Mister O(53)

“Why, yes,” Harper says, adopting a businesswoman tone. “I’m in the market for the absolute best, state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line luxurious shower for the true shower aficionado. What would you recommend?”

“What price range are you considering?”

Harper laughs like that’s the silliest question she’s ever heard. “Money is no object when it comes to one’s predilections.”

I raise an eyebrow approvingly at Harper for her word choice.

“Then you’ll want a wet room,” the woman says, and gestures for us to follow her.

“Wet room,” she whispers, nudging me. “Told you it was better than Eden.”

I loop my arm around her shoulders. “Yes, so much better.”

We weave through floor displays of glassless showers, and jets with more modes than Harper’s fifty-speed wand, and claw foot tubs, too, until we arrive at the centerpiece.

“This is the Rolls Royce of showers,” the pantsuit woman says and presents a shower that’s bigger than my bedroom, and boasts a dozen showerheads, two on each wall, and four on the ceiling. She waxes on about the rainfall settings, the steam options, and the quality of the tile, harvested in South America somewhere. I couldn’t care less about these details, because Harper runs her hand through my hair and asks, “Do you love it?”

I know she means the wet room. But when I answer her I mean something else entirely, and I want her to know that. “Yes. This is the coolest date I’ve ever been on.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Really?”

This is Harper and all her quirks. This is the way she listens to everything I say, how she soaks up all the details, how she pays attention to every nuance, and then finds a way to be playful and fun.

“Don’t ever change your quirks,” I say, then I brush a kiss to her lips. She shivers against me, and the shower showroom portion of the date needs to end very soon.

The saleswoman holds up her finger. “Excuse me. There’s something I need to take care of.” She scurries off.

“Me, too,” I say, but I’m talking to Harper. Looking at Harper. Wanting Harper. “Let’s order in Chinese at my place.”

She runs her thumb over my jawline. “Does that mean you want to get out of here now?”

“Yes.”





25





We stumble into my apartment, our hands all over each other. Her lips are bruised from how I kissed her in the cab, and her jacket is undone.

My fingers find their way to the hem of her V-neck sweater. I want to tear off all her clothes. “Can I see my gift now? I’ve been soooo good.”

“You’ve been very good,” she says, arching into me.

My hands freeze. I stop my travels, remembering my mission and why I’m lucky enough to have my hands on her body right now—to teach her. “We almost forgot your lesson tonight.”

She pulls back and shakes her head briefly, as if she’s clearing her thoughts. “Lesson. Right. Lesson.”

It doesn’t take long for me to devise one. Call it an easy lesson plan. Call it my own selfish desire to watch Harper bare all. Giving her an assignment is the easiest thing in the world, because I want her so much.

“Strip for me.” Tossing my jacket on a chair, I park myself on the couch and lace my hands behind my head. “Do it nice and slow.”

She nods, reaching for her jacket. “Everything, Professor Hammer?”

I shake my head as I rake my eyes over her. “Take off the jacket, sweater, and skirt. Leave everything else on. That’s the lesson. How you can drive a man wild when you’re half-naked.”

“Do I drive you wild?” she asks, as she joins me in the living room and shimmies off the coat.

“So much,” I say, my voice husky and my eyes never straying from her as I nod to her skirt.

She unzips it. She takes her time, pushing down one side of the skirt, then the other. I groan as a hint of the soft flesh above her panties is exposed.

“More?” she asks seductively.

“Take it off, Harper,” I say, like a command. “Take off the f*cking skirt so I can see you.”

“Since that’s what you want,” she says letting her voice trail off as she pushes the fabric past her thighs. She lets it fall to the floor and all the breath flees my body.

Her stockings are sheer black, and the garter belt hooks into them with little bows on the snaps. Her panties are black lace with a tiny pink butterfly pattern. I drag my hand over my face. I’m an inferno. No, wait. I’m lava. Molten. I take a huge breath and rasp out, “Jesus f*cking Christ.”

“You like?”

I swallow and nod, because I can’t speak. My throat is parched. I make a rolling gesture with my hand, indicating that it’s time for the top to get out of the way, too. She crosses her hands at the hem of her sweater and slowly, seductively, lifts her top, revealing a matching bra, the kind that pushes her tits high.

“I picked this out today. I went lingerie shopping for you,” she says, her soft voice wafting over me.

“You bought this for me?”

She nods. “I wanted something new to wear tonight. Something I thought you’d like,” she says, a sexy hopefulness in her voice. “Do you like the butterflies?”