Mister O(46)

She returns to her book, and I lift my pencil, ready to tackle more clues. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice her slide her thumb across the screen. Then she brings her finger to her mouth and runs it absently across her bottom lip.

Desire slams into me, full-force, unabated. I would do just about anything to grab her hand, tug her into the train restroom, and kiss the fuck out of her. Because I know what she’s doing. She’s remembering how I touched her, how I kissed her, how she let go with me last night.

She’s lingering on the memories, and I wonder if she’s even fully aware. Her eyes are on the screen, but she shifts in her seat like she’s turned on.

This train is a straitjacket. All I want is to touch her, talk to her.

She raises her face once more and locks eyes with me. I mouth, Are you wet?

She doesn’t answer with words. She simply nods once. As she returns her gaze to the screen, a little grin forms on her lips. An I-know-what-we-did-last-night-and-I-loved-it grin.

Briefly, she draws her eyes back up to meet mine, maybe to gauge my reaction. After a quick scan to make sure no one’s looking, I lick my lips once, enough to let her know where my mind is, too.

Her shoulders tremble, and she blinks, then she seems to force her focus back to her book.

That silent exchange is enough for any ounce of concentration left in me to disintegrate. I can’t even pretend to return to the crossword puzzle. Not when all I can think about is how she tastes. I close my eyes, listen to music, and let the scene unfold on the movie screen of my eyelids. This is the best X-rated show I’ve ever been to.

One interminable hour of a constant hard-on later, the train rattles into Grand Central and comes to a stop. It takes longer than I want to get out of here because we’re all together, tumbling onto the platform, wandering through the terminal, hunting for late Sunday afternoon cabs and cars. The crew splits up with some heading downtown, some to the Upper East Side, and some to the West Side, like Harper, Josie, and me.

I let my sister sit in the middle of the cab, where she conducts a post-wedding recap on her favorite moments. We shoot across town, the traffic mercifully light, then up Central Park West. I get out first, give my sister money for the cab, then say good-bye in a light, easy tone. No lingering, burning stares at the woman I want. Nothing to reveal my hand.

As I head into my building, I take out my phone to text her. But it’s too soon, since Josie lives five blocks away and they’ll still be in the car. I drop off my bag, take a piss, wash my hands, and grab some condoms. I bet Harper doesn’t stock them.

I check the time.

Josie should be gone by now, and Harper will be alone. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t think twice about sending her a text. But with so many people around who know us both, we need to be careful.



Twenty minutes ’til that show that you like is on.



Snagging my keys, I head for the door. But I stop when my hand wraps around the doorknob. I inhale sharply as I make a critical change in the batting lineup. This pains me. Truly it does. But I’m a patient man. I remove the condoms from my pocket and toss them on the kitchen counter, benching the possibility of sex as I leave them behind.

She wants lessons in seduction. One of the most important ones is how to wait for it. Besides, there are so many other ways to make her come.

I arrive at her building, and she buzzes me in. When I reach her door and knock, she opens it, and I’m pretty sure I growl—low and guttural like an animal—because of how she looks. Her face is flushed, her cheeks are red, her hair falls wildly, and she’s changed into shorts and a white T-shirt.

“Hi,” she says.

I don’t look around. I don’t take in the decor of her tiny apartment. I roam my eyes over her, but it’s not the new outfit that gives her away. It’s the rosy glow on her cheeks. I shut the door behind me, bring my nose to her chest, and drag it along her flesh up to her ear, whispering harshly, “Did you just masturbate while waiting for me to get here?”

I wrench back, and the answer is evident in her eyes. They have that caught-red-handed look, and oh what I wouldn’t give to have walked in on her a few minutes ago.

She swallows and nods. “Are you mad at me?”

I shake my head and grasp her wrists, pinning them at her sides, crowding her against the wall by her door. My body is pressed to hers. “Do I feel mad?”

“You feel hard.”

I push against her, and a jagged moan falls from her lips as she feels my erection. “I would never be mad at you for coming. But tell me something—why couldn’t you wait?” There’s no anger in my tone, only a pulsing curiosity. I want to hear her answer. I grind my pelvis against her.