Becoming His Muse, Part Three (7 page)

“Fine. Take me to Tutankhamun.”

We finish lunch and head to the Egyptian wing where we end up the spacious Temple of Dendur with its flat fountain pools and massive windows looking out onto a snowy Central Park. The sun is beginning to break through the clouds making the snow-dusted rocks and white lawns sparkle.

“We can go now,” I say, wanting to be outside and feel the sun on my face.

We leave the Met and walk up 5
^th
Avenue alongside the park. Clouds shred to reveal a bright blue sky.

Logan holds my hand and whispers, “One more museum and then we can go back to the apartment so I can study my
favorite
masterpiece, right?”

I nod, and kiss him on the cheek.

He gestures up the street. “The Guggenheim is just up ahead.”

I see the famous Frank Lloyd Wright structure on the corner. It looks like a strange paper cut-out space ship.

“I’ve always wanted to see this place,” I say.

As we wait in line to buy tickets, I feel the wine and water from lunch pooling in my bladder. Though, once inside, I forget all about having to pee as I stare up through the round cavernous space.

The open, spiraling layout is a piece of art in itself. I want to run up and down the curving ramps but I restrain myself, plus it’s too crowded for that. We follow the sloping floor and take in the art on one side, and the open space on the other. Though we’re inside, the spaciousness of the open center gives a feeling of being outside. With my arms resting on the solid half wall that serves as a railing, I feel as if I’m at a national lookout. At the very top is massive window with panes set in an iron webbing. Winter sunlight pours through.

By the second turn of the spiral, my body reminds me I have to pee. There are single washrooms at one place along the curving wall on each floor. When I see a woman emerge from one, I cross over to it quickly before anyone else can slip in ahead of me.

Logan is right on my heels.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“Coming with you,” he whispers. He glances over his shoulder and then nudges me across the threshold and locks the door behind us both.

“You want me to pee with you here?”

“Absolutely.” His smile is sexy, his cool green eyes cool warm with desire. He reaches for the button of my jeans. “Let me help you.”

I’m not sure if I can go pee with him ‘helping’ me. I push his hands away.

“I can do this part myself.”

He steps back as I settle onto the toilet. “Can you maybe not look? I’m not sure if I can, you know,
let go
with you staring at me.”

He adjust the growing bulge in his pants and then turns toward the mirror where he busies himself washing his hands and wetting down the stray locks of his hair.

I finally relax enough to let the kidney-purified water and wine trickle out of me.

In the reflection of the mirror, I see him close his eyes and smile at the sound.

“It’s a turn on, Ava.”

“What is?” I say, dabbing myself dry.

“Watching you pee, sharing this intimate personal moment, something so normal yet usually so private.”

I stand up, pull my jeans over my hips.

“Don’t,” he says, before I do up the button. His hand slides across my skin just below my waistline.

I turn to find the lever on the toilet.

“Leave it for now,” says Logan, sliding his arms around my waist. His lips find my neck and he sucks lightly. Between kisses he says,

“You know, I don’t think we’ll have time to go back to the apartment before the play starts. Let’s have our quickie here.”

“
Here
?”

His tongue slides along my collarbone and up the side of my neck until his lips meet mine. His mouth envelopes mine with a hot hunger. My own appetite awakens. I may have just dried myself off but this kiss is releasing new flood gates. He pushes my pants back down past my hips and slides his hand between my thighs. My whole body trembles.

“What if someone comes,” I say.

“The door’s locked. They can wait.”

Turning me away from the toilet, he nudges me back against the side wall. It’s easy for him to guide me since he’s got one hand around my waist and the other between my legs. Once he’s got me pressed against the wall, he ravages my neck with his lips. Both of his hands slide up my sides and under my sweater in search of my breasts, which he frees from their satin-cupped enclosure. He twists my nipples roughly as his mouth roves down my neck.

One of my hands is in his hair, the other searches for his belt. He’s quicker than I am, though; he’s already undoing the clasp, and then his button and zipper. He pushes one leg of my pants down, tugging off my boot so the pant leg can come off completely. He hoists my bare leg around his waist and releases his cock from its confines. I feel his hard, smooth, hot skin press into my thigh. He pulls back for a second, and faster than he’s ever done it before, he rolls on a condom. Then his lips find mine as he guides himself deftly toward my hot, wet center. His cock, in time with his tongue, penetrates my lower lips as his tongue explores my yielding mouth. I whimper as he fills me quickly and thoroughly. I tilt my pelvis forward so he can go deeper.

A moan starts in his chest and reverberates between our lips. He grabs the thigh of my bare leg and hoists it higher as he presses me harder against the wall and delves deeper into me. Pinned as I am, he now reaches for my other leg, still partially clothed, and lifts it as well so that both my legs are wrapped around his waist as I lean against the wall. He rams into me with solid, insistent thrusts. His breathing is deep and ragged. Mine is high and shallow. I feel dizzy with desire. His desperate hunger for me the most powerful aphrodisiac I’ve ever known. The feel of him inside me is amazing — soft, hard, hot, and so filling. It feels different, too. Is it the roughness of this encounter, the speed of it, the semi-public environment? I don’t know but my insides are sparking and vibrating in a whole new way.

I rub tightly against him, feeling the edge of his belt under my thighs. I can see his movements in the mirror above the sink. His hips rock with animal instinct to satisfy his pleasure, and it’s
me
giving him that pleasure, or rather he’s taking it from me, drawing it out of me, demanding and commanding that I satisfy him. I see my flushed cheeks, hooded eyes, partially open mouth. Watching Logan’s movements, his controlled lack of control
because of me
, amps up my pleasure and his next few thrusts drive me into an orgasmic frenzy. I clutch at his back, say, “Don’t stop. Harder, faster…” And he obliges.

I’m at the edge of coming, and I think he is too, when I hear a light rap at the door and the shake of the lock. Instead of stopping, Logan thrusts harder. He moans into my neck.

I manage to squeak out, “Just a minute.” And then, emboldened, with Logan’s lips on my neck and his fingers digging almost painfully into my thighs, I whisper, “Fuck me.” He growls into my neck and forces himself as deep as he can go. The intensity of his pressure, his length and depth, the close rubbing of his abdomen against my hot, swollen clit triggers the beginning of my explosive climax. Like a fuse lit on a firecracker I burn with flaring sparks leading up to a final explosion.

“Say it again,” he says roughly. “Tell me again.”

“Fuck me, Logan. Fuck me hard.”

He moan-growls as he does just that. It seems he practically splits me in two as I keep sparking, my final explosion imminent.

“Again,” he demands.

I whimper it out one last time and then I’m rolling and rocking at the mercy of his final thrusts as my orgasm explodes around us both. I bite my tongue so as not to cry out his name, because someone might be listening on the other side of that door. My nails dig into his shirt, my head lolls against the hard tiled wall, my juices drench his still-plunging cock. His lips lock onto my neck as I feel his climactic thrusts. They’re hard and deep, as if he’s going right through me and into the wall, and then they slow and soften as he leans into me, still holding me up, but with trembling tired arms. I slide one leg down to hold myself up while I feel his releasing pulses fill me.

He kisses my neck and cheek softly, murmuring. “Mmmm… I liked that… I like fucking you…I like you telling me to…”

“I like you wanting to,” I whisper back. I can’t quite find the words to express how beautifully powerful I feel when he wants me that rawly, that primally, when he
needs
me to open to him, to say those things, or others, and for him to give himself to me so fully. I feel full. Full of him. Full of my own power and pleasure.

But now we have to let each other go. He slips from my pussy’s embrace. I wipe up my juices. He disposes of his condom. We both put our clothes back together and ready ourselves to rejoin the real world. But I hang on to the sweet sensual world we have created between us.

Whoever had knocked earlier is no longer waiting, probably having given up and gone in search of another toilet on another floor. We exit together, and only one elderly woman sees us, her arched eyebrow and pursed lips the only sign of suspicion. We lean toward one another, sharing a sexy secret. I feel as if I’m glowing on the inside and out. Logan’s arm slides possessively around my shoulders for all to see as we carry on up the ramp that houses several large Picasso paintings.

Logan and I walk together hand in hand or arm in arm as if we’ve been a couple for years. What a relief it is to just be together, out in the open, with nothing to hide. It reveals to me how stressful the last few months have been.

“It’s nice to be here with you like this.”

“Museum hopping?”

“Not
hiding
,” I say.

“It could always be like this,” he says.

I stop and turn to him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “If we lived here.”

We? Here? My head is spinning. Logan has never even hinted at anything permanent between us.

“This particular Picasso was….” He steps toward the wall pointing out this and that while the tiny bomb he just dropped explodes inside me.

By the time we leave the Guggenheim, we have to rush to catch a taxi to make the curtain call for Wicked. That dazzling spectacle pervades my senses through the evening, and manages to push Logan’s suggestive words to the back of my mind. But they are not lost. They haunt the eddies of my imagination and conjure up all kind of scenarios.

That night I dream we’re bride and groom floating through a colorful surrealist sky of a Marc Chagall painting.

Living in New York is my dream, but living here with Logan reaches beyond my wildest dreams. On our own, unencumbered by rules and roles, we seem to fit well together. He has his moods, to be sure, but he doesn’t snore too loudly, and he makes me feel like a sexual goddess every minute of every day. There is the age difference, but maybe we can overcome that? There’s his reputation, and my lack of one. Can we bridge that? In our own little world, I feel as if we could conquer anything, but I remind myself I’ve not met anyone from his life, nor he from mine. When I think about that, my doubts surface. My parents would never approve, of course, but I’ll be risking their support and approval just by moving to New York. And what would Logan’s reader-fans think if the bad boy of literature settled down with a wet-behind-the-ears college grad? Could that affect his established yet still burgeoning career?

Regardless of where my imagination is taking me, is Logan just playing out a fantasy with his muse? All he said was, “
If
we lived here…”. Maybe it means nothing. I’m just a painter, but I’m well aware that the world of “
what if
” is a writer’s playground. And he hasn’t brought it up again since yesterday.

I wander around a snowy Washington Square with these thoughts bouncing around my brain.

After a mid-morning visit to the Museum of Modern Art, Logan escorted me back to the apartment and then left to meet his agent, Lowell. I was feeling restless, I decided to take a walk and discovered this wonderful square where, even in the middle of winter, scores of people wander with their thoughts and quiet conversation. A very bundled up old woman sits on a bench tossing seeds to the pigeons. The two inches of snow on the ground lends a quality of hushed sound and glowing light. I feel as if I’m walking through a postcard.

When my fingers get too cold, I return to the apartment and fire up the Nespresso machine. I scan the packed bookshelves and find a slim first edition of
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
. I settle in to read until Logan returns.

***

I manage to skim the first thirty pages before I hear the locks click and retract.

Logan returns from having coffee with his agent.

“He was impressed with the weight of that stack of pages. Now I’ll have to wait to see if that impression extends to the words themselves.” He absently bites at his thumbnail.

“He will be,” I say to reassure him. But what do I know? I’m guessing, for a writer, this is one of those tense stretches of time when you wait to find out if you’re on the right or the wrong track. The unveiling of a painting isn’t so time consuming. It’s initially perceived in a matter of seconds, but writing takes hours, days, or weeks to assess. A different kind of patience is required.

“By the way, Lowell invited us to an art opening in Chelsea. At first I said no—I hate those stuffy gatherings—but then I thought you might enjoy it. Would you?”

I smile. “Yes. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I do that more often than you might imagine.”

I smile again. That may be true but I doubt it’s as much as I’d like. There are more thoughts in this man’s brain than I’ll ever know. I’m glad to at least occupy a tiny space in there.

“When’s the opening?” I’m thinking we may have some time for a little fun first.

“Seven. A wine and cheese thing. We can go out to eat after.” He tosses his Fedora onto the dining table.

“Or come back here?” I sidle up to him. My hands push against his tweed lapels until the jacket falls from his shoulders. I start to work the buttons of his shirt. He dressed so nicely to meet his agent. I now want to balance out the nice with some naughty.