Can Words Make You Wet? (Arrogantly Erotic)

WORDS BY KAYE MICHELE

Jayson weaved his words into intricate patterns of sensuality—sort of like me. I met him for the first time at a local coffee shop when my Netbook and I were on the outs. He walked in and ordered a tea and buttered bagel, while I was slamming my computer. Jayson, tea in one hand, bagel in the other, stood over me, an amused expression on his face.

“Perhaps you should stop banging it on the table," he said, in a dreamy bass-filled voice. "I don’t think that’s going to help.”

I looked up. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Who are you?”

Resting his food on the shelf behind my table, Jayson knelt down and slowly took the computer out of my hands and smiled. Normally I would have screamed bloody murder at the thought of a stranger touching my property, but he had the prettiest white teeth I had ever seen, framed by succulent lips.

Still kneeling, Jayson turned the computer towards him, and, with strong dark chocolate hands that belied his average height and stature, flicked the switch on the front. He turned the computer back to me. “Try it now.”

I looked at him skeptically. “You still haven’t answered my question… Who are you?”

He smiled again, two rows of pearly white teeth, perfect in shape, sending their warmth my way. “I’m Jayson. Try to turn it on now.”

I raised my eyebrow, but attempted to turn the computer on again as instructed. It came on without a problem.

He chuckled. “I have the same Netbook. When I first got it, I would make the mistake of turning the wireless off, so it wouldn’t turn on. When I saw you, I was pretty sure you had made the same mistake.”

I nodded in agreement. “Thanks. I thought I was going crazy... This is the first Netbook I’ve ever had.” I gestured to my pad and pencil, neatly next to my now functioning laptop. “I’m an old-fashioned girl.”

I should’ve known at that moment that Jayson was going to be a blessing and a curse.

He glanced over at my pad and noted, “You’re a writer?” I nodded. He picked up the pad and, before I could speak, he looked over what I wrote. Then, he reached for the pencil and, swiftly, scribbled something on the paper, struck some lines out, and handed it back to me.

If looks could kill...

“What…did you just do?” I asked in a huff.

“I made you better,” he winked, before getting up and walking away.

I was pissed. You don’t just edit another writer’s work without their consent. Hell, editors will tell you, it is their job to edit work and writers still get upset when they see those dreaded "red marks" on their work.

I was mad. I was about to go over there and tell him the hell about himself. I was then…

I read what he wrote. He took my words, spaced them out, and gave them definition with a simple line break. Plus, he left his number.

He was a genius. Damn it.

He was a genius who had violated my writing pad with two scribbles… An infuriating genius with pretty teeth, great lips, a strong hand, and, I noticed afterwards, a broad back.

Thus began our journey. Both writers, our stories ranged in content, but what drew us to each other, what caused us the most pleasurable pain, was the erotica that tied us both. We would fight often, simply to make up and pen our sordid tales.

He would leave post-its on my desk in my home office, uncompleted lines of sensual cloze that required an orgasmic conclusion. Sometimes, I would take my fine tipped Sharpie and fill in the blanks…

My pen the foreplay…

My written kisses leaving flurries on his brain, his earmarked book full of my erotic notes.

His words were maddening.

His arrogance…repulsive and appealing.

And, yet, we had never slept together, until…

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