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 fingertips 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.

One thing is for sure: he’s not someone’s granny.

Harlan grumbles something in his sleep and shifts away from me. So maybe he’s not the greatest support system in the world, but he’s better than nothing. “Um, I’m not really sure why I called instead of just sending another text. I, uh, I hope you don’t mind.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone.”

It’s a good point that goes a long way toward easing my anxiety. Still using Harlan as a touchstone, I relax back against the headboard.

“But why did you decide to call?”

“Um.” My hesitation causes me to roll my eyes. I’m a successful business woman, I’ve run meetings, interviewed employees, and given lectures at important conferences. I shouldn’t have any trouble conducting a simple phone conversation, and yet I’m stammering like a nervous teenager talking to her very first crush. “I’m not sure, exactly. It’s just, I guess when you mentioned trust, I realized how weird it was that we hadn’t actually spoken.”

“Ah.” His incredible voice washes over me, making it difficult to focus on his words. “I thought that maybe you were worried about someone getting hold of your phone and seeing the texts.”

“Oh, God.” I literally feel myself pale. “I hadn’t even thought about that.” If it was one of my friends, like Tracy, it wouldn’t matter, I’d just have to endure a few teasing sessions before they were distracted by something else. But what if it was my Uncle Art? He’d never understand.

Reading my thoughts, Mister No O chuckles. “Just make sure you delete them and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“Sure.” ‘Cause it’s not like the average teenager doesn’t have the skills needed to somehow get ahold of my phone and access stuff that’s supposedly been deleted. I push the issue of the texts out of my mind and return to the content of his last message. “So, getting back on point. Why should I trust you?”

“Because I can help.” His matter of fact tone actually does put some of my concerns at rest.

“I don’t get how,” I tell him, pleased that my voice is steadily returning to normal. “It’s just that the whole thing seems so … strange.”

“Mmm. I understand.”

“So exactly how does this work? You invite me over, we strip down, jump into bed, and you show me everything I’ve been doing wrong?”

Mister No O chuckles, the sound sending a wave of prickly heat straight to my core. My vaginal muscles clench, startling me so much I nearly drop the phone. Shit. That’s never happened before … I like it.

“No,” he rumbles in my ear. “There won’t be any touching on my part.”

“Oh.” I can’t stop the sharp stab of disappointment.

“I have a strict no-touching policy,” he continues. “I feel it’s the best way to prevent any confusion.”

Too late. I’m already more confused, and turned on, than I can ever remember being before.

“I see,” I manage to say. “Wait a second, I really don’t. If you and I don’t have sex…” Never before have I even entertained the idea of sex with a faceless stranger. Clearly the old adage is right, there really is a first time for everything. “How are you supposed to help me? Are you giving me a pile of papers to read? Suggesting a few porn videos that are going to turn my life around? Field trips to sex clubs?”

“Sounds like fun, but no, that’s not how things start out.”

“So, what does happen?”

“First you, your boyfriend, and I try to figure out why things aren’t working out sexually.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I blurt the words out. “Not right now.”

“Oh.” For the first time since I called him, Mister No O hesitates. “I just assumed that since you were on the No O site, that you did and that the two of you were having some … problems.”

“I’ve been seeing someone,” I explain, my mind returning to Doctor Dan and the lackluster sex we had last night. “But it’s nothing serious. And I might have broken up with him.”

“Might have?”

“It’s, err, complicated.”

“Mmm.” Another hesitation. “Are you in love with him?”

“No.” I should end the statement there, but for some reason, I’m compelled to continue. “But I should be … at least eventually. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” An image of Dan floats across my mind. “He’s sweet, kind, seems genuinely interested in me.” At least he was before I kicked him out of my bed and out of my house. “I’d like to work things out with him, if I could just …” My words trail off.

“You could work out your sexual issues,” Mister No O finishes for me.

“Yeah.” I wait a beat before continuing. “Do you really think you can make that happen?”

“Before I can answer that, you need to tell me about your sex life so we can work out the reason that you’re not having an orgasm when you’re with this great guy you’ve found.”

“It’s not just him,” I mutter, not really meaning to say the words out loud.

“What?”

I suck in a deep breath and forge ahead. I’ve come this far, I might as well tell him everything, no matter how embarrassing and uncomfortable it is.

“I know what an orgasm is supposed to feel like. I’ve read lots of books. I keep waiting for it to happen to me, but whenever I have sex with a guy, nothing happens.”

“Nothing,” Mister No O echoes. He doesn’t sound as confident as he did.

“Nothing exciting, that’s for sure. At first, I thought I wasn’t ready or that I wasn’t sexually attracted to the guy I was with, but it didn’t get any better. Before finding the No O site, I thought I was defective, like I didn’t have enough nerve endings down there or something.”

“And now?” Mister No O prompts. There’s a soothing quality to his voice. Each time he opens his mouth, some of my tension eases. I could listen to him all night long.

“Now I don’t know,” I admit. “At least now I know that I’m not the only person who isn’t turned on in bed, but, well, the content on the site makes it sound like there’s some things I can do that will help but …”

“But what?”

“What if it doesn’t work? What if I go through all this and still can’t, you know? Then what am I supposed to do with myself?”

“Erin.” His voice is calm and confident, it settles over me like a warm, fuzzy, familiar blanket even as my blood continues to hum and prickle. “I promise, I can help you. All you have to do is trust me enough to take care of everything. Can you do that?”

There it is, that trust word again. Tension crawls down my spine. I tangle my fingers in Harlan’s soft coat. “How can I trust you when I don’t even understand how we’re talking?”

“Well, you see, the sky is full of satellites that beam a cellular signal.” Humor warms Mr. No O’s voice, making it sexier than ever. “Those signals are than sent down to our phones, enabling us to enjoy a nice conversation.”

“Cute.” I refuse to let myself be swayed. “But I want to know how you got my phone number. I rarely give this one out.”

There’s a long pause, so long I actually pull my phone away from my ear and look down at the screen to make sure it hasn’t disconnected.

“This number is registered to your internet account. When you visited the No O website, I was able to use your IP address to track down your phone number.”

“Really?” I furrow my brow. His explanation makes sense, though I could have sworn that when I signed a contract for the business’s internet, I’d used my other cell phone number. Of course, I’d been distracted the day I’d signed the contract, so it’s possible I made a mistake and written the wrong telephone number. I made a mental note to check into it as soon as possible.

“Really,” Mr. No O repeats. “Now I’m going to ask you again. Do you trust me?”

Technically speaking, I wouldn’t say I trust him. There are still so many unanswered questions, but he does intrigue me, and if he can help with my problem, then surely a leap of faith is a small price to pay.

“Yes,” I softly say into the phone.