The writer sends her butterflies. The man makes the gooseflesh rise on her arms.

The writer arouses her with his words. The man’s glance in her direction makes her wet.

The writer’s stories fuel her fantasies. The man takes her hand and lives them with her.

The writer spreads open her mind. The man spreads open her legs.

The writer imagines her body’s responses. The man celebrates her body’s responses.

The writer describes her eyes, her face, her mouth. The man sees her light up a room.

The writer makes her happy. The man makes her happier.

The writer pictures her perfect breasts. The man holds his hand steady and watches her nipple stiffen to meet it.

The writer makes love to her in prose, from a distance. The man possesses her, sweetly and no-so-sweetly.

The writer makes her laugh. The man feels lucky to hear it, to be surrounded by its warmth.

The writer’s words she can only read and imagine. The man whispers in her ear, his voice filling her head and feeding her heart.

The writer fuels her hunger. The man tastes it.

The writer probes her imagination. The man probes her willing, supple body.

The writer’s stories live in her head. The man’s stories live in her heart.

The writer wills her arousal. The man thrills to her earthy moan and musky taste.

The writer paints images. The man paints life.

The woman steps into the picture.