Tempted (17 page)

12:26pm

Alexander Armstrong

I just returned from grocery shopping to find this lovely message. Le petit mort? Oy is exactly right. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but I had NO idea. Glad I made your body blush, Miss Eden, and certainly I'm quite happy to oblige.

Oh my gosh!
 
Oh my gosh!
 
Oh my gosh!
 
What do I do now?
 
Okay
...
okay, keep calm.
 
I read his message again. 
Dear
Lord!
 
He knows ‘le petit mort’ is the French term for orgasm.
 

 
And he found my message to be lovely.
 
Aww, that’s sweet.
 
What to write, what to write?
 
I dive back into the fray.

12:27pm

Claire Nichole Eden

And I always thought FB was su
ch a tepid innocuous place...
L
ooking forward to every dangerous decadent word that drips from those honey-laden fingers

(
and no double ente
ndre is ever wasted on me......
whether or not I specifically acknowledge it
..
.
le sigh)

In
the way of a
response
,
I get zip, nil, n
ada.
 
Grrrrrrrr.
 
Okay, back to work. 
Work.
 
What was I doing again?
 
Ugh.

I finally get my head back into the day’s business tasks when a little ‘ping’ alerts me to a new message.
 
My first thought is mild annoyance
,
as I am on a roll with the current topic I’m
laboring over
:
 
Nani Wahines and all things Polynesian.
 

I click the notification, gasp, and zero in on the words.

1:48pm

Alexander Armstrong

That's a charming quality, Claire. I'm delighted that my words aren't lost on you. They seem to flow over some people, most people, like water without the wetness, leaving them dry. So when what I write saturates someone, it's rather intoxicating. Maybe that sounds vain, and maybe it is. But a writer without at least a little vanity is like a shy exhibitionist: hard to find. So my dangerous, decadent, honey-laden mind will continue to explore all the subtle curves of language; and my fingers will caress the keys, in the hope that something magical happens. Because writing, to me, is like a long, earth-trembling petit mort: something best shared.

Holy cow!
 
Who is this guy?
 
After reading and rereading
...
and re-rereading his message, I brave a response.

1:54pm

Claire Nichole Eden

And it is equally intoxicating and thrilling to be drowning. To me, what y
ou've said is not a tad vain...it is palpably raw and real...
and ever so effective, as I am having increasing difficulty responding...
Hard to type o
n a writhing laptop, you see...
Please let your so-called vanity know that just in this last
communique you have slain me...
multiple times..
.
in waves of un
bridled trembling bliss....... N
othing dry about your
writing...
or my reading of it
...
.....
whimper

Now
that
should elicit a response.

Or not.
 
Ugh. Back to work. I’m such a
huss
y!

* * *

Later in the evening, I return home from a last minute visit to Mom’s.
 
She’s starting to slow down a little and has been needing some extra care lately.
 
It’s no trouble at all
,
and I’m glad to get to spend as much time with her as possible while I can, or rather, while
she
can.
 
L
og
ging
into my computer
,
my mind is on Mo
m.
 
That is, until I check my Facebook
updat
es page and find a luxuriously lengthy new message from Alex.
 
I feel somehow guilty
,
or at least awkward, going from thoughts of my
Mom’s eventual passing
to craving carnal satisfaction from a man I’ve never met
,
and know virtually nothing about.
 
I make myself a cup of tea, grab some chocolate chip biscotti
,
and brace myself for the bounty awaiting me from Alex.

2:20pm

Alexander Armstrong

If you keep whispering such words in my ear
, my m
use will be seeking employment elsewhere. There really is something tangibly intimate about the written word. It compels one to express all the subtle details of intimacy that might otherwise be gleaned in person by, for instance, a subtle elevation of the brow, a leaning toward, a sigh or quiver or parting of the lips.

Have you ever tried to describe a kiss? The closing of eyes. The feel of warm breath. The moment of anticipation that thrills the body before dewy mouths meet. Soft at first, but growing in eagerness. The opening of mouths, inviting tongues to dance. Bodies pressed warm and tight and writhing, like a blind man searching for every fleshy morsel of carnal knowledge his body's hands can glean. Try it sometime.

I begin to quiver, and j
ust
then,
a notification regarding him
attracts my attention as it inches
down
my page’s sidebar
ti
cker.
 
It’s s
omething about him ‘liking’ or commenting on a post about
handcuffs
!
 
Oh, I felt that one, in my core.
 
Without finishing his rich and overflowing message
,
I interrupt my reading to zip off a message of own.

7:49pm

Claire Nichole Eden

Oh this just can't be fair!
I come online to the banquet you left for me
,
and while I'm reading it and trying not to drool on my keyboard, I see a little something in my ticker at the side of my page where you are talking about handcuffs

Facebook has become decidedly spicier and more exhilarating
...
and now I must return to bathe in your lengthy and ever so lush tome

Back to his message.

Or even a hug. There are a thousand ways to hug, each suited to its own occasion. And each as intimate as the next. Each unique in its character and disposition and emotion. Everything is multiple, endless, when seen through passionate, exploring eyes. Each night when I walk alone in the dark of the forest near the river, each time I meet the river herself, it's always a surprise and a delight. Poetry speaks through all that I meet there. And those are just water and trees and sand and stars. Imagine then, how much more infinitely thrilling to lay on a woman's shores, and listen to poetry speak through all of her. Perhaps I'm just a hopeless romantic. But it suits me, I think. And I couldn't imagine being any other way. Nor would I wish to.

Wildly captivated, I resume my own response.

8:15pm

Claire Nichole Eden

Mmmmmmmmmmmm reading your assessment of the be
nefits of the written word... O
ne of my favorite aspects is how one can take her time, go at her o
wn pace while reading... and re
reading.... rather like a video you can click and pause and rewind to watch the juiciest parts over and over again... for full effect and pleasure

As for you being hopeless... w
e should all be so hopeless... T
hat thought of you laying on a 'woman's shor
es'...
siiiiiiiggggggghhhhh... H
ow your words do part the waters and invite you to run aground, held fast as wave after wave washes over in rhythmic abandon

and yes

your passion suits you

exquisitely

Hopeful of his response, I fall asleep on the chaise in the sunroom, my computer expectantly beside me.
 
I sleep in fits and starts.
 
It’s satisfying and blissful in ways I can’t fully describe.
 
I feel like I am becoming one with my body.
 
Instead of the usual mild self-loathing over flab, rolls and cellulite, suddenly I feel seductive and alluring and ultra feminine.
 
I awake a couple of hours later with that feeling that there are eyes feasting on me as I sleep.
 
But rather than feel
ing
frightened or defiled
,
I feel liberated and at ease.
 
In my hazy stupor
,
I peek at my computer.
 
No message.
 
Ah, well.
 
Sleep is yummy too.
 
Just before closing the laptop, I pose a question as a Facebook status update:
 
“If you could have anything, just for YOU, what would it be?”
 
I smile in anticipation of the answers that will come from my friends and fans
...
and him.

I wake up late.
 
Very late.
 
So unlike me.
 
I have no explanation for it and try to shrug it off.
 
Getting up nearly two and a half hours behind schedule has thrown me.
 
I should get in gear and do my usual tasks on the double, but instead
,
I sort of freeze, not knowing where to start.
 
The menagerie makes it plain that the place to start is with breakfast
–
for them.
 
After making the rounds with the animals
,
I tend to my own regimen.

Once I’ve completed my perfunctory domestic and business tasks, I tackle Facebook, bracing myself for the usual barrage of activity from those on the east coast who are three hours ahead of me.
 
Make that five and a half hours ahead today.
 
I make a beeline for the question I posted before bed last night.
 
I scan the wonderful, heartfelt answers, feeling a twinge of guilt over the
dismissiveness with which I treat
them in
my quest for one from Alex.
 
Fi
nding no comment from him
,
I resignedly go to my messages.
 
There it is!
 
His answer in full
–
and in private.

3:38am

Alexander Armstrong

Perhaps nothing is quite so erotic as bathing the flesh of an intelligent woman's soul
in sensual splashes of metaphor
and witnessing her understanding, with passion and abandon.
You asked "If you could have anyth
ing for you, what would it be?" 
My answers are simple.
I'd have a woman, strong and soft, intelligent and emotional, honest and mysterious, serious and playful, deliberate and reckless, slutty and demure, whispering and screaming, seductive and shy, simple and infinitely complex.
I'd have her lay in the palm of my hand, and lay me in hers, and revel forever in the
waves drenching and rocking us. 
I'd write poetry for her, great symphonies of passion and romance that she would evoke from my pen, the way a musician evokes music from a guitar. Does that answer your question, Miss Eden?

Why, yes, Dr. Armstrong.
 
Yes, it does.
 
And so I reply: