Mr. Write Read online

  She yelps in surprise, her eyes widening, her chest heaving in breathless anticipation. My aggression turns her on. “Show me what you got, you big, British brut.” She wiggles her arse, attempting to seduce me. I wish it was that easy.

  There is an explosive tension humming from her body, eagerly waiting for what comes next. As I’m panning through the pros and cons of whether to shag this helpful hostess, she makes the decision for me. She swoops forward, intent on kissing me, and I almost give myself whiplash when I jerk my head back. I bump my skull on the wall, but better a concussion than feeling her lips on mine.

  I may not have high principles when it comes to shagging, but when it comes to kissing, I’m a fucking saint. No woman’s lips have touched mine since Liz because the thought of kissing someone other than her makes all this real. A kiss is more valuable, most precious, and to share a kiss with someone you don’t love or don’t even particularly like is just downright sad.

  Liz, however, doesn’t share the same ideals as she had no qualms snogging someone who wasn’t me. I thought I was happy, but my wife sucked the joy right out of my life. She’s a succubus, feeding on my happiness, and she won’t be satisfied until she bleeds me dry.

  “J.E.? Is everything all right?”

  No, everything is not all right, and it never will be again.

  Just as she attempts to kiss me again, I become a different being, detaching myself from what’s right and wrong. To do that, I switch my feelings off. That’s the only way I can do this and look at myself in the mirror afterward.

  Her lips are like tentacles as she smacks them together, desperate to latch onto my face and not let go. I need to put as much distance between us. With that thought in mind, I launch up off the toilet, taking the stunned girl with me. I slam her arse onto the basin, not giving it a second thought as I reach out and rip her innocent white underwear clean off.

  Her big brown eyes widen, but that surprise soon turns to desire as she shuffles backward, exposing her glistening center when she brazenly opens her legs and places her heels on the sink. This woman is like a human pretzel.

  She’s open to me, a silent invitation to do whatever I please. I’ve made my bed, so it’s time I lay or squat in it. Dropping to my knees, I contort my body to fit in the cramped space. Her smooth entrance is my view for the next few minutes. Here’s hoping her prediction of being quick was, in fact, true as I don’t think I can stomach a long-winded affair.

  I hook my arms behind her knees and drag her forward, not seeing the point in beating around the bush—so to speak. Her fingers clench the edge of the basin as she hooks her legs around my shoulders and draws me in to the point of no return. Formalities are long forgotten when I lower my head and devour this woman like she is my last meal.

  I’ve come to learn that I’m a mixed bag lover. Depending on the consumer, I can be gentle or rough, charming or aloof, attentive or casual. I can be whatever they want me to be, but the one thing I can’t be is their one and only. Once we’ve both gotten what we came for, I’m out the door, not interested in making promises I can’t keep. Up until Daisy, this rationale worked just fine, but now, here I am in yet another bullshit predicament that could have been avoided had I just kept it in my pants—which could have been avoided if my wife followed the same set of principles. Looks like we’re both stupid prats.

  The feel of another woman on my tongue, my lips, has me appreciating we all come in different shapes, and sizes, and tastes. For over a decade, I’ve been dining on the one flavor, but now, I’ve been offered an entire smorgasbord of tastes. As I bury my head further, I can only hope this flavor will have my mental taste buds singing in delight as I need to unlock some form of inspiration and soon.

  Her well-sated moans reveal I’ve unlocked something. Sadly for me, it’s unlocking a trip down misery lane as I’m suddenly craving Liz’s familiar floral bouquet. Thoughts of my wife have me physically burying myself deeper and deeper, wishing to escape this nightmare.

  My self-loathing is this woman’s gain because I consume her with a ferocious appetite, intent on ending something that should have never started. I lick, suck, and consume, stopping only when I feel a thundering quiver beneath my tongue. She clenches while I circle her ripened clit.

  I splay my fingers at the small of her back, encouraging her to ride my face, but this devil doesn’t need the encouragement as I doubt I’ll be able to pry her off me. She bucks her hips wildly all the while screaming in an over-exaggerated manner. I move faster, more aggressively, showing no mercy, but she likes it. Her body begins to tremble, her sharp stilettos dig into my back, and her flesh explodes into a fireball as she screeches out her release for deafening seconds. She digs her long fingernails into the back of my head, ensuring I don’t escape until she’s milked dry.

  After what feels like an hour, she finally releases me, and I take two much-needed deep breaths. She slouches backward with her eyes sealed shut, a docile grin tugging at the corner of her slack lips. She looks well satisfied while I stand, rubbing at my lips, eager to leave. Reaching between her splayed thighs, I turn the tap to cold, scrubbing away the evidence as I splash water on my face and lips. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I see someone I’m despising more and more each day.

  “That was…so incredible.” Her pause for dramatic effect grates on my nerves. Her eyes slip open, dropping to the front of my flat pants. She lowers her leg and massages her foot over my pathetic excuse of a bulge. “It’s now my turn to return the favor.”

  Just as she hops down from the ledge, I gently secure her wrist in my palm, stopping her from proceeding. She cocks an eyebrow. “Honestly, I’m good.” When she frowns, I add, “I’m sure your mates have covered for you for long enough. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

  She licks her glossy lip, my answer seeming to appease her. However, there is one favor she can help me with. “I wouldn’t suppose you could switch my seat? It’s a little…cramped where I am.”

  She smiles, happy to be of service. “78A. It’s reserved for emergencies. Maybe I’ll pay you a special visit.” She accents her promise with a wink.

  I hope that doesn’t happen. However, if it does, I reply, “Feel free to unload the drink cart my way.”

  She giggles, her cheeks a rosy hue from the mind-blowing orgasm she just had. When she begins to straighten out her appearance, that is my cue to leave. Bending, I pick up her now useless underwear, but offer them to her just the same. She accepts them with a twinkle in her eye. “I know this is completely ridiculous, but do you think you could sign them for me?”

  I’ve been asked to sign some ludicrous things before, but underwear I tore off? That’s a first. When she offers me a pen from her pocket, I know she’s serious. This is completely insane, considering I was all up in this woman’s personal space moments ago, but I sign without a fuss. I hand them over to her, feeling the need to flee now even more urgent.

  “Thanks, love. For the seat,” I clarify.

  “No, Mr. Sparrow, thank you.” She holds up her underwear, grinning victoriously. “I’ll make sure your belongings are brought to you.” I give her half a smile, desperate to escape this claustrophobic space.

  I unlatch the door, impatient to take off and never look back. Sadly, with eyes solely on the prize, I don’t look back or forward and run straight into a delicious smelling being who has my mouth watering. My sense of smell gets caught up in the sweet bouquet of…strawberries and cream.

  Horrified, I peer down and see C inches away. Thankfully, she is still standing, but her curled lips reveal she knows exactly what I was doing inside that lavatory, and I’m suddenly beyond embarrassed.

  “I…” I attempt to deal with this situation by dropping a witty, charismatic comment, but all I’m left with is a mouth full of nothing.

  Just as I endeavor to save face once again, C calls bullshit, leaving me a blubbering twat. “I hope you washed your hands.” My mouth falls open.

  This delicate
creature stands confidently while I feel like I’m seconds away from doing the walk of shame. I don’t know what it is about this girl that leaves me tongue-tied, but I’m suddenly desperate to find out why. Her striking beauty is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, but her wit, in the few sentences we’ve exchanged, whets my mental appetite. Looking at her, breathing in the confidence she exudes, inspires me to…write.

  Goddamn!

  A jumble of words floods my starved mind with sentences and paragraphs of…stuff. I don’t know if it’s any good, but regardless, this has not happened in a long, long time. I have the sudden urge to yank my laptop out and allow my fingers free rein.

  Regrettably, my sudden inspiration goes up in a ball of flaming doggy doo when the air hostess saunters out of the loo, winking vivaciously at me. Her reaction confirms what a rotten bastard I am, and all I’m left with is white noise.

  C stands back, not interested in making contact with the woman who was screaming out my name minutes ago. Before I have a chance to make up some pathetic excuse as to why we were both inside the lavatory, C brushes past me and slides the door shut. The lock flashes red, confirming she’s not interested in hearing my excuses. Sighing, I run a hand through my snarled hair.

  The only good thing that has come from this nightmare is that I snagged a seat on my own at the back of the plane. I buckle my belt, thankful when another air stewardess passes me my laptop and bag. Her coy smirk reveals my shenanigans have provided in-flight entertainment.

  “Can I please have a bourbon?” When I see her colleague loitering a few seats away, I add, “Make that two.” She nods and thankfully leaves me to wallow alone.

  Deciding to try my hand at this thing called writing, I place my laptop on the tray table and wait for it to power up. I really wish I had my lucky mug. Stretching overhead, I crack my neck from side to side, ready to beat this writer’s block’s arse. It feels good to be sitting in front of the screen with a sense of hope that today is the day I write something that doesn’t suck balls.

  Opening a new word document, I look at the flashing cursor. Each blink taunts me, cementing what a complete failure I am. I’m verbally constipated. How am I supposed to spill my heart and soul onto this blank canvas? I swallow and grind my fists into my eyes. Why is this so hard? It used to be so easy, but now, I’d rather donate a kidney than write a paragraph.

  Hunting through my bag, I find my black rim glasses. Maybe the extra seeing power will help. It doesn’t. All I see is my failure with 20/20 vision.

  Just as I’m about to press the call button and request a bottle of every hard spirit they have on board, the seat beside me depresses. I spin, ready to tell whoever this is to sod right off, but I gag on the words when I see who is sitting pretty beside me.

  “Hi,” C whispers, leaning in close to see what’s on my screen.

  I’m staring at her like a total tosser, but my brain needs a second to process what’s going on. When she smirks and tucks a strand of auburn hair beneath her beanie, I know I’ll need a minute. She reaches across me, her perfume doing something to my insides akin to an atomic bomb exploding. I hold my breath, watching her mutely as she drags my computer to her lap. Her slender fingers work deftly at the keys, then her lips twitch, and she passes me the laptop.

  I remind myself that staring is not only rude but incredibly creepy and pull my shite together. Peering at the screen, I can’t help but smile.

  What are you writing because you better hope the wind doesn’t change? I’m Carrie, by the way.

  Alas, she has a name. Finding this form of communication a lot easier to deal with, I respond.

  One can wish. If the wind did change, I’d be first in line, ready to liberate my lungs. And nose. Nice to meet you, Carrie. I’m Jayden. That hasn’t changed since I told you 30 minutes ago. I pass her the laptop, unable to wipe the smile from my cheeks.

  She reads my reply, and a magical laugh escapes her, making me think of sunshine and wildflowers. A sentence suddenly hurtles into me out of nowhere.

  A gentle wind catches in her long auburn hair as she bounds through a field of tall wildflowers. The golden sunshine is her beacon of light. With her freedom, she brings hope.

  I can see it vividly, the scene clearer than any others before it. It’s one I don’t hate.

  Just as Carrie attempts to type something, I yank the computer out from under her fingers and desperately type out the sentence before I forget it.

  I’m like a madman, my fingers sparking with electricity, ecstatic to be writing something that has a small bubble of energy swirling around my belly. Reading it over once, twice, three times, I know that this is half decent. Finally, I’ve written something that isn’t rubbish, and it’s all because of someone who I actually know nothing about other than her name.

  Carrie leans across me, reading what’s displayed on the screen. At this moment, I don’t care what she thinks about it because I’m immersed in the soft touch of her skin against mine. Our forearms touch wrist to elbow, and the sensation pleases me more than I care to admit.

  “Wow, that’s good. Are you a writer or something?” She tilts her slender neck to look back at me.

  “Or something,” I say, thankful I managed to get out half a sentence while lost in her brilliant eyes. She smirks before turning back around to look at the screen.

  I’m too lost in her to realize what she’s doing until it’s too late. Boldly, she minimizes my screen and helps herself to a folder labeled DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, OPEN. In hindsight, probably not the best title to label an item you don’t want anyone to see. It’s the ultimate temptation to any aspiring snoop.

  I endeavor to stop her, but the moment I see a picture of Liz and me on our tenth wedding anniversary, looking nothing but in love, my hand freezes midair and my body contorts with rage.

  It was a lavish affair—quite superficial if you ask me—but Liz insisted we celebrate and invite anyone who was a somebody. I would have been content to take a quiet holiday instead since I was burning the candle at both ends, but Liz was so adamant and never one to shy away from attention, so I gave in. At the time, I thought she was overjoyed to celebrate our love, but now I know she was only interested in celebrating and showing off the expensive gifts I bought her.

  “Ex-wife?” she asks, peering at me over her shoulder.

  “Soon to be,” I reply, clearing my throat. “How’d you know?”

  “The fact you look seconds away from setting your laptop on fire gave it away.” A ghost of a smile plays at my lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” She appears genuinely apologetic.

  “It’s fine.” I wave her off, refusing to look at the screen. “It’s my fault for not being a little more creative with my choice of words when naming that folder.” She smiles before repositioning in her seat.

  Leaning her head back against the headrest, she turns her head to look at her. I truly am fascinated by her beauty. She is in no way my “type,” but my “type” was a blooming slag.

  “What happened? You looked…happy.”

  “I was, but Liz decided to find happiness elsewhere.” I clench my jaw, not finding it necessary to elaborate where.

  Carrie shakes her head, her lips pulling into a thin line. “Happiness isn’t out there.” She circles her finger, before stating, “It’s in here.” She gently touches her chest over her heart. “I have a feeling she’ll never be happy anywhere,” she wisely adds as an afterthought.

  She’s right. Liz had everything, but it still wasn’t enough. She wasn’t happy within herself, and nothing I could do would change that.

  Holy shite—I feel like I’ve just had an epiphany.

  Deep down, I knew it was Liz’s fault, yet I questioned myself every day, wondering where I’d gone wrong. My only fault was that I loved her unconditionally and was blinded to her manipulative ways.

  “I could use a stiff drink. Can I get you one?” I raise my hand while peering over the seats to seek out the air stewardess.
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  “I don’t drink,” Carrie replies. “As of”—she pauses, looking down at her watch—“eight hours, twenty-seven minutes, and nine seconds ago, I have decided to approach the new year with a different mindset.”

  Lowering my hand, I cock an eyebrow, completely intrigued. “So what happened eight hours, twenty-seven minutes, and nine seconds ago?”

  She sighs, sinking low in her seat. “I failed at yet another attempt to find Mr. Right.” She scrunches up her nose, appearing defensive. “But honestly, is there such a thing? Finding The One seems so…final. No offense,” she quickly adds. “I know you were married, so I guess at the time you thought you’d found your soul mate. But I don’t think I believe in that concept anymore.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Which time?” She laughs softly.

  “How about we start with eight hours, twenty-seven minutes, and nine seconds ago.”

  She toys with a frayed thread peering out from the rip in her jeans. “My asshole radar obviously short-circuited because Donny was the poster child for the kind of man your mom warned you about. He was a total bad boy, and I knew he would lead to heartache, but why is the unattainable so desirable?”

  I shrug, as I’ve been trying to figure out that riddle myself.

  “Anyhow, we dated against my better judgment. It wasn’t really dating, more like him calling me up when he was drunk and horny. The next morning when he sobered up, he couldn’t get out the door fast enough. Each time, I promised myself this was the last time, but then he would do something nice like buy me flowers or send me a cute text message about how much he missed me.” She mistakes my silence for disgust. “Pathetic, right? Allowing this to continue for months.”

  “Not at all. I was thinking what a fucking twat Donny was.”

  Her mouth falls open, then she bursts into melodious fits of laughter.