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Anonymous lyricist D. Johnson was known for writing sensual songs. The artists I worked with came to me intending to tantalize and perhaps arouse their fans through music.
But I wrote each salacious word from my imagination, not from experience.
I rolled over in bed with that thought prodding my mind. My brain leapt around conclusions like a dog through hoops.
At the studio, in a momentary lapse of mental restraint, I’d imagined Levi jerking off to my posters. The bulge in his tight jeans gave me the impression he had a decent length to stroke. As if he’d read my mind, the rockstar had practically admitted to it.
The rush of heat and the flare of longing in my core had ignited my spark again. And the longer I stayed in bed mulling it over, the more I knew it to be true.
Oblivious to my hand drifting under the blanket, I continued playing in my imagination. I slipped with a frightening ease into a daydream of Levi, wearing his skeleton paint and watching with me those ravenous brown eyes. My hand rubbed over my underwear while thinking of him pinning me down.
In my head, he shoved his knee between my thigh, whispering wicked promises into my ear. His body heat would spread into my core as he touched me. I pressed my finger into my clit, rubbing circles over the thin layer of cotton.
I shot up, yanking my hand free. Flushed and shocked by the direction of my thoughts, I took a strained breath. After shaking my head to chase out the lewd dreams, I leapt out of bed.
My blood buzzed as if a horde of angry bees flew under my skin. The tightness in my lower belly protested at the snatched pleasure. But right on the verge of release my entire body hummed, and blessed inspiration returned to me. I grasped that daydream and the carnal feelings that accompanied it and rushed to my home office.
Hyper focused on the kernel of my former spark, I bent over my desk. For hours, I lost myself as a new song, inspired by Levi and his music, took shape on the page beneath my fingers.
The dampness in my panties didn’t escape my notice, but I was drowning too deep in the flowing river of my imagination to do anything about it. Instead, I squirmed in my seat, scribbling lines until words blurred together.
Bristling, burning from the depths of my aching sex, I dropped the pen. I braced one arm on the desk and bent forward. With my head on the solid surface, my other hand smoothed over my stomach.
My fingers disappeared into my underwear. Two fingers slid over the sticky fluid coating my pussy. I pressed a digit into my clit, gasping at the instant jolt of bliss from the swollen bud.
“Oh, fuck.” In my head, it wasn’t my hand. I was furiously swirling around my clit, dreaming of Levi’s face in that frightening skull paint between my thighs. Imagining his tongue tasting me, licking every drop of my arousal, I soared to heights I hadn’t flown in weeks.
Legs shaking, hand cramping from my desperate movement, I exploded under my fingers. The taut string in my pussy snapped as I came undone. Yet it surprised me when I called out during my orgasm. “Levi. Ah!”
Sated by satisfaction, I slumped against the cool surface. Thinking about what I did, I thumped my head on the wood several times. A flustered groan rose from the back of my throat.
“I can’t believe I did that.” The pages of the notebook fluttered at the breath I blew out.
I reeled back, glancing wide eyed at the full page of lyrics in front of me. Butterflies on steroids rustled within my chest. My heart pounded with each breath breaching my lips.
A new song. The first one I’d written in six months. And the fastest one I’d ever created. All thanks to hyperactive sex daydreams of a hot rockstar in skeleton makeup.
Almost reverently, I placed the notebook with the new song in my backpack. Tomorrow, I had every intention of returning to Levi’s studio. I’d start with an apology and then present to him what I’d created without divulging its origins.
Already overly confident, Levi didn’t need to know I’d created a new explicit song with his name on my lips. It might worsen the palpable physical tension between us. Denying its existence wouldn’t make it go away, and I couldn’t lie to myself after what just happened.
“Just don’t tell Levi you want him to fuck your brains out, and this will be fine,” I told myself. “And that’s easy enough.”
If I continued writing songs at breakneck speed, our contract would be a breeze. Surely, I could survive a week or two writing some lyrics and moving on.
After a shower and a pitiful dinner of leftovers, I climbed back into bed. A new irritating notion scratched at the back of my skull. No matter how hard I clenched my eyes and willed myself to fall asleep, my brain refused until I faced the intrusive thought.
I hadn’t imagined the tangible heat between us. If Levi jerked off to me a decade ago, what were the chances he was still attracted to me?
Six
I clutched the strap of my backpack over my shoulder until my fingers ached. Shifting from foot to foot and gnawing my lip, I stared at the buzzer to the studio. Sunlight fought back the early chill, warming my backside as I anxiously built up the courage to press the button.
Technically, I was still on time. I should ring the button to get it over with. But there was also time for me to turn around and march back to my car.
That secondary urge took hold.
Before I realized it, I’d angled myself toward the sidewalk with one foot in the air. My boot hit the ground, gravel crunching under the heavy sole, and the lock clicked open behind me.
