I write one more note, because I can’t help myself with her. And because I want to put this picture in her mind.
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.
It feels even better.
Princess: I can only imagine.
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.
13
I can slice and dice it a million ways, but there’s no denying I sexted Harper. Or that she sexted me back.
And it doesn’t seem to be stopping.
The next morning as I ride the subway to the Comedy Nation building in Times Square for a promo meeting, I click on the thread, and tap out a new message.
Enough about me. What do you like? Do you have a favorite thing?
I leave the question open-ended, so she can answer however she wants. With a noun. A verb. A position. Hell, she can even mention her favorite food group if that’s easier. She’s one of the boldest, most confident people I know—except when it comes to love, sex, and romance. I wouldn’t call her shy in those areas, especially not after last night. But she’s more like someone who has laced up ice skates for the first time, wobbly as she tries to move on sharp blades.
Princess: I’ve never been one to play favorites . . . until I have a favorite to play with.
So you don’t?
Princess: It’s not that I don’t. More that I don’t know yet.
Interesting. That tells me her experience in the bedroom might parallel her dating experience. The train bends around a curve in the tunnel as I write back.
All right. Let’s figure it out. Tell me what you like in a guy.
Princess: I like abs. Firm, toned abs.
I glance down at my belly. Check.
What else?
Princess: I like strong arms.
Oh yeah. Got your number there. Before I can ask anything else, my phone dings again.
Princess: I like black boxer briefs.
I crease my brow as the train stops at the next station. Well, that’s interesting. Pretty sure that’s exactly what I told her last night I had on. I exit onto the platform, joining the crowds of New York pushing their way up the steps to work, bent over their phones.
I like your answers. What else do you like?
Princess: Smart guys.
I grip the phone tighter as I head up to Forty-Second Street, resisting the impulse to make a comment about smart guys in glasses. Because, ya know, it’s not the glasses that make the guy smart. It’s what’s inside the brain. But society has decided glasses are a symbol for intelligence, so if she wants to see me as a smart symbol, fine. I mean, sex symbol. Either one is good with me.
More. Tell me more.
Princess: I like soft lips and hungry kisses. Lots of kisses.
A bolt of heat courses through my body as I flash back to last night’s messages. To my long note about fucking, and kissing, and more kissing. Maybe I’m reading into this, but it’s like she’s giving some of that back to me. Like she wants the exact same thing—the next chapter in that kiss that started outside her home. So I reply.
What kind of kisses?
Princess: Kisses that make me melt.
That’s the best kind.
I don’t want to stop this conversation. I’m greedy for more of her words, so I keep up the volley.
And so are kisses that go on and on.
Princess: And kisses that stop time.
That turn you on.
Princess: That turn to more. That start soft and slow, and then you can feel them in your whole body. All over your skin. Deep in your bones.
My throat is dry, and my mind is immersed in the memory of those fifteen seconds and the possibility of what might have happened had the seconds stretched into minutes. Maybe just one more note . . .
That take your breath away.
Princess: And drive you wild.
Metal connects with my thighs, and a loud oomph escapes my lips. I just walked into a trash can. I put the phone in my pocket and try not to think about kisses that make her melt, since I’d rather not get to know any more trash cans in this city.
* * *
Not only do we not stop, we speed up. We change lanes. We take turns. We veer off course. And we text and sext and write more.
The next night, I crack open a beer and settle in at the standing desk where I do most of my computer animations. I take a drink, spend some time with my drawing tablet, then write to her.
So, we’ve got arms, abs, briefs, brains, and lips. Anything else you like?
I swear I can feel her smile in the one-word reply that lands immediately.
Princess: Eyes :)
Though it might be the emoticon that’s giving me the warm-fuzzy. Or maybe just her when she adds another message.
Princess: I want to look into someone’s eyes and feel like he knows me, gets me, understands me. I want him to see my quirks and accept them, not try to change them. I want to know what that’s like.
Damn, her words are intense and so . . . naked. Something about this small screen makes her open up and reveal parts of herself to me. The sides she doesn’t show anyone. Except, she showed them to me at Speakeasy, and then at the coffee shop, and now it’s like an unveiling. The pieces of Harper she hides inside her top hat, or behind the red scarf, or just beyond a witty joke or quip. Most of the time she’s all now you see it, now you don’t. But this is a whole new part of her. Take away voice, face, and body language. Lean only on words and she . . . blooms.