Mister O

C
opyright
© 2016 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by Helen Williams. Photography by Perry Winkle Photography. Illustrations by Mike Midlock.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy, hilarious romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

T
his book is dedicated
to my readers. You’re the reason I write! And, as always, to my dear friend Cynthia.

A
sk
me my three favorite things and the answers are so easy they roll off my tongue: hitting a homerun for my softball league, drawing a killer cartoon panel, and—oh yeah—making a woman come so hard she sees stars.

Not gonna lie. That last one is my favorite by about a mile. Giving a woman a sheet-grabbing, toe-curling, mind-blowing orgasm is pretty much the Best Thing Ever.

A woman’s climax is like summer break, Christmas morning, and a vacation in Fiji all rolled together in one fantastic package of window-shattering bliss. Hell, if we could harness the beauty and energy from women coming, we could probably power cities, stop global warming, and bring about world peace. The female orgasm is basically the manifestation of everything good in the world. Especially when I deliver them, and I’ve given thousands upon thousands. I’m like a superhero of pleasure, a good-deed doer, the once-upon-a-shy-guy-now-a-stud, and my mission is to dispense as many climaxes to my lovers as possible.

How have I managed to achieve this amazing feat? Simple. I’m both a student and a master of the art of giving Os. I consider myself an expert because—in the interest of full disclosure here—I’m completely, one hundred percent
obsessed
with a woman’s enjoyment between the sheets. Getting her off is the name of the game, and if you can’t get that job done, you should get the hell out of the bedroom.

But, hey, I’m also humble enough to admit I’m still a learner. Because there’s always something new to discover with a woman.

Does she want it soft, hard, fast, light, rough? Does she like it with teeth, toys, my cock, my tongue, my fingers? Does she crave a little something extra, like a feather, a vibrator, or a combination of the above? Every woman is different, and every path to her pleasure is its own erotic journey with so many fantastic stops to make along the way. I take mental notes, study her cues, and always get out and do the fieldwork.

I suppose that makes me the Magellan of the female orgasm. A true explorer, venturing forth, fearless and ready at any moment to map the terrain of her pleasure until she cries out in rapture.

Fine, some might say I have an addiction. But really, is it a bad thing that I love to make the woman I’m with feel good? If that makes me a guy with a one-track mind, then I’m guilty as fucking charged. I’ll freely admit that when I meet a woman I’m into, I picture in seconds what she looks like coming, how she sounds, how I want to send her soaring.

The trouble is, there’s one woman I just can’t go there with, even though lately my brain desperately wants to figure out how to drive her wild. It’s been an epic battle, and I’ve had to keep her in a special drawer, sealed and locked, the key thrown away, because she is the definition of
hands off
.

Which sucks royally because she’s about to make things even
harder
with the words that come out of her mouth.

T
hey say
men have sex on the brain 99.99 percent of the time. You’re not going to catch me trying to dispute that.

Why would I? It’s pretty much dead-on accurate, especially when you consider the remaining 0.01 percent of brainpower is tirelessly dedicated to finding the remote.

In my case though—and I suppose, in my defense—sex is part of my job.

And so is schmoozing and signing autographs. Ergo, here I am at An Open Book, a cool bookstore on the Upper West Side. When this signing shindig started a few hours ago, a long line of fans snaked out the door. The event my network set up is almost over, so the line is winding down. The crowd has been fifty-five to forty-five in favor of the fairer sex, which is absolutely nothing I’m going to complain about, especially since my fans were pretty much all dudes several years ago.

Some still are. Like this guy.

“My favorite episode is based on that one,” a squeaky-voiced, messy-haired, awkward teenager says, as he points to a panel that features Mister Orgasm rescuing a dozen busty beauties from a remote island where they’d been deprived of sex for far too long. The upshot? Only a cartoonish caped crusader could replenish their depleted stores of pleasure, which had dwindled to terrifyingly low levels.

I shudder at the thought of what those women must have gone through before the hero arrived to save the day.

“Yeah. That one does rock,” I say, flashing the kid a quick grin and then nodding seriously. “Mister Orgasm did a great service for the ladies, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” the kid says, with wide, earnest eyes. “He helped them so much.”

It’s weird, because he’s probably sixteen, and there’s a part of me that thinks
why the fuck are you watching my raunchy TV show?
But on the other hand, I get it. When I was his age, I didn’t have a clue about girls either. Which probably explains why I started drawing
The Adventures of Mister Orgasm
, the once online cartoon, now late-night television sensation, which includes the storyline about the aforementioned act of good citizenship performed by the titular hero.

Titular.

I said titular.

In my head.

Anyway, that had definitely been a popular episode, and one of the reasons my network packaged up some of my old strips into this graphic novel by yours truly, Nick Hammer. Special edition and all, like the embossed gold stamp on the cover says.

“Can you sign it to Ray?” he asks, and as I raise the black Sharpie, I catch a flash of gold out of the corner of my eye, then a hand in a pocket.

Oh, shit.

I think I know what the woman lined up behind Ray just did.

I finish signing and hand him the book. “Go forth and give pleasure, Ray,” I tell him, as if it’s a mantra. I knock fists with him, and he stares briefly at his hand afterward, as if he’s been blessed by a master.

Of course he has.

“You have my word. I want to be a pleasure purveyor,” Ray says solemnly as he clutches the book to his chest, reciting one of Mister Orgasm’s famous lines.

Man, someday that dude is going to blow the minds of the ladies. He’s got some serious determination. But not yet. Because, ya know, he’s sixteen.

I turn my eyes to the next person in line, and I’m practically blindsided by the sheer amount of breast on display. It’s pretty much enough to activate a full-on man trance, that glazed-eye, struck-stupid look that only tits can induce in a guy. I’m not immune to it, because . . . tits.

They are one of my favorite playgrounds.

But I’ve had some serious training in combating the condition. Part of my job is interacting with the public, and I can’t just walk around slack-jawed, staring at chests. This woman is going to put my skills to the test though. She’s wearing a scoop-neck white T-shirt. That’s kryptonite for most men.

She leans forward, making sure I get a front-row seat. I cast my eyes around, hoping Serena, the very pregnant, perennially smiling, but oh-so-savvy PR woman who works with my show at Comedy Nation, will return quickly from yet another bathroom break. She’s a pro at knowing when to hold the eager ladies at bay.

Look, I’m not complaining. I do not mind whatsoever that some of the show’s viewers get a little frisky at events like this. It’s all good. But I’ve got a feeling this one isn’t supposed to be playing.

“Hey there,” I say, giving a smile to Bleached Blonde. Interact. Engage. That’s part of the job. Be the public face of the hit TV show currently crushing the motherfucking competition in the eleven p.m. timeslot—and all the programs that run earlier in the night, too. That both thrills the head of the network, and drives him bat-shit crazy, but that’s a story for later.

The woman brings her hand to her chest, trying a time-honored tactic to invoke the trance. I remain stoic. “I’m Samantha, and I love your show so much,” she coos. “I read the profile of you in
Men’s Health
the other week, too. I was so impressed with your devotion to your craft, as well as your body.” The profile—’cause it’s
Men’s Health
—featured a shot of me working out. Then, because she’s not subtle, she roams her gray eyes along my ink-covered arms, over my chest, and well, let’s just call a spade a spade. She pretty much tries to mate with me via eye contact right here in the bookstore.

“Devotion is my middle name,” I say with a smile, and push my glasses higher. She makes me edgy, and it’s not the ample cleavage but rather what she did in line a few minutes ago in her pocket.

She bends closer, gliding the book across the table to me. “You can sign right here if you want,” Samantha whispers, dragging her finger across her cleavage.

I grab the book with quick hands. “Thanks, but I’ve found the title page is an equally excellent location.”

“You should leave your number on it,” she adds, as I sign
Nick Hammer
and hand her the book.

“Funny thing, I don’t actually know my number,” I say with a harmless shrug. “Who can remember numbers anymore? Even our own?”

Where the hell is Serena? I hope she didn’t give birth in the ladies’ room.

Samantha giggles, then drags a long, candy pink nail across my signature. “
Hammer
,” she says coyly, letting it roll around in her mouth. “Is that your real name, or is it a term of endearment about—”

No, no
,
no
.

Abort.

Cannot go there. Will not play the Dirty Synonym game featuring my last name with Samantha, who’s about to run those sharp nails down my arm.

“Oh, excuse me. Did you drop something?”

I straighten my shoulders when I hear a familiar voice—deadpan humor and pure innocence at the same time.

The blonde startles. “No,” she says with a snarl, snapping at the questioner. “I didn’t drop anything.”

“Are you sure?” The tone is of complete and utter concern.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, because I know the woman behind the voice is up to something sneaky.

Harper Holiday.

Red hair. Blue eyes. Face of a sweet, sexy angel, body of a badass, ninja-warrior princess, and a mouth adept at pitch-perfect delivery of sarcasm. I’d play Dirty Synonyms, Dirty Antonyms . . . Dirty Anything with her.

Harper steps from behind the blonde in line and opens her palm. “Because I’m pretty sure this is your wedding ring,” she says, a worried look in those bright blue eyes as she plucks a gold wedding band from her hand and offers it to the hungry blonde.

“That’s not mine,” the woman says defensively, all that flirty sweetness swiped clean from her voice.

Harper smacks her other hand against her forehead. “Oh, my bad. You put yours in your pocket a few minutes ago. Right there.”

She points to the woman’s right pocket, and sure enough, there’s the outline of what looks to be a wedding band. That’s exactly what I’d suspected she’d done in line. Stuffed it away. Probably had forgotten she was wearing it and then tried to hide it at the last minute.

The married woman’s face goes pale.

Busted.

“This one,” Harper continues, holding up the ring and letting it catch the light from the ceiling, “this is the one I keep handy for situations like this.”

Samantha mutters
bitch
under her breath, turns on her heel, and marches away.

“Enjoy the book,” Harper calls out, then looks to me, cocks her head, and shoots me an
I-just-saved-your-ass
grin. In her own imitation of the Mister Orgasm groupies, she says, “Nick Hammer. Is that your real name?”

Just like that, I hope Serena stays in the restroom for a lot longer.