The O Coach

by Tara Wylde

  I almost reach out for the phone, my hand poised to return the text before I regain my senses. I shake my head and roll my eyes.

  “No,” I say, “I don’t.”

  Chapter Five

  Erin

  Harlan, my sweet Bernese Mountain dog, snores quietly beside me on the bed. I lean back against my stack of pillows and try to follow the antics of characters in Nora Robert’s latest release. It’s a good book. All day long I’ve been impatient to dive back into it, but now that I finally have time to read, I can’t concentrate.

  My mind keeps drifting away from the printed words and to the text I received at the office.

  Impatient with myself and the entire events of the day, I press the power button on the top of the Kindle and close the cover with just a touch more force than necessary.

  Stupid romance novels. I started reading them when I was in middle school and having a difficult time fitting in. They’d helped me forget that I was lonely and awkward, while giving me hope for the future. No matter how bad the heroine’s life was at the start of the story, she always got a happily ever after when the book ended. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that there wasn’t any reason my own life shouldn’t follow the same trajectory. Some girls dream about becoming a Disney princess, but not me. Nope, I always figured I’d end up like the heroines in the novels. Pretty, successful, and in love with a gorgeous, sexy guy who loves me almost more than I love him.

  Up until a year or two ago, I’d always thought it was an obtainable goal. Despite what some women think, there are some really good guys out there, guys who are nearly as wonderful as the romantic heroes I love. I’ve even dated some of them, confident that I was on a fast track to my happily ever after.

  But things always fall apart when it’s time to take things to the next level. Instead of lighting me up once we get into the bedroom, nothing happens. I’m not overcome by passion. I don’t become a slave to my carnal needs. The truth is, as soon as we hit the mattress, I lose all real interest in the guy.

  It’s been the same story, over and over again, since I was a teenager and dating Robbie Martian, the point guard for my high school’s basketball team. He was cute, attentive, fun, all the things a high school boyfriend is supposed to be, but when it came to the physical stuff, he failed to light a fire within me. At the time, I assumed the problem was me, that I was too tense, too nervous, or that Robbie just wasn’t for me.

  I thought things would change, but they didn’t. Every guy I’m with leaves me … well, wanting more.

  It’s gotten to the point that I end things before the third date, not willing to get too attached to a guy only to end up disappointed when we try taking the relationship to the next level.

  I’ve tried telling myself that it doesn’t matter, that sex is just a small aspect of an overall relationship, but no matter how many times I repeat the words to myself, I just can’t make myself believe them. When it comes to a relationship, I want the whole thing, from long, lazy shared breakfasts in the morning to wild nights of uninhibited and spontaneous sexual marathons at night.

  I’m not as young as I used to be. And as happy as I am with the success of the business I’ve built from scratch, I’m also painfully aware that as it continues to grow and thrive, I’m becoming increasingly busy. It’s starting to take over my life. I’m afraid that I’m getting really close to giving up on the whole idea of dating and finding my one true love and focusing all my attention on my professional life.

  And if that happens, what’s going to happen in thirty or forty years when I retire and face spending the rest of my life all alone?

  I bury my face in Harlan’s soft fur and fight the urge to cry.

  Tracy’s right. The No O website is full of all sorts of information about sex and the female orgasm. I’ve read through all of it two times. While it’s helpful and certainly makes me feel like less of a freak, I can’t help thinking that it’s not enough. While I’m nowhere near as sexually experienced as most women my age, I find it hard to believe that at least a few of the guys I have taken to bed, including yesterday’s date, Dan, didn’t know their way around the female body and have a pretty good idea of how to make their partner climax.

  I must be the problem. And what are the odds that a few pages of web content, content that was most likely written by some half-starved copywriter who was desperate for a few bucks, will actually change my sex life? Even money says they’re pretty slim. But isn’t even pretty slim better than going through the rest of my life wondering if I’m missing out on something that everyone else thinks is pretty great?

  I inhale deeply, breathing in my dog’s earthy scent. “Oh, Harlan, what am I going to do?”

  The massive dog keeps snoring away. His worries about his sex life came to a sudden halt during a vet appointment two and half years ago when he was nothing more than a half-grown puppy. Sometimes I think he was the lucky one.

  I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand and tap the icon that brings up the mysterious text I received from the person who identified themselves as Mr. No O.

  Damn Tracy for putting the germ of a forbidden idea into my mind.

  My finger hovers over the on-screen keyboard for a moment as I try to decide what to do.

  Without any conscious thought, my fingers strike a few letters and hit the send button before I can stop myself.

  And just like that, my response to Mr. No O’s text message makes its way to his cell phone.

  Chapter Six

  Garret

  The clanging of weights echo throughout the small mini-gym I created in one of the penthouse’s extra bedrooms, the sound competing with my steady grunts as I slowly make my way through my workout.

  The physical strain of moving the heavy weights, of going through one repetition after another is supposed to clear my mind. Supposed to make me forget everything, even if it’s just for a little while, but tonight that’s not working.

  No matter how hard I push myself, I can’t stop thinking about that damned text I sent to Erin.

  What the hell was I thinking? I haven’t done anything like that … ever.

  And truthfully, the fact that I did something I’ve never imagined myself doing is just one issue.

  The other is that, ever since I sent that text, I haven’t been able to get thoughts of Erin, and what she’d look like naked and spread out on my bed, out of my head.

  The mental image is enough to make my cock swell and beg for attention.

  I rub the pad of my thumb along my wedding band.

  I fell in love. I took vows. I swore I’d never again imagine being with a woman other than my wife, whom I loved more than anything in the world.

  I return the weight I’m working with to its holder and glance up at the wall and the large photo of my wife, Madeline, that I hung there the day I moved into this apartment. It was snapped two days before we officially wed. We’d been visiting her relatives in Washington State and they’d taken us to pick apples. That was more than ten years ago, but I still remember the way the dried leaves felt as I’d picked them out of her hair, can still taste the lingering flavor of the spiced apple cider on her lips when I kissed her.

  Love and grief batter my heart, making it ache.

  When Maddy and I started dating, no one gave us a snowball’s chance in hell of working out. From the very beginning, I was the kid who had too many visible tats, who rode a beat-up motorcycle and seemed destined for a life of crime, while Maddie was a good girl, one with a bright future. She’d worked hard to become a psychologist. We’d been too different from one another, we were too young to know what we really wanted, we had no idea what we were getting into.

  But all those people who spoke out against us were wrong. From day one, Maddie and I weathered our fair share of differences, and we’d made it through each one with our relationship not only intact, but stronger than ever.

  Just like the Dean Koontz’s Odd Thomas and Stormy, we were destined to be toge
ther forever.

  And just like those characters, tragedy shattered a promising life. My whole world came crashing down around me when Maddie’s car was struck by a drunk driver. The impact pushed her into a guard rail. Maddie had lived for two days before she finally succumbed to her injuries.

  Life as I knew it ended that day. I would have done anything to have left this world with her. The only reason I didn’t was because I knew that my giving up would have broken her heart.

  Probably, the only thing that would have surprised people even more than our staying together was if they’d known that it was Maddie, not me, who was the aggressor in the relationship. She’d made the first move, actively pursuing me and wearing down my defenses until the next thing I knew we were dating. She’d been the one who’d sent naughty texts, suggested wild sex in public places, and was always looking for something new, exciting, and often risky to do.

  I’d just been along for the ride.

  So why had I sent a text to Erin offering to coach her? It’s completely out of character for me. And it’s not like I’m actually qualified to help with her problem. Sure, I’m the owner of the No O website, but Maddie created it. Maddie was the one who offered one-on-one counseling sessions, only getting me involved when she needed a male perspective.

  Since her death, I’ve barely thought about No O. I certainly never had any intention of becoming actively involved with it. I figured I’d just leave the content that was already available on to help women who made their way to the site.

  So why had I done something so out of character and sent that text to Erin? Just thinking about it made my palms sweat, jeopardizing my grip on the bar bell.

  Not only was it out of character, it was downright stupid. Boarderline stalkerish.

  Maddie never, ever approached any of the women she’d helped through the website; she’d let them come to her.

  My phone chirps, alerting me to an incoming text.

  Doing my best to ignore the hollow sensation eating at my gut, I hang up the barbell and stand. I get lots of texts from business associates, it could be any one of them, I tell myself as I pick up the slim phone. Despite the logic of my thought process, I know even before looking at the notification bar that it’s Erin’s response.

  Trepidation grips my intestines as my thumb hovers over the screen. This is going to go one of two ways: she’s going to tell me to go to hell, or she’s going to be intrigued by my offer.

  I don’t know which one worries me more.

  Feeling ridiculous for not being so hesitant about something as simple as opening a damn text, I tap the screen and force myself to read it. It doesn’t take long. The text message consists of a single word.

  Why?

  Chapter Seven

  Garret

  Why?

  The word on my cell phone screen haunts me. I can’t stop thinking about it. About how I should answer.

  It’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself since I originally sent that text. One I still don’t have an answer for.

  Erin’s waiting for a response.

  I try picturing her.

  It’s late so I’m assuming she’s home. Is she tucked into bed or standing in the middle of her kitchen? Sipping a glass of wine or curled up with a mug of hot chocolate? Reading or watching television?

  Each thought is accompanied by an image flashing through my brain, and each image sends an inexplicable bolt of yearning through me. Shoving the wave of unexpected and unwanted emotion aside, I quickly tap out a reply.

  All women deserve great, mind blowing, earth shattering sex.

  It’s a good response, though not original. It’s the concept that Maddie built the entire No O website around, but it’s the only response I can think of on short notice.

  A few seconds later my cell phone chirps. I’ve got a text.

  Yeah. Got that from the website. Why me?

  A moment later, a second text bubble appears on my screen.

  And how’d you get this phone #?

  Uh oh. There really isn’t a good way to answer that particular question. I decide to ignore it and concentrate on her first question.

  My fingers fly over the screen.

  So you can start cumming.

  I hit send and then walk out of the room, carrying my slim phone in my hand. My instincts tell me I won’t have to wait long for her response and they’re right. As I pull a can of beer out of my Sub-Zero fridge, my phone dings.

  And you can make that happen?

  I don’t think, I just reply.

  Absolutely!!!

  I pop the tab on the beer and lift the can to my mouth, groaning as the cold liquid washes over my tongue before tumbling down my throat. There’s nothing like the first gulp of beer after an intense workout. I take the beer and my phone into the living room and flop down on my couch and wait for Erin’s response.

  For some reason, I expect her text to be instantaneous, but it’s not. She makes me wait.

  Nearly a half hour passes before my phone chirps.

  What would I have to do?

  Hmm … good question. One that I’m not exactly qualified to answer. I knew how to make Maddie come, but the reality is that before marrying her, I hadn’t been involved with many women and after … well, I didn’t exactly take a conscious vow of celibacy, but I may as well have for all the interest I’ve taken in other women.

  Erin’s the first that’s even caught my eye, and even though I have a weird compulsion to improve her sex life, I don’t plan on actually sleeping with her.

  I’m glad Freud isn’t here. He’d have a field day with this particular sexual conundrum.

  My sense of right and wrong engage in active combat with one another. On one hand, I’m not a therapist or psychologist, or psychiatrist, which means I should stay out of other people’s sex lives. But, on the other hand, I worked closely with Maddy, I have access to her notes, and I am the sole owner of the No O website. Doesn’t that mean I have some sort of moral obligation to provide whatever assistance I can?

  I shut my brain down and place my thumbs on the screen, trusting them to make the right decision for me.

  Do you trust me?

  Chapter Eight

  Erin

  I pull my legs up to my chest. Resting my chin on my knees, I stare at my phone.

  A million different thoughts race through my mind.

  He wants me to trust him?

  Talk about laughable. I check out a website and then some random dude-at least I’m assuming it’s a dude since they referred to themselves as mister in the first text-contacts me out of the blue.

  For all I know it could be a bizarre Nigerian prince scam, or maybe someone so desperate for a American wife so they can legally come into the country, or mass murderer who uses the No O website to locate and lure his next victim, or possibly a chain smoking, ninety-year-old, heavyset woman wearing bright purple spandex and sitting on the other side of the world.

  But I don’t want to think that way. It’s crazy, but for some reason I have this weird sensation, a tickle deep in my gut, that suggests that the mysterious Mr. No O is quite close.

  Of course, that’s nearly as disconcerting as the idea that I’m having a conversation with a sex=obsessed grandmother.

  I chew on my lip and let the word trust roll around in my mind.

  It’s not something that comes easily to me. It seems like every time I let down my guard and start thinking that I can really count on someone, they let me down. And this situation was a lot weirder than going on a bad date with someone. This … whatever it is, has the potential to go from slightly weird to kinky and dangerous pretty darn quickly.

  If I’m smart, and I like to think I am, I’d stop engaging with this person, buy a brand-new phone, and do my best to forget all about this.

  Yet, even though I know what I should do, I can’t bring myself to shut the phone off.

  Reaching over, I bury my hand in Harlan’s thick, soft coat until my fingerti
ps press against his warm skin. He opens one chocolate brown eye and studies me. “You’re the only guy who’s ever really had my back,” I whisper. “Aren’t you?”

  His eye closes, and he sinks deeper into the mattress. Trustworthy he might be, but his conversational skills could use some work.

  I jab at my phone’s screen and lift it to my ear. My heart is pounding so hard, it nearly drowns out the sound of the ringing.

  It’s answered on the third ring.

  “Hello,” a deep masculine voice rumbles over the connection, the sound causing my heart to beat even harder. I place a hand over the middle of my chest and press down, like I’m trying to prevent it from jumping right through the flesh and bone barrier.

  “Hi.” My own voice is nothing more than a high-pitched squeak. Heat floods my face. As if this entire situation isn’t already embarrassing enough, now I sound like Mickey Mouse after he’s been sucking on a helium-filled balloon.

  I swallow and try again.

  “Hi.” Not great, but at least it’s a little better. I force myself to keep talking. “I’m Erin. You’ve been texting me.”

  “And you’ve been responding.” Amusement warms his luscious voice.

  Friends of mine often get into heated debates about which guys, usually actors like Chris Hemsworth and Benedict Cumberbatch, have the sexiest voices, and wax poetic about how they’d pay to listen to recitals of the phone books, but not me. In my mind, a voice is just a voice. But with just a few words, Mister No O has completely changed my mind. The low rumble in my ear shoots straight through me, causing my lower body to go all tingly.