Mister O (6 page)

“
W
hat if a Great Dane
mated with a chipmunk?”

I roll my eyes at the question my brother poses the next morning as we crunch across a pile of fallen leaves on the path in Central Park. Autumn has coasted into New York City, and the colors are gorgeous. For a moment, I study a cranberry-red leaf that has drifted to the ground, picturing how I’d use that color in an animation. This is something I’ve always done; it’s second nature for me to think about color, shades, and all the permutations they can take.

“Would the Great Dane have a fluffy tail, or would the chipmunk have crazy long legs?” Wyatt continues.

“Dude, you know that’s not how this works,” I say to my brother as the Min Pin mix I’m walking tugs on the end of the leash in hot pursuit of a squirrel.

“Or a squirrel and a Min Pin,” Wyatt suggests, waving an arm at the critter.

“Again, you’re getting away from the focus of the dog mash-ups game,” I remind him as the long-haired, white-and-brown teacup Chihuahua he’s walking tries to chase the tail of my dog. Well, not
my
dog, but the one I’m walking for a local animal rescue, Little Friends, that specializes in finding homes for small apartment-friendly dogs. We both volunteer there.

“Iguana and a terrier,” he suggests, trying once more, then his furry friend balances on her two front legs, lifts her rear, legs and all, and pees on the grass.

“Handstand piss!” my brother shouts, doing a little victory shuffle by the tree.

I high-five him with my non-leash hand, because that is a serious win in our
other
dog game—dog bingo. We’re multitaskers. We can play two games at once. “Ten points. Nice work,” I say, but I’m competitive as hell with my little brother, and even though we’re almost done with the walk, I’ve still got a chance to beat him. “But not if a fire truck drives by and mine howls.”

He shoots me a doubtful look as we make our way out of the park. “Yeah, don’t bank on that. That’s both the unicorn and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in dog bingo.”

“Someday I’ll get it, though,” I say, since dogs howling, especially tiny dogs like these two, is kind of fucking adorable, and that’s why it’s fifty points on our scorecard of random, unplanned canine activities. That’s our version of car bingo, which we’ve played since we were kids. Points are also awarded to dog yoga poses, in honor of our dad, who’s the most laidback guy you’ll ever meet. I credit that to him being a yoga teacher, and to my mom keeping him well fed with her cupcakes. And no, I mean cupcakes
literally,
because I’m not even going there or thinking about that.

Ever.

Anyway, Wyatt and I both love dogs. We grew up with a bunch of small ones, as well as a little sister, Josie. Dogs kept us from killing each other. I love my brother like crazy, but he’s also a total pain in the ass. Younger brothers are like that, even though he’s only younger by five minutes.

“Corgi Mastiff pair-up. Who was on top?”

“Mastiff,” I answer immediately, as we return to our
other
dog game. Because who’s on top is the point of Dog Mash-ups.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, imagine how the Corgi felt. Greyhound Basset?”

“Greyhound. And now their puppies try to run with those short little legs and their toes turned out,” he says, as we leave the park and make our way uptown to where Little Friends shares space with a doggy day-care.

“Hey, you know the chick who runs the little dog center?” he asks, shifting gears.

“Penny, you mean?”

He nods. “She asked if I would help fix up a section of the rescue.”

Before I can respond, I spot a woman across the street with a long mane of red hair blowing in the breeze, walking into my building. Her hair is like the color of that leaf—red with a golden tint.

“Whoa,” Wyatt says, stopping in his tracks at the crosswalk and leaving the Penny conversation in the dust. His teacup buddy pulls up short. “Who’s the sexy little snake charmer heading into your building?”

I smack him on the back of his head. “Seriously. That’s not cool, man.”

“Ouch,” he says, rubbing his skull as a bus rumbles by.

I shoot him a steely glare. “That did not hurt. Don’t even pretend.”

He matches my evil eye. “It was a legit question. Since when am I not allowed to—?”

He cuts himself off, and his lips form an oval. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.” He repeats the sound as if it’s the refrain to a rap song. He punches me in the arm. “You have a thing for Little Red Riding Hood.”

Shit.
This is my brother. My unfiltered, does-not-know-the-meaning-of-TMI, fraternal twin brother. I push my glasses up higher on my nose, and glance at the crosswalk sign. The little man is now green.

“You like her,” he continues as we cross Central Park West.

“No.” I shake my head, keeping all lingering images of the kiss that didn’t count at bay. “She’s a friend, so it’s rude to talk that way.”

“What way?” he asks, challenging.

“I know what you were going to say, Woodrow,” I say using the middle name that he loathes. “That you wanted to
tap that
.”

He gets in my face as we walk, mocking me. “Aww . . . and look at you going all protective. That’s adorable.” He snaps his gaze to my building when we reach the sidewalk. “Wait.”

I follow his eyes to see Harper turn around and head out of my building, grabbing at her phone, a big grocery bag on her arm.

“Randall Hammer,” he says, throwing my middle name back at me, since I hate mine, too. “Does Spencer know you’re hot for his sister?”

Fuck my life. She’s half a block away now. Her eyes light up when she sees me, and she drops her phone in her purse then waves. All I can think is now would be an excellent time for a cop car or fire truck to roar by, sirens blaring. Wyatt can have all the points he wants and then some if his dog howls.

“I’m not hot for her. She’s a friend. Besides, the chipmunk was on top of the Great Dane,” I say to distract him. Sometimes, you just have to throw a dog a bone.

That cracks him up and earns me a temporary reprieve as Harper arrives and greets my brother first. “Hey, Wyatt. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s everything?” she asks, and he moves in for a hug. With his hand still gripping the dog’s leash he wraps his arms around Harper and then wiggles his eyebrows at me and mouths,
Charming my snake.

He’s such a little shit.

“Do you have a dog now?” she asks once she separates from him, and I swear I breathe easier now that my brother’s arms are no longer around her.

“Does it make you want me?” he tosses back at her.

Harper laughs, shaking her head in amusement. “I see you still haven’t had the surgery yet.”

He smirks. “The one to install that filter between my brain and my mouth?”

She nods. “That one.”

He shakes his head vigorously. “Nope. But the surgeon has an opening next week.”

“Excellent. I’ll come visit you in the hospital.” She gestures to the dogs. “What’s the story here?”

“They’re with Little Friends rescue,” I say.

My brother chimes back in, resting his elbow on my shoulder, acting all casual and cool. “Did you know Nick and I walk dogs from the rescue two days a week?”

Her eyes sparkle at both of us, but she shifts her gaze to meet mine. “That’s really sweet.”

My heart flips, and I’m right back to last night outside her building.

The didn’t-happen kiss, you dumbass.

“It was my idea. I’m the sweet brother,” Wyatt says, turning on his sparkling smile.

“Hey,” I say, butting in. “Didn’t you say you had to talk to Penny about hammering her? Oh, sorry. I meant hammering some nails in her building.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Ha ha ha.” He reaches for the leash I’m holding. “Give me your little dude. I’ll take them back,” he says. The rescue isn’t far from here. I bend down and give one dog a scratch on the chin, then the other.

As I stand, Wyatt bows to both of us and bids a dramatic adieu. “I’ll let you two get back to your reindeer games.”

I want to whack him, but that’s par for the course.

When Wyatt leaves, I turn to the star of my dirty dreams. Her lips are curved in a grin, and she seems pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you did that with the dogs.”

“I like dogs. I like helping out, too.” And this ease of conversation reminds me that the kiss didn’t happen for her either, so we are all good.

“I like that. No, I
love
that,” she says, and her expression is soft, free of the usual undercurrent of sarcasm. The way she says it is disarming and makes me feel warm all over, not just hot for her. “I help out at the New York ASPCA. I do some fundraising for them.”

“You do? I had no idea.”

“Yeah. I help organize some of the 5Ks to raise money for shelter pets, spread the word on social media, help set up the events . . . Someday, I’ll get a dog. For now, I do what I can.”

“That’s awesome,” I say, enjoying learning this new detail about her. I’ve been friends with her for so long, but not best friends, so uncovering these pieces of her is a whole new experience. “What kind of dog do you want?”

“The kind that laughs at all my jokes,” she says, and I laugh.

“Sounds perfect. I’d like that kind of mutt, too.”

She clears her throat and holds up the canvas grocery bag. “You might be wondering why I’m here.”

“The thought did cross my mind. But then I figured you were bringing me groceries. Please tell me there’s a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and two spoons in there.”

A too-big pout forms on her face. “Damn it. I really fucked up. But I know what to get you next time. For now, I have this offering of detergent. I was just going to leave it with the doorman,” she says, glancing in the direction of my building.

But she
didn’t
leave it with the doorman. She’s still carrying it, and she was hunting for her phone a minute ago, like she was trying to call me. Maybe to tell me she was here? Hell, maybe she wanted an excuse to see me.

Before my thoughts careen out of control, I give myself a mental eye-roll.

Yeah, right. If the chick were into you, she’d be speaking in tongues and babbling.

She’s not. In fact, she’s cool, confident Harper. Ergo, I’m reading something into nothing.

I take the bag and thank her. “You really didn’t have to. I was going to pick some up today after work.”

“But this way I can convert you to my brand. It’s cruelty-free. No animal testing.”

“Ah, that’s awesome.”

“Want to know what else is awesome? It smells really good.”

I groan. “Am I going to smell like lavender or something girly?”

“I don’t think so. I use it. Want to sniff me?”

I freeze. A million dirty thoughts dance in my head. I would fucking love to sniff her, to inhale her scent, to run my nose along her neck, down her breasts, across her belly. Then I decide,
fuck it.
This chick asked me to teach her about dating. She needs to know that the things that come out of her mouth are sometimes insanely naughty. I park a hand on her shoulder. “You are aware that sounded ridiculously filthy? Tell me you know that. I need to understand how far back your training must go.”

She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, I wasn’t trying to be dirty. Just sniff. It’s like springtime. It smells really good,” she says, and tugs at her own shirt, a turquoise V-neck underneath a light jacket.

Like I’m saying no to that. I lean forward and bring my nose to the fabric. She smells amazingly good, and I’m temptingly close to her breasts. Closer than I’ve ever been. So close that if, say, the person walking behind me conveniently bumped me, I could have my face in Harper’s chest. My mouth waters, and my pulse thunders, and I’ve never prayed so hard to be bumped into in my life.

But it doesn’t happen, and obviously I can’t spend the entire day hanging out here sniffing her clothes. It’s probably grounds for insanity, so I raise my face.

“Doesn’t it smell nice?”

I meet her gaze. I have no witty comeback. No snappy retort. “Yes.”

For some reason that earns me a smile. Only this one seems different than the one she flashed Gino last night or the one she gave my brother. One that seems to last longer than a friendly smile should. It appears to linger, and it reminds me of last night and how our kiss seemed more than friendly, too.

“But I already knew you smelled nice,” I add, my lips twitching up. Maybe I’m letting her know I’m cool with everything. Maybe I’m flirting.

Her eyes widen, and she nibbles on the corner of her lips. “And now your clothes can smell that good, and you should do your laundry today so I can sniff you when I see you tomorrow.”

Once she leaves I find a missed call from her marked five minutes ago. Like I had hoped. I fight like hell not to read anything into it, reminding myself that tomorrow she has her starter date with another guy.

And that guy isn’t me.

Hopefully she won’t be sniffing Jason. I really hope he doesn’t smell her either, because I don’t want anyone else to know that her detergent is a massive turn-on.

A
fter an all-day
brainstorm meeting with the show’s writers, I return home, gather my laundry, and grab my new detergent from the canvas bag. My hand scrapes across cardboard at the bottom. I peer into the bag and find a stowaway. The detergent isn’t riding solo. It has company.

I pull out a slim box of Blackwing pencils.

A black satiny bow with pink polka dots hugs the middle of the box. This is the girliest bow I’ve ever seen, but it’s completely adorable because it’s from her. Tucked under the ribbon is a white piece of paper, folded in quarters. I open it.

N
ick
,

Did you know the slogan for these pencils is “Half the Pressure, Twice the Speed”? I suspect there’s a great dirty joke in there, but I think we’d need more pressure, right? In any case, I wanted to say thank you in advance for all your help. And nothing says thank you like a box of pencils. Just don’t put any in your nose. Well, until you learn how to do so properly. Then, by all means, go crazy.

xoxo

Harper

D
amn her
. I grin ear to ear. I love these pencils. They are just the motherfucking bomb.

I grab a sheet of paper and sketch out a simple dog, laughing, as if he’s chuckling at a joke his master told. I snap a photo and send it to her. I keep the bow, placing it in a kitchen drawer. I don’t know why. It’s too small to be of any use in the bedroom. But I save it anyway.

I pull on a pair of basketball shorts, drop my laundry bag and the new detergent with the doorman to send out for cleaning, and head to the gym a few blocks away, where I log several sweaty miles on the treadmill and do a long round of weights. An hour and a half later, I open the door to my apartment as my phone buzzes with a reply from her, under the new nickname I gave her in my contacts.

I stop in my tracks. Not because the text is dirty, but because I’m picturing her eating ice cream and imagining how her mouth tastes.

C
one or spoon
? I need the full licking visual.

H
er reply comes quickly
.

Mint chocolate chip tastes good licked off other things, too.

Actually, this is your first lesson in dating. Starting tonight. How to send a flirty text . . . Mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes so good licked off someone you like . . .

S
he doesn’t respond right away
, so I leave the phone on the kitchen counter, but I can’t stop thinking about her and ice cream and how the cool of the mint and the sweetness of the chocolate would mingle on her tongue. How she’d taste different than she did after Speakeasy, but still just as alluring. How I could drive her wild with a kiss that didn’t stop, that made her knees weak and her panties damp. One that turned her on so much that she’d break the kiss to lick her way down my chest, to the waistband of my shorts, yanking them off. She’d raise that sexy eyebrow, lick her lips, then get them intimately acquainted with my dick.

In case there was any question, yes, I’m hard as fuck right now.

Actually, if we’re going to get technical, I’m pretty sure this is the textbook definition of pitching a tent. My dick aches for attention. I’m so wound up from wanting this girl I can’t have, and this boner isn’t going to fade gently into the night.

I strip out of my gym clothes and head straight for my shower, turning the water as hot as I can handle. Considering I think even her eyebrows are sexy, I clearly need to get this girl out of my system. An unapologetic, no-holds-barred shower jerk will do the job.

The power spray setting works best for that. I adjust the mode selector, and water pours down, wetting my hair, sliding down my chest, running over the ink on my arms.

Since I’m not going to have Harper for real, maybe I won't be so fucking aroused around her all the time if I give her a thorough workout in my mind. She’s been in the shower with me many times, and she gives great head in here. With her banging little body and smart, sexy mouth, she’s played a starring role in a handful of shower jerks during the last few months. Maybe more than a handful. Like ten helping handfuls. Or ten times that.

But who’s counting when your hand is full?

Not me, that’s for damn sure.

As steam fills the bathroom, I wrap my hand around my hard-on in a nice, long, lingering tug.

I let out a breath.

A reel of images flashes in front of me, and this is so easy, since I see the world in pictures. The hottest ones snap before my eyes as my fist curls tighter.

Her crawling across my bed on her hands and knees, wearing nothing but those fuck-me glasses.

Her unbuttoning her shirt, spreading it open, revealing her luscious tits to me. Tits I’d love to fuck.

My blood runs hot, and a shudder races through me as that particular picture fights its way to the front of the line. I stroke up and down my shaft as I thrust between those delicious breasts. She’d push the soft flesh together with her hands, creating a warm valley for my dick. Her tongue would dart out, licking the head on each stroke.

I draw a shaky breath as my hand slides along my length, imagining Harper’s mouth on me instead. Tonight I’d like her on her knees, the red lips that say those dirty things wrapped around my dick while she sucks, licks, and takes me deep.

I groan, and the sound is swallowed by the relentless pounding of the hot water on the tiles. I stroke harder and faster, desire flaring in my muscles, skating over my skin as I see her in all her naked beauty, pleasuring me. Then, out of nowhere, the images flip.

I no longer picture her servicing me.

What gets me off more than anything is the prospect of her coming. The sounds she’d make. The way her lips would part in an
O
. How her back would arch. Fuck, I’d love nothing more than to get out of the shower, walk into the living room, and find her naked on my couch, legs spread, one hand between them, the other playing with her tits.

My spine tingles as the image intensifies, grows sharper, and feels more real. The muscles in my legs tighten, and I let the fantasy play out. Hell, do I ever want to discover her masturbating, to walk in on her pleasuring herself when she’s so damn close to the edge.

She moans and writhes as her fingers fly across her wet pussy, over the delicious rise of her clit. She’s worked up and desperate, clawing for release.

Her eyes snap open. She doesn’t even have to beg me to finish her off. Those blue eyes, hazy with lust, tell me how much she needs my mouth.

I slide my hands up her thighs and spread her legs wide. I bury my face in her sweet wetness, and holy fuck. The start of an orgasm barrels into me as I taste her. It races through me as I devour her. It wracks my body as I make her cry out and come so fucking hard on my face.

I’m right there with her, my fist flying, a wild groan ripped from my throat as I finish.

Panting, I stand there for a few minutes, the hot water raining over my back as my shoulders rise and fall from the intensity of that Harper-fueled orgasm.

A little while later, I’m freshly showered, clean as a whistle, and naked in bed.

I park my hands behind my head, a satisfied man. Yup, I came, I saw, I conquered my lust. Mission accomplished. Harper Holiday has disappeared from the 99.99 percent of my brain devoted to sex, and now I can focus on helping her tomorrow without even a single stray dirty thought getting in the way.

Clearly, I don’t want to fuck her anymore.

Nope. Not a bit. Not even when my phone buzzes. Not even when I open the text from her. Not even when I see the picture she sent—a super close-up selfie of her licking ice cream off a spoon.

I close the screen, and I swear I don’t dream about licking a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone all night long.