I laugh at her ability to poke fun at herself. As I kick back on my couch, I respond.
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.
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 this girl to drive her out of her mind with pleasure.
And I really fucking want to.
I open the message, and write back.
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.
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 crazy-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.
Go for it. I’m an open book.
Princess: It’s about the first, second, third date protocol you talked about.
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.
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.
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?