Mister O

“Truer words,” Clay says, then I say good-bye, leave their office, and head into the crisp air of a late fall afternoon in New York City.

But as I slide into the next train downtown, I’m not thinking about Tyler’s woman anymore. I’m thinking about the text Harper just sent me. Actually, thinking is the wrong word. Feeling is the only one that fits. As I open her new message and scroll through the pictures, I hit one thousand degrees Fahrenheit in seconds.

I sink onto the train’s plastic seat, and my eyes are hostage to these images. Someone says, “excuse me,” as he walks past, and I barely pay attention. I can’t look anyplace else. Not possible. Not feasible. There’s nothing else in the universe but these photos, and I can’t wipe the naughty grin off my face.

I’m cooked, roasted, and fried to a crisp. I’m seared all the way through. This text is the mother lode of Harper’s fantasies.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but maybe that should be revised. A photo is worth a thousand heartbeats, because that’s what mine skipped looking at this insanely sexy series she sent me.

The first shot is of a woman in black panties, which are tied with a tiny pink polka dot bow at the top of her ass. Her legs are smooth and sculpted. In the next one, a woman wears stockings with a vintage ruffled thing on the top of the thighs, and she’s bending, unsnapping a garter belt, her rear in view. I rub my hand across the back of my neck, and breathe out hard as the train rattles underground.

It only gets hotter from there, and I’m already an inferno, baking in public transportation, surrounded by guys in suits and moms with toddlers, by hipsters and tourists, by anyone and everyone, and I don’t care.

Because these photos are all I see. The shot that follows has a woman on her back, spread out across the bed, naked, her lips in an O, while the guy she’s with devours her * with his mouth. His hands are curled around her ass, squeezing it, as he buries his face between her legs. She is in some kind of wild bliss.

But the next woman is in unholy heaven. She stands in nothing but heels, bent over a kitchen counter, and her lover kneels, spreading her cheeks open and licking her *, his fingers digging into the flesh of her rear as he laps her up.

I close the text and shut my eyes, soaking in what Harper has just told me without words.

In these pictures, I’ve just learned she has a total ass fixation.

This might be a new dividing line in my life. There’s no way I can go back to not knowing this insanely arousing penchant of hers. I can’t return to a time in my life when I didn’t think about what it would be like to do this to her. To this woman who’s bold enough to tell me she doesn’t know what men want and also bold enough to show me what she wants.

And what I want. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

I barely know how I’m going to make it through dinner with Harper and her brother tomorrow.

Then, my heart sinks as the train arrives at my stop with a jolt. She’s seeing Jason this week. And she hasn’t asked me one question, or told me a single thing about how she’s feeling about him, if she’s starting to like him, or whether she’s sending him photos, too.

Or if I’m just the warm-up act to the date she really wants.

On that note, my fingers curl around the screen, and I nearly crush it.





14





Harper is late, and I’m not pissed.

I’m not irritated.

I’m not annoyed.

I’m just enjoying this India Pale Ale at Spencer and Charlotte’s favorite pub in the Village, not far from their home, and listening to Charlotte chatter about their wedding.

“And the florist, get this, his name is Bud Rose,” she says, her eyes all lit up and lively.

“And do his roses bud?” I ask, since I can’t resist.

“I’m not even having roses. I was going to have cornflower bouquets,” she says, then places a hand on Spencer’s arm. She tilts her head to look at him. “Did I ever tell you that, Snuffaluffagus?”

Every now and then they call each other that, and I’ve never asked why, nor do I want to know.

“No, you didn’t tell me. Tell me now,” Spencer says, his eyes totally fixed on her. Damn, he is hooked, lined, and sinkered with Charlotte. But then, he’s marrying her, so that’s how it should be.

“In medieval days, it was believed that a girl who placed a cornflower beneath her skirt could have any bachelor she desired,” she says, with a glint in her eyes just for Spencer. “And I got the one I desired.”

“Yes, you did,” he says, then moves in to kiss her.

The kiss goes on much longer than it should. I look at my watch; I check out the black-and-white photographs of old trucks on country roads on the walls; I study the menu. When I’m done their lips are still fused, and show no signs of separating.