The Writer

Nesty had built a tidy career out of tidy stories, but her publisher shoved a new one across the desk: a book about a woman who lived and breathed raw sex. Curious, a little terrified, she went along. Then the writing swallowed her. Page by page her made-up bombshell crawled off the page and into her head. The contrast stung. Nesty still played house with a quiet shelf of romances; her creature bared everything. By chapter ten she could feel the blonde watching. One rain-soaked night the pipes knocked like bones. Nesty flicked the lamp, caught her breath, and Zazie stepped into the spill of light, wearing nothing but a wicked grin and the scent of skin-warmed perfume. "Surprise," the vision purred, and Nesty froze, fingers locked on the covers. No words left her mouth; she barely managed to keep breathing. Zazie’s cool palm slid down Nesty’s thigh, parted it, found slick heat that proved desire always kept better than she’d admitted. Fingers glided, circled, dipped inside while their lips met in a slow, filthy kiss. Then Zazie’s mouth wandered lower, tongue painting long, sure strokes until Nesty’s spine arched and a hoarse gasp cracked the quiet room. The next hour blurred into thighs splayed over books, thighs cinched around Zazie’s head, Zazie’s thighs straddling Nesty’s face, their wet centers rocking in rhythm that left the sheets stained and their names sobbed like secrets. Morning found Nesty alone, sore, smiling, the chapter she’d feared half-written on the laptop and a lipstick print beside it.