Page 51 of Dirty Lyrics
My lawyer’s been on the phone with me for three days straight, muttering about Matheson going AWOL. He’s not returning my lawyer’s calls or letters.
He’s a bastard, but lately, something isn’t right. He’s hiding, maybe. Scheming, definitely.
Whatever.
Let him crawl in the shadows.
Because I’ve got better things to focus on.
Maya pulled strings with her old connections, booked us time in a recording studio. It’s not my usual spot, but a place where I can breathe without Matheson’s stink in the walls.
Somewhere I can lay down new tracks, with her words.
Her words.
She finalized the lyrics on our newest song just yesterday.
I read them, and fuck—my heart damn near beat out of my chest.
This woman, my woman, is a goddamn poet.
Her understanding of my melodies, of the notes I write for her—only for her—it moves me like nothing else ever has.
She writes like she’s inside my head, pulling the music out of me and giving it a soul.
And it’s not just the words. It’s her.
The fact that she can write Spanish lyrics like a native but still can’t roll her r’s to save her life?
That’s Maya. My Maya.
My favorite quirk, the one no one else gets to see.
The one that reminds me she’s real, flesh and blood, not some dream I imagined.
But those lyrics—fuck.
They’re so good.
Dirty. Sexy. Hot.
The chorus has been stuck in my head since I read it, a slow, grinding rhythm that’s pure sex. First, I sing it in Spanish.
“Tócame lento, hasta que queme,
tu nombre escrito en mi piel sin vergüenza.
No hay escenario, no hay canción?—
solo tú dentro de mí, rompiéndome el corazón.”
Then again in English.
“Touch me slow, until it burns,
your name written on my skin without shame.
There’s no stage, no song?—
