Becoming His Muse, Part Three (6 page)

His green eyes bore into mine and he adds, “And what’s between your ears, of course. It’s not what you think.
You
are my inspiration, Ava. All of you. Your pussy, your eyes, your mind, the mole on the outside of your left tit.”

He reaches for it as he says the word.

“Logan! We’re in a
taxi
.” I glance at the cabdriver.

He laughs. “You think these guys haven’t seen everything already driving around this city?”

He slides his hand from my knee to my upper thigh. My whole body tingles.

He leans closer and whispers more ardently.

“Ava,
everything
about you inspires me. And when I am between your legs, when I’m inside you, I feel a masterpiece growing inside me. So if you, my inspiration, want to go look at dead people’s paintings to get inspired then I will trail along behind you, waiting for you to be filled with a passion that art gives you, until you are overflowing and ready to lie back and let me take my fill of you.”

I’m afraid he’s going to try to do that right now. He’s sliding his hand right between my legs. I’m wearing thigh high socks under my skirt and I feel his fingers brush up against my soft folds barely concealed by my silk panties. Instinctively, I want to give in to his touch, but we’re at a stop sign and people are looking in the cab window. I push his hand away and try to distract him.

“What about your chapters?”

This seems to work. He releases me and leans back against the seat.

“I’ll give what I have to Lowell this weekend. These next few days will no doubt inspire me to write a whole bunch more over Christmas…At this rate, I’ll be done by spring.”

Which is when I would graduate. Then what? What will happen to us? When he finishes his novel, will he be finished with me too? But I don’t want to spoil this magical weekend in New York, this first time we can really feel free to be ourselves, together, so I push thoughts of the future away for now. I decide I’m going to focus on having fun this weekend.

The taxi slows in front of a red brick building with small wrought iron balconies framing each window. The bare trees that line the street are dusted with a fine layer of snow. As I step out of the taxi, my boots crunch on the salt scattered along the sidewalk. Logan pays the cab driver, who passes our bags from the trunk to the curb.

Logan digs around under a flower pot for key.

“They left a key outside?” That seems awfully trusting. He withdraws a small box.

“It’s got a code.” He presses a sequence of numbers and the box opens. Taking the key out, Logan unlocks the door. Once inside, we pass a collection of built in mailboxes and head up the stairs. There are two apartments per floor and Logan opens the door on the first floor on the left.

Flicking on the lights, we’re in a narrow foyer with white wood paneling and oak floors. Logan leads me to the living room overlooking the street where we were just dropped off. The high ceilings, crown molding, and Edwardian fireplace make me feel as if I’ve stepped back in time, or at least onto a movie set. A couple of plush chairs flank the fireplace and face a long chocolate brown couch. Bookshelves line two walls.

“This friend likes to read?”

“He’d better. He’s an editor.”

“Your editor?”

“No, but an associate of his.”

In one wall of books, an open archway leads through a dining room and then a kitchen. Turning a corner, I’m at the other end of the hall from the foyer. Here I find the bathroom and bedroom, with a canopied bed, gilded mirror, and more bookshelves.

Logan leaves our bags in the bedroom and follows me back toward the living room. I stand in front of the windows. Snow is falling.

“It’s so beautiful.”

Logan comes up behind me, slides his arms around my waist. “Now where were we?” he murmurs. “When we were in the taxi…” His hand slides across my belly and between my legs again.

“I think you were talking about masterpieces?”

He turns me toward him, letting one hand slide along my waist toward my back. He trails his fingers along my spine exploring the curve of each vertebra.

“Ah, yes. Masterpieces. The inspiration in my arms.” I feel him splay his hand between my shoulder blades and then he draws me toward him. With his other hand, he lifts my chin upwards and runs his thumb along my lower lip.

“This mouth,” he says, his breath against my lips. “This mouth is its own work of art. And right now, I plan to defile it.”

His mouth drives against mine with a swiftness I didn’t see coming. I gasp, which brings his lips tighter to mine as his tongue probes deeply toward the back of my throat. He so fills my mouth with his insistent kiss that I can’t help imagining other parts of him defiling me…

Soon I’m desperate to taste him, that hard hot part of him hidden below his belt.

I grab at his belt with both hands as his lips continue to maul mine. I feel an ache between my legs that makes me want to squirm. A masterpiece? I didn’t think so. But the source of one maybe? What I felt there was certainly connected to my inspiration as well. A complete inflow of inspiration was not unlike the feeling of the fullness Logan’s cock inside me. It was a penetration of something close to divine, a hot temporal magic that had the power to seek out my deep center and return with its treasure. I was transformed in the process. Each time another piece of me rose to the surface. Like layers of paint building up to form a complete image, I was being drawn up, built up, to form a complete self.

With his belt buckle now unclasped, I dig into his pants and draw out his rigid, pulsing cock. I duck away from his ardent kisses so that I might fill my mouth with this phallus of blood and heat rising from the center of him. The soft, smooth skin sheathing the hot, hard pulse of his erection feels so sensual, so erotic, I feel as if I were swallowing memories, the ones that seed dreams, the dreams that inspire art. In this primal act of darkly devouring him, I’m aware of an enlightenment, the strange paradox of the physical clashing with the divine. I’m so hungry for it, and yet I sense a part of me will never be fully satiated. I will need to keep feeding, over and over, and this thought makes me deliriously happy.

Logan moans. I reach my fingers up to his wet mouth and slide them against his tongue. He starts sucking. He matches his rhythm to mine. With one hand I pump his shaft while my mouth swallows and swallows, sucks and sucks.

“Oh, Ava. Yes.” He moans, a deep animal grumble from somewhere low in his chest. His hands grab my head, fingers tangled in my hair, as he holds me tight to him, trying to guide my movements. He thrusts into me, banging against the roof of my mouth one minute, the next forcing his way down my throat until I gag. I release so much saliva, I feel it trickling over my pumping hand. He’s getting more regular with his thrusts, more melodic with his moans. I have a decision to make.

I withdraw my fingers from his sucking mouth and reached into the inner pocket of my purse. I let go of his throbbing cock and tear open the little package. He opens his eyes wide, seeming shocked to be empty-mouthed and cock-lonely. But it isn’t for long. With two hands I push him over toward the couch and then down onto it. I straddle him. Then I slide the condom over his length and with two fingers I pulled aside the gusset of my panties. I can’t wait long enough to get out of the rest of my clothes. I want him inside me. I want to impale myself on him. Once I nudge him to my opening, I place both hands on his chest and push him gently. I lean back slightly, and then I bear down hard and fast. He inhales sharply, watching my face. He looks surprised and a little bit vulnerable. I quickly move past the pleasure-pain sensation of such a sudden, deep entry and begin to move smoothly and quickly over him. I slide up and down, taking him in deep one second and then nearly releasing him on the upward motion. He grabs my ass cheeks to hold me close, to keep me from spiraling off him. He hunkers further down into the couch so that he can use his legs to thrust up into me. Soon it’s like a dance. A close, hard, dirty dance. He rubs my ass and squeezes my thighs.

“Kiss me,” he demands. I have to curl down to reach his lips, which alters his angle inside me just a bit. I feel him coast against a deep, electric part of me and I moan squeakily, feeling the deep ache and its imminent release into mind-blowing pleasure. His tongue laps and licks at my lips but I don’t want to be attached there. I want to fling my head back and moan with the animal power rising in me. I release his lips, arch my back, and press his face into my breasts, which have popped the button on my v-neck blouse, so that his lips and cheeks now slide against the warm, full swells of skin that rise above the edge of my bra. He kisses and licks there and I don’t mind that, but my full attention is between my legs where a flame is about to become a conflagration. I push my knees into the couch and drive heartlessly against his cock, willing it to be strong enough to take my hard ride.

“Harder,” I whisper. “Faster.” My words seem to fuel him in some way. I feel nips and bites against my breasts. He’s pushed the wired cups up to free them. His tongue lashes my nipples. His long fingers dig into the flesh under my ass, pinning me so tight against the base of his cock, which he thrusts deeper up into me even though it feels as if he has nowhere else to go. He pulls on my ass as if he’s going to pull it apart, and he tries to hold me down as I buck, which makes my pleasure so much more intense. This small fight of bodily wills infuses the tension, amps the friction, until we’re both bucking wildly, chaotically, at the edge of losing the rhythm that has created the crescendo we both need, want, and can’t seem to live without.

I grip his shoulders and plunge a few more strokes, feeling my clit slide against his stomach on those final rises and falls, and then I’m over an edge so sharp and high I feel stabbed through with blissful exploding reverberations.

“Oh, Logan, yes, I’m coming,” I whisper, moan, yell, scream, I don’t know what, but I feel myself pouring over him, whimpering, pushing him deeper as I draw up every ounce of pure, heart-opening, mind-numbing satisfaction. He stiffens, seems to grow in me as he exhales sharply, calling out my name. And then he drops back, clutching me around the waist, his face buried in my chest, his cock still pulsing inside me. He holds me so tight I find it hard to breathe. I lay my cheek against the thick wavy hair at the top of his head. I’m breathing raggedly, and so is he.

“Oh, Ava…” I feel his cool breath across the flushed skin of my chest. I didn’t think it possible, but he holds me even tighter.

A few moments later, I murmur, “I’m hungry now.”

He sighs contentedly. “I’m more full than I’ve ever been in my life.”

The next morning, I wake up in bed alone. The night before, after our sexcapade, Logan ordered take out and we watched a movie before curling up in the soft and cozy canopied bed. Now I stretch and yawn and wonder where Logan is. I don’t hear the shower. Is he in the living room writing? I’m about to investigate when I hear the locks snap to and the door open.

“Honey, I’m home,” calls Logan. For some reason, these words make my heart swell with happiness.

He enters the bedroom carrying two coffees, a bag of pastries and a tub of fruit salad. He sets those on the bedside and then proceeds to take off his clothes. He’s rock hard by the time he tugs off his boxers.

“Aren’t we having breakfast?” I say, with two appetites on the rise.

He jumps into bed. “I’m having
you
first.”

I’m rather delighted to be his first course. After we take our fill of one another, we devour the delicious food.

“What shall we do today?” I say, feeding Logan a strawberry.

“This,” he says, kissing me with his strawberry lips.

If I let him, Logan would stay in bed, naked, for the entire weekend.

“It’s New York,” I say. “We’ve got to see stuff!”

Logan sighs. “I know. We’re in, arguably, the world’s most culturally rich cities. Sadly, we can’t pretend we’re in Nowhere, USA and just fuck our brains out all weekend. But honestly, that’s all I really want to do.” He crawls over me again, trying to tug my sleep T-shirt over my head. I wriggle away from him.

“Next time we’ll go to Nowhere, USA, okay? But right now we’re in the Big Apple and I want to take more than one bite.”

Logan moans dejectedly and dramatically.

“How ‘bout this,” I say. “Two museums, some food, and then we’ll come home and get naked before the play starts. But it’ll have to be a quickie.”

“Those can be fun,” he says, stroking his stubbly chin.

“You shave while I shower,” I say scurrying off the bed, which is like a sand trap for both of us. If we don’t make some effort, we’ll never make it out of this apartment.

***

We head uptown to the Met. The wide stone steps lead inside to the large foyer and the miles of halls of works of art representing the ages. We’ve barely covered the contemporary and nineteenth century wings before my tummy is growling unabashedly.

“We could grab lunch in one of the cafés,” suggests Logan. “The food’s pretty good. Plus they have wine.”

I order a braised chicken salad with endive and goat cheese and Logan has the Shepherd’s Pie. He orders a white wine for me and red for him.

“This might make me sleepy,” I say, sipping the wine.

“Exactly my plan,” says Logan with a wink. “I’m doing everything I can to convince you to go back to
bed
.”

I laugh and shake my head. “
Two
museums. You promised.”

“Every time I see a painting of a naked woman it makes me want to see you naked.”

“Maybe we should hang out with the Egyptian mummies for a while. Would that dampen your desire?”

He scrunches up his nose. “Nothing like the thought of pitch on one’s genitals to ruin the mood.”

I nod in agreement. “I can tell you’re losing steam. After lunch we can head to the Guggenheim if you like. There’s no way to take in the Met in one visit anyway. But I do insist we leave by way of the mummies.”

He groans. I slide my foot against his calf to remind him that his cooperation now will ensure mine later. He gives me a hungry look, gulps down the rest of his wine, and then relents.