The wind gust outside, rattling the windows of our small apartment. The kind of day that makes you want to curl up in a blanket and get lost in a book. But today wasn’t just any ordinary day. It was the kind of storm that seeped into your bones, made you crave warmth, not just from the fire, but from someone else's touch.
Taylor Swift's Daylight played softly in the background, the melody oddly soothing against the blustering outside. The lyrics, “I don’t wanna look at anything else now that I saw you,” washed over me, making me glance up from my book to see Princess, my bansot as I called her, nestled on the couch across from me. She was cocooned in one of my old sweaters, the sleeves too long for her, the hem brushing her thighs over a pair of my sweatpants. She looked like home, a living embodiment of comfort, and it made my heart skip a beat.
But I wasn’t reading just any book. Fifty Shades of Grey—the epitome of dark romance. It was exactly my typical read because of its raw, unfiltered emotion that drawn me in. Bansot, on the other hand, had been trying her hand at writing. Dark romance, she said. But with more substance, more depth. I’d been her muse for weeks now, and every evening, we’d sit together, her jotting down ideas, me silently cheering her on.
I felt her gaze on me before she spoke.
“Lovey,” she started, her voice tentative, “I need your help.”
I looked up from my book, arching an eyebrow. “With what, Baby?”
She blushed, biting her lip. It was a habit of hers when she was nervous or unsure of herself. “I’m stuck. I want to write something... more intense, more real. But I’m not sure how to... you know, describe it.”
I closed the book, setting it aside. This was going to be interesting. “You want to know how to write a better smut scene?” I teased, a slow smile spreading across my face.
She nodded, the color deepening in her cheeks. “Yeah, I guess.”
I leaned back, studying her. This was too good to pass up. “You’re asking me, your boyfriend, to help you write a sex scene, Bansot?”
She nodded again, a small smile playing on her lips. “Who else would I ask, My Love?”
I chuckled, shaking my head. She had no idea what she was getting herself into. “Alright, Love. Let’s see what you’ve got so far.”
She reached for her notebook, flipping through pages until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers trembled slightly as she handed it to me. I scanned the page, my eyes catching on a few sentences. It wasn’t bad—hell, it was good—but I could see where she wanted more. More detail, more intensity.
“This is good, Bansot,” I said, “but it’s missing something.”
Her eyes met mine, a mixture of frustration and curiosity. “What is it missing?”
I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. “It’s missing the feeling. The way your skin tingles when someone touches you. The way your breath catches when they kiss you, not just on your lips, but everywhere.”
Her breath hitched as I reached out, gently brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s the difference between writing what happens and making someone feel what happens.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on mine. “Show me,” she whispered.
And so, I did.
I moved closer, my fingers grazing the soft skin of her neck, trailing down to her collarbone. “When you’re writing,” I murmured, “you need to focus on the details. The way her pulse quickens when he’s close, the warmth of his breath against her skin.”
