dashed by the absence of a reply.

Shit.

I pull on shorts and a pullover, lace up my sneakers, and jam in my earbuds. I run hard in Central Park, my phone in my hand the whole time as the sun rises, waking up Manhattan.

Still nothing.

I hit the gym for a quick round of weights, then return to my apartment and down a glass of water. I’m wiping the sweat from my brow when my phone dings. I take a deep breath. I really hope she’s not pissed anymore.

I unlock the screen, see her name, and click open her text.

Princess: Good morning :) :) :) :) :) :) :)





I laugh at the way she needles me with her flurry of emoticons.

I try to respond in kind, tapping out a hi and adding a smiley face. But. I. Can’t. Do. It. And evidently, I don’t have to. Another text arrives seconds later.

Princess: I crashed as soon as I walked in the door last night. Apparently multiple Os are the best recipe for a solid night’s sleep. By the way, why is dick an insult?





I laugh as I lean against the fridge and write back.



That’s a good question.

Princess: I think dicks should be used for good, and referred to positively.





Does that make you a dick ambassador? Spreading the word about the unfair use of the male appendage as a put-down?

Princess: Yes. It does. I’m going to start using dick as a compliment. Here goes. Nick, you’re a dick. Also, I like your dick.





And she’s come roaring back with her sharp-tongued, dirty wit. My texting Harper. My naughty magician. I tap out a reply, suggesting a new insult.



How about ass? Wait. Scratch that. Ass suffers from the same undeserved fate. It should never be an insult. Also, I like your ass. Though love might be a more appropriate verb to express the depths of my admiration for that particular body part of yours.



I hit send then quickly add another note.



Also, would you please let me apologize for last night? I was such a . . . jerk.

Princess: You said you were sorry last night, and we’re good. I’m not upset. I swear. I’m just glad we’re on the same page.





We are. So much.

Princess: There won’t be anyone else.





Same here. Also, Harper?

Princess: Yeah?





Sometimes you ask me if something we do is okay, and I want you to know you’ve never done a thing in bed that hasn’t turned me on . . . your mouth, your face, your hair, your body, the way you touch me, the way you respond . . . it’s all one massive turn-on.



Her reply arrives seconds later.

Princess: Now I have butterflies . . .





And I grin like a fool.