Read Becoming His Muse, Part Two for Free Online

him.
    “But you said you weren’t getting any writing done in Soho. To me, it sounds like where you live does matter.”
    He frowns. Then looks away for a moment, past me, at the wall across the room. His face hardens, as if I’ve brought up something unpleasant.
    “The problem with “where” is that it’s permeable to who, what, when and why. If I only had where to contend with, it wouldn’t be an issue.”
    I’m not sure what he means, and I wonder what issues he’s thinking of, but I can see a coldness wrapping itself around him, and I’m personally longing for the heat we’d felt outside. I think he is, too, because he seems to shrug off his thoughts with a smile. He pats the bed beside him.
    “Relax, Ava. Make yourself comfortable.” He winks at me, and his smile curves seductively at the edges. I feel a flicker of heat coil up my spine and my skin starts to tingle, very subtly at first. That’s what his look does to me. Soon that flicker will be a flame, and then, in time, a conflagration of lust; I felt it burning at the edges when we kissed. It was more than mere kissing. It was tasting, biting, a gnawing at our souls. Kisses quench, slake a thirst, but the hunger I felt kissing Logan was like cracking into a fissure of gas, the hiss of its release a promise of fueling flames, not dousing them.
    I sit down on the bed next to him, but not too close. I leave some elbowroom so that I can pull my boots off. I set my beer on the floor and wrap my hands around my left foot. I have an urge to move quickly but I restrain myself, go slowly, telling myself there will only be one first time with him and I want to savor it, not rush. I don’t want to run into the fire too soon and burn up without feeling the exquisite pleasure of intense heat first.
    I haven’t slipped the first boot off my heel before he’s on the floor, on his knees, in front of me.
    “Let me,” he whispers.
    He sets his beer beside mine. The two bottles sit side by side, sweating, as he wraps his hands around my foot. Like before, in the studio, he seems less intimidating below me looking up, and I feel stronger, more powerful, as he stares at me with desire. He moves slowly, too, easing my boot off with careful tender movements. He slips off my thin sock and then slides his thumb against the bare skin of my arch. I place my hands on the bed behind me, to help hold me up, to allow me to lean back slightly. His simple touch, exerted with a deliberate pressure, has traveled all the way up my body to my back, which wants to arch to match the curve of my foot.
    He reaches for my other boot, frees my foot, presses his thumb into my bare skin again. I sigh as his fingers run up along my Achilles tendon, and then his hand slides to my shin bone, and then upwards, to my knee. As he moves upward his pressure steers outward, and with a hand on each of my knees he pushes me open, stretching my skirt, which he’s pushed above my knees as he’s followed the ridge of my shin bone.
    He moves closer, edging himself between my knees, sliding his hands along my thighs until he reaches my buttocks. He locks on, and pulls my pelvis closer to him. My knees yield, fall open further, and my arms, stretched a little too far, bend until I’m on my elbows. I look down across my chest, the curve of my belly, the stretched lap of my skirt to his chest, face, and tousled hair, wedged between my thighs. I want to squeeze, hold him there forever. My sighs have turned to shallow pants.
    “Thirsty?” he asks.
    I nod. He reaches toward the floor, passes me a beer bottle. To take it, I have to adjust my weight on my elbows. In shifting, I rock him between my thighs. I hear him sigh and release a light moan. I sip the beer, let the cold liquid run down my throat. Nothing can ease the rising temperature inside me. My clothes feel constrictive. As if he knows this, he eases my skirt higher, pushing the clinging fabric up to my hips. He stares at me with heavy-lidded eyes,