She laughs, and stage whispers, “Maybe that is what I meant.”
Whoa. Did she make a dirty comment again? And just like that, I’m wondering what exactly she does alone in her apartment late at night. “How many speeds does this magic wand have?”
“Fifty,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “And there are worse things than coming home and curling up with a deck of cards and a very powerful magic wand, right? Especially now that I have the memory of your guns to get me through. And trust me, it’s a really good memory.”
My throat goes dry. My bones heat up. This girl and her innuendos will kill the last remaining non-sex-focused brain cells. I try to fashion a reply, but my brain is in visual-only mode at the moment, picturing Harper and her very powerful magic wand.
“I have an idea,” she says, in an inviting whisper, and I swear my dick springs to attention faster than it ever fucking has before. She just talked about my arms; clearly she’s got big plans for me to end her drought. She wants more than fifty speeds, and I can deliver that, no problem.
Yes, Harper, you can totally ride me, and I will give you ten thousand orgasms before I even have one. Because I am that kind of lover. I am generous and giving, and I would absolutely love to introduce you to my tongue so I can do things to you that will turn your world inside out and leave you begging for more. How’s that for an answer?
Evidently, I’ve momentarily forgotten her off-limits status, because the mere prospect of Harper’s idea is already driving me wild with possibilities, and she hasn’t even asked yet. But she’s going to. She’s absolutely going to ask me to give her some much-needed action, and the only response to that is My place or yours?
“Go on.”
“Well, you know how you kind of owe me?”
Fuck, yeah. I’m more than ready to pay my debts. Let’s start payback with you riding my face, shall we?
“I owe you twice, I believe,” I say, because I don’t want her to forget all that I’m willing to do in this quest. “Once for you saving me from the fan with claws and her fire-breathing dragon of a husband, and again for you making my life easier with my boss tonight.”
Nice math, Hammer. You just scored two turns on the merry-go-round of the girl you’re lusting after.
“Great then,” she says, with a wide smile that spreads across her gorgeous face. “So you’re game?”
Bring it on. “Absolutely.”
She claps once. “You’ll be my tutor and give me lessons in dating?”
6
Okayyyy. Let’s just slam on the brakes while I reroute myself. Because my brain was barreling in one direction, and hers was veering in another. Not gonna lie. I’d been furiously plotting whose home is closer, and whether a cab, Uber, or quick jog—make that sprint—would get us there faster.
Since jetpacks aren’t an option.
My phone buzzes. I grab it and open my messages, hoping it’ll help me redirect all the blood that’s flowing in one direction only.
I’m bored. Charlotte’s out with Kristen, and there’s nothing good on TV. Up for a drink?
Wow. That worked. Never met a boner killer as effective as a text from the brother of the girl you want to screw. But Spencer doesn’t need me to answer right away, so I ignore him, turning the volume off on my phone and sliding it into my pocket.
“You want me to teach you how to date?”
She nods and smiles. “You’re good at this. You know women. You can read men. You understand all the things I find completely confounding.”
“You want me to be your Cyrano?”
“You don’t have to come on dates with me and whisper from the bushes, but considering wanna-see-a-pencil-in-my-nose is my go-to opening line, and that I don’t even know what to write back to Simon, I think we can both agree I need a little bit of help,” she says, holding up her thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space as she makes fun of herself.
I glance up at the ceiling, weighing her request. On the one hand, I can’t let her fumble through New York City so completely unequipped for conversation. On the other hand, she’s Spencer’s sister.
“I know it’s an odd request,” she says, fidgeting with her napkin, her words with a touch of worry to them. “But it shouldn’t be too weird, right? Since I know I’m not your type.”
Whoa. I frown in confusion. “What?”
“Well, you usually date older women, right?”
And the truth is . . . she’s right. Maybe not usually, and certainly not all the time, but J. Cameron was ten years older, and the woman I dated before that was an entertainment executive in her mid-thirties, and as a sophomore in college I went out with a senior. Come to think of it, the woman who took my V-card was five years older than me.
Hello, pattern.
Fine. Evidently, I’ve been known to appreciate not only women my age, but those who are fine wine, too. Let me just say, though, one of the best ways to learn what women like in bed is to date older women. Those ladies know how to communicate. They teach you, tell you to go faster, harder, slower, softer, there, right, yes, yes, right fucking there.
Maybe Harper’s right, but I want to tell her that just because I’ve dated older women doesn’t mean I don’t like her. There’s no point saying that, though, since she doesn’t feel the same. If she did, she’d be tongue-tied and twisted with me like she was with Simon.
And shit. That reality check slams into me like a piano dropped from the sky. Harper may be off-limits, but I still want her to want me. She doesn’t though. Instead, she wants me to help her. I straighten my shoulders and focus on that consolation prize.