Just call me Mister O. Because YOUR pleasure is my super power.
Making a woman feel ‘oh-god-that’s-good’ is the name of the game, and if a man can’t get the job done, he should get the hell out of the bedroom. I’m talking toe-curling, mind-blowing, sheet-grabbing ecstasy. Like I provide every time.
I suppose that makes me a superhero of pleasure, and my mission is to always deliver.
But then I’m thrown for a loop when a certain woman asks me to teach her everything about how to win a man. The only problem? She’s my best friend’s sister, but she’s far too tempting to resist–especially when I learn that sweet, sexy Harper has a dirty mind too and wants to put it to good use. What could possibly go wrong as I give the woman I’ve secretly wanted some no-strings-attached lessons in seduction?
No one will know, even if we send a few dirty sexts. Okay, a few hundred. Or if the zipper on her dress gets stuck. Not on that! Or if she gives me those f*&k-me-eyes on the train in front of her whole family.
The trouble is the more nights I spend with her in bed, the more days I want to spend with her out of bed. And for the first time ever, I’m not only thinking about how to make a woman cry out in pleasure –I’m thinking about how to keep her in my arms for a long time to come.
Looks like the real Adventures of Mister Orgasm have only just begun….
**MISTER O is a standalone romantic comedy and it follows supporting characters first introduced in BIG ROCK**
Ask 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, solve global warming, fix every problem known to man. 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-geek-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, 100% 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.
Since there is 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? Would she want a little something extra, like a feather, a vibrator, or some sort of fantastic combination of all 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 field work.
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’m picturing 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, locked, sealed and 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.
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Meet June & Evan in Until June releasing on May 24th!
Meet their parents in the Until Series
June Mayson and Evan Barrister’s whirlwind courtship resulted in a secret marriage right before he left for boot camp. Evan knows deep in his gut that June is too good for him, but after getting a taste of the beautiful life they can have together, he’s unwilling to let her go. June promises to wait for him, knowing neither time or distance will ever change her feelings for Evan—that is until she’s served with divorce papers while he’s overseas and she’s forced to let him go.
Her marriage and divorce a well-kept secret, the last person June expects to run into when she moves back to her hometown is Evan. Angry over the past, she does everything within her power to ignore the pull she feels whenever he is near. But how can she ignore the pain she sees every time their eyes meet? How can she fight the need to soothe him even if she knows she’s liable to get hurt once again?
Is it possible for June and Evan to find their way back to each other again? Or will they be stopped by an outside force before they ever have a shot?
Looking at my reflection in the mirror across from me, I cringe. My hair is a disaster, there are bags under my eyes, and the nightgown I have on isn’t even one of the cute ones I normally wear. It’s the one my sister, December, got me as a joke, but I wear it occasionally, because its comfortable, even if it was made for a woman three times my age. Resting my elbows on the desk in front of me, I run my fingers through my hair, pulling the strands back away from my face.
“I hate men,” I whisper into the empty interrogation room, where I was told to wait over an hour ago after the police kicked in my door and dragged me from my bed. Lifting my gaze, I look at myself in the mirror again and vow that whenever I get out of the mess my ex-boyfriend has gotten me into, I’m going to learn how to be a lesbian, even if I’m not sure that’s actually possible.
“June Mayson.” Turning my head, I look over my shoulder at the now open door behind me, and my eyes meet those of a man who reminds me of my dad. He looks to be in his mid-forties, and is one of those men time has been kind to. He’s built, with dark hair that’s cut short and parted on the side. His eyes are a blue that stands out against his dark lashes and tan skin. “I’m Officer Mitchell, and this is Officer Plymouth.” He nods behind him and is followed in by a man who must be playing the roll off ‘Bad Cop’, judging by the frown on his face and the look he gives me when our eyes meet. Time hasn’t been as kind to him; he looks like he has enjoyed one too many beers. His middle is soft, and his skin doesn’t look healthy.
Nodding, I cross my arms over my chest and run my hands down the bare skin of my biceps that’s chilled from the cool air coming from the vent above me.
“Would you like something to drink?” Officer Mitchell asks as he walks fully into the room.
Shaking my head, I mutter, “No, thank you.”
“Hot chocolate?” he offers, and I feel tears burn the back of my eyes. Since I was little, whenever I was having a bad day, my dad would offer me hot chocolate. His hot chocolate has magical powers that always make everything seem okay, but I doubt police station hot chocolate would have the same effect.
“No, thanks. I’d just like to know why I’m here,” I tell him as he takes a seat in the metal chair across from me and places a thick folder on the table between us.
“We may be here awhile, Miss Mayson, so I’d like you to be comfortable,” he says gently, and I look at Officer Plymouth, who is leaning against the wall, then back to him.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Mitchell, but I’d really like to get to the point. I have class in a few hours and I’d really like to make it on time.”
“I’m afraid you’re probably going to miss your class today, Miss Mayson.”
Closing my eyes, I open them slowly and ask, “Can I get a sweater?”
Surprisingly, Officer Plymouth slips off his suit jacket and walks it over to me, placing it around my shoulders.
‘Thank you,” I whisper up at him, and his eyes soften around the edges. Pulling my eyes from him, my gaze goes back toward Officer Mitchell.
“How long have you known Lane Diago?” Officer Mitchell asks, and I sit up a little taller.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” I tell him, and he opens the file folder, fanning out a few pictures of my ex-boyfriend, Aaron, and me directly in front of me. Each of them were taken while we were a couple, showing we had been followed more than a few times. Him coming to my apartment…him kissing me outside my car…at the store, walking hand-in-hand down the aisles…at the movies…out to dinner…both of us doing normal couple things.
“You mean Aaron?”
“That what he told you his name was?” he asks, and I nod looking up at him.
“I’ve known him for about a year,” I whisper, dropping my eyes to the pictures again, realizing I actually didn’t know him, since his name isn’t even Aaron.
“How long have you two been dating?” he inquires, and my eyes drop to the pictures once more.
“We dated for about four months. I broke up with him a month ago,” I tell him truthfully as a feeling of sadness hits me unexpectedly. I wasn’t in love with Aaron—or Lane. Not even close. But I cared about him, and believed he cared about me as well. That was, until he sent me a text to meet him at his house. When I got there, one of his roommates let me in, and I found him up in his room with Susie Detrei’s mouth around his cock, proving I was wrong about him.
“You were close,” Officer Mitchell states, and I nod because we were, or I thought we were. “Can you tell me who this man is?” he asks, pulling out a picture of Aaron’s—Lane’s cousin, or at least the guy he told me was his cousin.
“Aaron…I mean Lane’s cousin Cody. He lives in Mississippi,” I tell him.
“Did you ever overhear them talking?”
“Overhear them talking?” I ask, looking at a picture of Cody and Lane sitting in what looks like a bar, Lane with his favorite beer in his hand, and Cody with a short, wide glass with dark liquid and ice on the bar top in front of him, and his hand wrapped around it while he laughs at something.
“Overhear them talking about anything out of the ordinary?”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Maybe if you told me exactly why I’m here, I can give you the information you’re looking for.”
“Lane Diago’s uncle is one of the biggest distributors of illegal narcotics in Alabama, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, Georgia, and South Carolina.”
“What?” I whisper as my eyes focus on one of the pictures of Lane and me standing outside my apartment. I was wearing a short colorful summer dress and gold strappy sandals, and Lane had on a pair of black cargo shorts and a plain white tee. His head was bent toward mine, my hand was resting against his chest, and his was wrapped tight around my hip. It was our third date and our first kiss. I had waited forever to even go on a date with him, because I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I finally gave in to him, because he was so persistent. He asked me out every time we saw each other, and he was always dramatic in the way he did it.
“Did you ever see—”
“I never saw anything,” I cut him off. “Lane didn’t even smoke pot, and almost everyone I know smokes pot,” I whisper, pulling my eyes from the picture to look at him.
“You two were together a lot. He would have you drop him places. My men saw you on more than one occasion.”
“To friends’ houses,” I tell him, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “If he asked me to drop him to a friend’s or to run him somewhere when we were going out, I would do it, but I never saw him do anything illegal.”
“Do you understand you can go to prison if we find out you spent any of the money he earned from selling drugs on things for yourself.”
Laughing, I cover my face with my hands and lay my head on the table while I try to pull myself together. I probably shouldn’t be laughing right now but its either laugh or cry.
“What do you find funny about this?” Officer Plymouth asks, and I lift my head to look at him.
“I paid for us to do things more than once, and he even asked me for gas money a couple of times. I never, not once, took money from him, not even for a coffee,” I tell him, and his eyes go to Officer Mitchell, who mutters, “Fuck.”
“He cheated on me a month ago, and I haven’t talked to him since then,” I tell him, and he shakes his head.
“We have time stamps for phone calls between the two of you over the last month.”
“Did you ever look at how long those calls lasted?” I ask, knowing that if he did, he would know we didn’t actually talk. “He called. He called over and over.
Finally, I had to pick up to tell him to stop calling me. I didn’t want anything to do with him a month ago, and I sure as hell don’t want anything to do with him now.”
“Another fucking road block,” Officer Plymouth grumbles, and my head swings to him.
“I’m sorry. I swear that if I knew anything, I would help you out, but I don’t. Lane never told me anything, and I sure as hell didn’t see anything. If I had, I would have talked to my uncle about it.”
“You’re sure you didn’t see anything, hear anything?”
“I’m sure,” I tell him, wishing I did know something, not because I’m a rat, but because I know what drugs can do to people. I know not everyone dies from using drugs, not everyone’s life goes to shit from using them, but my best roommate freshmen year of college overdosed and died, and that was only after she turned into a completely different person. Someone I didn’t like much. Someone I couldn’t trust. So, there’s no way I would ever protect anyone who is responsible for supplying those drugs, no matter how much I care about them.
“Would you be willing to get back in with Lane?” Officer Plymouth asks, bringing my attention to him. My heart flips in my chest at the thought, but I don’t get a chance to answer, because someone bangs hard on the glass mirror in front of me, causing my image to go funny.