"It’s a made-up story,” I said.
“I know, I know, Selena. We are both grown-ups,” he said.
I tried to resist his glare. But his sharp, dark eyes cut deep through me. He’s a beautiful man. He’s electric. My story wasn’t meant to be about him but my pen and paper gave me away. I felt naked in his eyes. What was I thinking? Why did I expose myself?
“I use inspiration around me. It was not about you,”
“I am flattered, anyway,”
It’s too late. This man who struck me with his ruggedness was always on my mind. I didn’t write about him. I wrote what I imagined and that’s what fiction writers do. I was no exception. Only, this man and my imagination existed in the same territory in my head and they consumed me and burned me and crushed the gates of my sensitivities that I had long guarded, leaving me in a state of convulsion. I wished I was more careful. But a part of me wanted it. I wanted his manly scent to fill my senses. I wanted his hands to trace the line on my back ’til they find the curve of my waist, so he can pull me close to him. I wanted him to envelope me in his rough masculinity. I wanted him like an obsession.
He lived for his music and his guitar. As he struck his chords, my nerves went into a pulsating rhythm. I lost all strength in the knees as he glided his hands through the curves of his guitar. He did it slowly yet intensely like an obsession. As he looked up, I looked away. But when I looked back, he was staring, touching his guitar like he was touching a woman. If only he could read my mind. I wanted to be his guitar.
“Stop staring at me,” I said.
“Sorry, I can’t stop,” he said.
It sounded like music to me.
