Come and get me / I’m ready soft and sweet, me / I’m candy come and get me…/ Hey Baby, come on / Hey Baby, come on / Hey baby now… Come and get me / I’m ready you’ve been patient / I’m tasty come and get me / Hey Baby, come on / Hey Baby, come on / Hey baby now…
The mist parted and fell away from the dim glow of the light. The floor was densely packed, but there were just enough pockets aligned for him to catch a view of her near the bar. Dancing with a drink in her hand, she leaned into it, closing her eyes and snapping her fingers, lip syncing the lyrics.
Out of the speakers and onto the floor. Her back arched. Her hips rolled, sliding through each note. Hey Baby, come on / Hey Baby, come on / Hey Baby, now. She kept her eyes fixed on his, while she slow-wined, inch by inch, step by step, closer to him.
The room, a diaspora of lost tribes; afros, pigtails, exposed skin, muscled flesh in a spectrum of colors. Enfolded in each others’ arms, rocking, sensually rolling, twisted trees, swaying on the melody. Their branches intertwined, their roots interlaced, nourished by the heat.
He watched her move – leaving his interest unguarded. Her jeans kissed her hips at the rise. Her jeans hugged her at the bend. She twisted it lower, serenaded by the beat, steady rocking, snake charming her way up his side, to his cheek.
She was sunshine – pecan brown eyes and coffee colored skin. Vanilla and cinnamon heralded her arrival. Flowers blossomed and bloomed in her wake. He made an unfocused, unsteady attempt to rock and sway to her lead, while she twisted it around and dropped it down. Slowly. Looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes smoldered. Sexy. She smiled, then walked it back on him.
Come and get me / I’m ready soft and sweet, me / I’m candy come and get me…
She was one of those women that every dude thinks he wants to introduce to the room; Thinking that somehow, her ability to make most, if not all, people make that “dayum, she fine!” – fucked-up face, conferred some sort of status on them for being with her. Seeing her as a trophy, an object for possession. But hey, most, if not all, dudes are dumb as hell with regard to this type of woman. They couldn’t be more wrong. She was fully aware of the image they had of her; Never truly knowing her because they couldn’t get past the fantasy – her superpower. Which is precisely the reason she manipulated them all – a victimless crime. Dropping the paint off their canvas – applying new strokes – She was as free as the breeze she walked in on.
Hey Baby, come on. / Hey Baby, come on./ Hey baby now…
She snapped her fingers and extended them. Stepping her leg in between his legs, rock and rotate, mirroring the movement in the hips, hands, and feet. She was music personified – spoke in melody, wrote in rhythm, and thought in poetry. Her fingers floated through air, parting currents and streams, tickling harp strings with each brush, trailing petals from her palms. Come and get me / I’m ready you’ve been patient / I’m tasty come and get me. Moving sensually, in a circle around him, her body rippled with the reverberating beat.
Jumping into the opening, they locked eyes, their lips inches apart. Rocking into her lead, placing his hands on her hips, riding the waves, leaning into one another, their bodies undulated, in like amplitude and frequency, harmonizing the moment, liking what she liked.
She hypnotized most men of his type within minutes of spotting her. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” She said. “I could get cliché here, but I’ll spare us both.” He was dumbfounded. “Are you gonna say something or just stand there watching?” She asked, smiling, sensing the nervous energy in his eyes. “How about we move over to the bar for a drink.” She held his hand and lead the way.
Come and get me / I’m ready soft and sweet, me / I’m candy come and get me… Come on…
In his defense, he didn’t usually respond this way – confident in his abilities and swag. But she was his type of hype. She was slick and talked even slicker. She was the bad chick in the movies you see murdering dudes with her looks, but for some reason she ends up digging the awkward man out. Suffering from a sweet paralysis, he swallowed hard and croaked out, “What are you drinking?”
“A rum and coke, please.” She replied, sitting down at the bar. He was still transfixed – hadn’t gotten anywhere near recovery. “Now, you can tell the bartender.” She said reassuringly with a smile.
by malakhai jonezs
(c) Copyright 2016
img src: https://i.onthe.io/vllkyt1kuspsha0sdg.f6b21949.jpg
Come and get me lyrics are the property of Terrace Martin’s song “Come and Get Me”