Chapter 12
I must have missed her text when it came through earlier.
Princess: Hey. Charlotte knows you smell like springtime, and it’s my doing.
She saw my Bucky tattoo. I could have passed it off as my initiation to a new badass feline aficionado gang, but instead I fessed up.
But I didn’t let on that you’re like my love doctor or something.
And that you’re writing me prescriptions for the good stuff.
I laugh at her ability to poke fun at herself. As I kick back on my couch, I respond.
Nick: That’s not the important issue. What I want to know is—have you now given up showers in protest of something?
Her reply arrives quickly.
Princess: So . . . don’t laugh. But I really liked the drawing, so I didn’t wash my left forearm this morning. Picture that. I had my arm poking out the shower door so I wouldn’t erase it.
I push my head back into the couch pillow. Yeah, I’m picturing that perfectly. Almost like I’ve imagined it a million times before. Hot water streaming down her hair, droplets slipping over her tits then sliding down her belly and between her legs.
Nick: Yup. Got that image one hundred percent clear. But a picture always helps.
I can’t resist, even though I know there’s no chance she’ll ever send me a naughty photo.
In fact, I’m not even sure she’s going to reply, since my phone is silent for several minutes, long enough for me to grab the paper and hunt for the Sunday crossword puzzle.
This is the only reason I get the paper.
The puzzle will take me all week, but I can almost always finish it.
As I find the section, my phone buzzes.
With an image.
Oh shit. There is a god. Wait. Make that a goddess.
Harper stands in her bathtub fully clothed, lifting her face to the showerhead that’s not on, snapping an image of herself reenacting her shower from this morning.
This is hot, and my dick is going to thank me later for this photo when I can really spend time with it.
She’s not even undressed, but she’s wearing a V-neck shirt that gives me a fantastic glimpse of cleavage.
I want to bite that swell of her breast, draw her nipple between my teeth, then suck hard—make her moan, and writhe, and whisper my name.
As I drink in the rest of the picture and how her neck is stretched long and inviting, I know I want to spend a lot of time there, too.
I bet she’d like neck kisses. I’m certain she’d like my mouth all over her skin.
I could do things to drive her out of her mind with pleasure.
And I really fucking want to.
I open the message, and write back.
Nick: Hard to see. I think I’d have a better idea if you turned on the water.
Well, she does have a white T-shirt on. I mean, c’mon. A man has to try.
A note from her pops up.
Princess: Seriously, though. I just told Charlotte you and I have been hanging out. Did she say anything to Spencer?
And I deflate.
Nick: Yes, but there’s nothing to worry about, and pretty soon he moved to the next topic—he wants to set me up with someone at the wedding.
My phone goes quiet, and I hear nothing from her.
Not a peep for several hours. Maybe she’s jealous.
That would be kind of cool if she was. I work my way through the puzzle, taking breaks to talk to my attorney, Tyler, work out at the gym, and make dinner.
As I eat, I draw, returning to the naughty puppet cartoons I sketched out yesterday, and the story of their hot, redhead mechanic who’s flirting with a guy who just dropped off his car for a lube job.
“Wait. I meant brake job,” he says, embarrassed.
She juts out a hip, her perky breasts making his eyes pop out. “But the lube job will feel so much better on the drive shaft.”
What can I say? I like crude humor. I close my sketchbook and return to the puzzle. About the time evening slides into Manhattan, my phone buzzes once more as I’m filling in the squares for a twelve-letter word for “special liking” with “predilection.”
Princess: Hi . . . so . . . I want to ask you a question . . . about dating. Since you’re the love doctor.
Nick: Go for it. I’m an open book.
Princess: It’s about the first, second, third date protocol you talked about.
Nick: Yup. I’m well versed. Ready to answer. Fire away.
Princess: Did you kiss the romance novelist on your second date?
This is the second time she’s asked, and she really seems to want to know what I’ve done. From my spot on the couch, I contemplate how to answer. The phone bleats again.
Princess: BTW, I was at a party all day. Incidentally, I KILLED it with the six-year-old crowd.
Which means she’s not pissed that Spencer wants to set me up with someone. She was just busy. Dammit. I drag a hand through my hair, wishing she was jealous. Then I scold myself, because my mission is to be her coach.
Nick: Yes. And the first date, too.
I move to another clue, and in seconds she responds.
Princess: That’s so unfair! You’re applying different rules to me. Anyway, what else did you do on your dates with her?
Um . . . we didn’t really date that much.
We met, we kissed, we screwed. We screwed again, and again.
She asked me to tie her to the handle of the refrigerator and do it standing up, so she could test that bit of mild bondage for a scene in her book.
I obliged. She wanted me to fuck her on her desk to make sure she knew how all the parts would align.
I did my service. She insisted we get it on by the window, too, so she could press her hands on the glass of her Park Avenue penthouse and have me fuck her hard from behind.
I suspect that chapter in her novel was quite accurate as well. The relationship was great and completely absurd at the same time.
As I begin to respond, another note arrives.
Princess: I’m just trying to figure all this out. That’s why I’m asking.
Quickly, Harper and I fall into a rhythm, and the texts fly fast and furious.
Nick: They weren’t entirely traditional dates in the drinks, dinner, and a movie sense.
Princess: Gee. I wonder what that means. You spent a lot of time in your birthday suit?
Nick: That’s one way of putting it.
Princess: What sort of things did you two do? Is that too forward to ask? I’m curious. I’m honestly curious. Okay, maybe I’m nosey too. :)
I stare at the screen, contemplating the depths of Harper’s curiosity.
I wish I could grasp why she’s asking—if this is part of her effort to understand the modern man, or if there is any undercurrent.
But I’ve got to accept that I just don’t know.
And fuck, if sex is on her mind, then at least we have that in common right now.
Welcome to my wavelength. Let’s spend some time together.
Nick: You really want to know? You want to go there?
Princess: Yeah, I think I do. You said you’re an open book. I kind of want to know.
Nick: Kind of? Just kind of?
Princess: Fine. I REALLY want to know. I really, really, really want to know. Believe me now?
Nick: Almost . . .
Princess: I want to understand the protocol. The dirty details . . .
Fine. She wants the nitty-gritty. This is my specialty. This I can do. I’m not the shy, quiet guy she knew in high school. I’ve studied women. I’ve learned what they like.
I start to type, to tell her about the fridge, the desk, the window.
To say my ex liked to be tied up with rope, scarves, and one time with her pug’s leash.
But when I stare at those words, I can’t send that to Harper.
I can’t tell Harper what an ex of mine liked in bed.
It’s wrong to J, wrong to me, and wrong to Harper.
But I don’t want to lose this moment, with all its possibilities, so I say something else.
Nick: Oh, Miss Princess Curious . . . sex is my favorite topic in the entire universe . . . but what if we tried rephrasing that? I’m happy to answer the question more generally. Like, if you were to say, ‘what sort of things do you like,’ I’d answer that.
Princess: WHAT SORT OF THINGS DO YOU LIKE?
Now we’re getting somewhere. And I’m getting horny just thinking about the answer. Make that hornier.
Nick: Picture a menu at a restaurant. One of those diners that has everything. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, drinks, à la carte, sides, entrees. I’m looking at it. I’m ordering one of everything. I LIKE EVERYTHING.
Princess: Really? EVERYTHING? That’s pretty broad. Everything???
Nick: If we were having this conversation in person, I’d run my finger across that eyebrow of yours because I know it’s arched skeptically.
Princess: It might be. But ‘everything’ encompasses far too many things. You must have a favorite thing. Do you have a favorite position? A preference? A predilection?
A slow smile spreads across my face as I read that last word.
Nick: Predilection was one of the answers to the Sunday crossword puzzle.
Princess: You do the Sunday crossword puzzle?
Nick: I try. It’s a predilection of mine.
Princess: I’m impressed. I want to see a finished copy. Do you do the crossword naked?
Nick: To answer your veiled question, I’m wearing jeans, boxers, and a T-shirt right now.
Princess: What kind of boxers? Do you smell like springtime?
Nick: Black boxer briefs. Yes, I do. Want to sniff me?
Princess: I bet you smell yummy. Now tell me more about your predilections. Do you like sexy librarians? Catwoman? Dominatrix?
There’s no question as to my answer.
Nick: Sexy librarian.
Princess: Do you like doggy style? Woman on top? Man on top? Bent over the bed? (You said I could ask anything! I’m asking!)
Holy fucking turn-on of all turn-ons. Just seeing those words from her heats my skin all over.
An intense, aching want spreads to every corner of my body as Harper asks me about sex.
She wasn’t kidding at all when she said texting was easier for her.
Her message becomes an image in my mind.
I’m seeing her before me on all fours on my couch, ass raised.
I run a hand down her back, spread her open, and sink into her.
Then, I picture her riding me, those luscious tits bouncing as her hips move in wild circles.
I switch positions, and now I fuck her hard and fast, her legs hooked on my shoulders.
Then, she’s bent over the end of the couch, and my fist is around her hair, pulling, yanking.
Nick: I don’t just like all of that. I love all of that. But you forgot a few. 69 rocks. Woman sitting on my face is fantastic. Up against the wall is terrific.
Princess: You really do like to sample the whole menu.
Nick: I can’t think of anything better than an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Princess: But you really don’t have a preference among those?
Nick: How about I just list some of my favorite things to do?
Princess: Tell me.
My fingers hover on the keypad. I’m dying to tell her everything, to lay it all out for her, but if I do, we’re leveling up. We’re moving from practical texting, to flirty texting, to full-on dirty texting.
Yeah, when I think about it like that, it just makes me type faster and hit send with a flourish.
Nick: Kissing. Licking. Touching. Tasting. Kissing. Feeling. Fingering. Biting. Fucking. Eating. Spanking. Kissing. Caressing. Pinching. Nibbling. Fucking. And kissing. Always kissing.
She doesn’t answer right away. As I wait, clutching the phone in my hand, my dick on high alert, my skin sizzling, I’m keenly aware of how much I want to do all those things to her.
I run my palm over my jeans and against my straining erection as I stare at the screen and wonder if her hand is slipping between her legs.
Gliding inside her panties. If her back is bowed and her lips are parted.
If her fingers are flying so fucking fast that she’s making herself come before she writes back.
I write one more note, because I can’t help myself with her. And because I want to put this picture in her mind.
Nick: Actually, my favorite thing to do is to make a woman come so hard she loses her mind with pleasure.
My phone rattles.
Princess: That’s. So. Hot.
Nick: It feels even better.
Princess: I can only imagine.
Nick: Imagine . . .
Her reply is enough to fuel a million fantasies.
Princess: I am. Right now.
Screw fantasy. Reality rocks. Because I’ll bet a million bucks she’s on her bed, her phone in one hand, the other hand down her panties.
This time, I know I played a role in getting her there. What I’m also far too certain of is if she wants me the same way, I’m not sure I could turn her down.