Big O Box Set

I recognize those startling blue eyes, that heavy brow, and sharp jaw from the photos on Instagram.

“Heath James?” I say, my voice slow with confusion.

The man from Twitter. The O-Maker. My first coherent thoughts aren’t of him saving me, or why he was there to save me in the first place. Instead, the thoughts racing through my head are the words he’d written to me last night.

Do you like having your pussy eaten?

Without any warning, there’s a quiver between my legs and the image in my head of the fantasies I’d had when I pictured him licking me. My muscles clench and release, and when they do, I realize I’m already wet. That’s never happened to me before. I’ve never gotten wet by just looking at a guy. Ever. No matter how attractive he is. Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen a man as attractive as Heath before, with all of his intense, dramatic angles.

My mouth hangs open. I can feel the cold air drying my throat and have to force myself to close it and swallow.

He rubs his hand. Obviously the adrenaline he’d been pumped up on is thinning and the pain of his hand is coming through. From the looks of it, something might be broken. I take his hand in my own, running a finger along the damaged skin.

“It might be broken,” I say.

“Just bruised,” he replies and takes his hand from me.

His voice is just how I expected it to sound: low, confident, commanding. Not Minnie Mouse with a lisp like I told myself it would be in order to get him off my mind.

“That looks a little more than bruised,” I say.

“It’s not.”

“How do you know?”

He looks sideways at me, his long, dark eyelashes casting a shadow over his eyes, making them look silver. “I used to cage fight. I would know if my hand is broken, and this isn’t. Not even sprained. It’s fine.”

“Cage fighting?” I can definitely see that.

I have to look up at him when I speak. I had a feeling when I saw his pictures that he was tall, but he’s much taller than I thought, and broader through the shoulders. He’s an imposing figure, especially with layers of clothes on. Seeing those pictures of him on the beach with his dog, I know under those clothes is a rock-hard, sculpted body.

“Sounds dangerous,” I say.

He seems amused at my obvious lack of cage fighting knowledge. “It can be.”

“How did you know where I was?” I ask.

His amusement spreads to the rest of his face and he laughs, exposing beautiful straight white teeth. None of them are missing like you might expect from a fighter. He must not have lost very often. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. The storm-bleached sky seems to drain everything of color except for Heath. Somehow he’s vibrant among the rest of the black and white city. The scruff on his face is streaked with red, his eyes shine like precious stones. Even his skin seems to glow. I can’t help but stare. I know how obvious I’m being, but I’m unable to stop myself. My eyes are affixed. It’s like looking into the sun. You know you shouldn’t, and that it can be harmful, but it’s just so damn beautiful.

“A bit egotistical, aren’t you?” he says. “You’re lucky that inflated head of yours didn’t get stuck in the subway doors.”

The spell he has me under suddenly breaks with his words. Heat floods my cheeks. I frown at him. The only thing that keeps me from losing my “inflated head” and going off on him is that he saved me and I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

When his laughter finally dies down he says, “I didn’t even realize that was you being harassed until I already hit the guy. It was a coincidence. I was on my way into town.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling stupid. He’s right. I was full of myself to think he showed up just for me. I want to get away from him as soon as possible, escape this embarrassment. I’m definitely not getting back on the subway. This time I’ll just hail a cab if I can find one.

“Oh, well, thanks for the help,” I say. “Sorry about your hand.”

I start to walk away, but he takes me by the hand again. “You act like we’re parting ways,” he says.

“Yeah, we are. I need to go shopping.”

I’m not actually planning on going shopping after what happened on the train. I’m far too shaken up for that, even though I really do need to go. If I don’t find my boss a gift before the company Christmas party, I might have to end up gifting him some random thing from my apartment.

Mostly, I just want to get home so I can delete my accounts, stop the No-O virus from spreading any further. If all this Twitter business gets back to my colleagues at work, I’ll never be able to show my face in the office again.

“Looks like the world is full coincidences today,” he says. “I have some shopping to do as well. It’s what I came into town for. I’ll go with you.”

“Um, what?” Me, shopping with the O-Maker? Could this day get any weirder?

He hovers protectively over me. With any other man, I’d be outraged by the misogynistic show of dominance in such a stance. But all I can seem to do is take his body language and apply it to the bedroom. I’ve never been with a man who just takes command the way he does. I’ve always been the one in control, the one my lovers looked to for answers. Their puppy dog eyes watching me, eager for a pat on the head, a treat: Am I doing well? Is this good? Do you like that? Honestly, it was tiresome.

“I don’t believe for a second you came to Brettsville to go shopping,” I say. This place isn’t exactly a mecca for decent stores. He’d have been better off staying in San Pedro County where he’s from. Chances are he’s here for one of his Twitter groupies and he just happened to run in to me, the damsel in distress. “What do you want?” I ask. “From me, I mean.”

He takes me by the hand again, leaning in close, tugging me toward the entrance of the mall. He has the deep, rich scent of expensive cologne and I want to bury my face in his coat and breathe him in so I don’t forget it.

In a low, yet authoritative voice, he says, “I think you know what I want.”

His words send chills from the top of my head into the opening between my legs. I start to think about those dirty things he’d said to me that had kept me up all night. Standing in front of him, the mental pictures grow stronger. I look at those big hands, those capable fingers, picture them inside of me, twisting and working their magic.

I suddenly realize in the short while I’ve been in his presence, I’ve become so wet it’s soaked through my jeans. I can feel the frozen air between my legs, cooling it uncomfortably. How am I supposed to go shopping like this? I need to change

. No, first I need to take care of this aching need in my core, then a shower, then a change of clothes.

I look at him and roll my eyes, trying to shake out of his grip on my hand, but he just squeezes tighter, not letting me go. His hands are warm. Mine hurt from being so cold. I look at our laced fingers, the bruises starting to form on his knuckles.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

With a boyish, cocky grin, he simply says, “Holding your hand, what does it look like? Really, Callista, are you always this dense?”

I cough out incredulous laughter. “Wow, aren’t you charming. How do you manage to get so many women into your bed with a personality like that?”

I mean, besides his runway good looks and action hero figure.

“Oh, that one’s easy,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s because of my giant cock.”

My feet instantly stop moving. But he keeps walking, pulling me forward. I stumble onward and again, he’s towing me like a reluctant puppy not yet leash trained.

“Keep up,” he says. “We have shopping to do.”

Without meaning to, I continually sneak peeks at the front of his jeans, hoping they’ll reveal something. It’s been my experience that those who boast their size are generally full of hyperbole when it comes to their package. Maybe that’s his catch. Good looks, little penis. Perhaps all those happy, satisfied women on Twitter got the oral treatment instead. I have to say, it has me more curious than I would like to be.

As we walk, I notice people staring. I’m getting even more attention than I had in the coffee shop. The streets are teaming with shoppers. Salvation Army Santa Clauses ring bells outside the different stores. The scent of cinnamon and cloves spill out of the bakeries and candy shops as they hand out samples of their holiday wares.

“You see all these people staring at us too, right? It’s not just me?” I ask.