Page 6 of Claiming His Muse

“I’d love to read one sometime,” I say. “I’m sure you’re an incredible writer.”

“Maybe I’ll read you one when we wrap up,” she offers, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

“I’d like that,” I tell her as I start working on the painting.

We fall into a comfortable silence as I work. Jenny sits still as a statue. She’s the perfect model, and when I praise her, she only blushes and tells me that’s what everyone says. I’m a little jealous of the fact that other people are complimenting her, but I know I’m the only person she sits for privately, so I can’t get too upset.

“Alright,” I murmur when I’m satisfied with the work I’ve done. “I think that’s as much as I can do for today. I’ll need to let this dry before I do anything else. Ready to show me one of your poems?”

“Sure,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a little notebook. She flips through it, taking her time to decide which one to show me. Then, she holds it out for me to take. “Here. I’m trusting you not to flip through it. A lot of that stuff is unfinished.”

“You have my word,” I promise, giving her a warm smile before turning my attention to the poem.

Too thin, like a washboard.

Too quiet, like a mime.

Invisible.

Thoughts that demand attention.

A face that deflects it.

Unwanted.

Filled up like a balloon about to pop.

Never bursting, a hole in the rubber.

Defective.

My heart clenches as I read the words a second time, then a third. I can’t believe this is how she sees herself. She’s such a light, has such a spark, that this is unthinkable. Still, she opened up to me, showed me this piece of herself.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, handing the book back to her. “Do you really feel like that?”

“Sometimes,” Jenny says quietly, slipping the journal into her bag. “I’ve been feeling a little better lately, though. Less invisible.”

“Good,” I say, standing up and stepping toward her. On impulse, I cup her cheek and tilt her face toward mine. “You should never feel like that.”

“Yeah?” she breathes, her eyes darting toward my lips.

I lean down and close the gap between the two of us with a kiss. I’m hesitant at first, so gentle I feel like I’m teasing myself. But, when she responds with sloppy enthusiasm, I stop holding back. I run my tongue along her bottom lip, nearly groaning when she opens her mouth to grant me entry.

As our tongues brush, I shift my hands from her cheeks and move them down her neck, letting them rest on her shoulders. When she leans into the touch, I let them drift lower, caressing her biceps. Then I shift my grip to her hips and she pulls away, resting our foreheads together.

“There’s something you should know,” she whispers, her eyes closed, her eyelashes fanning over her cheeks. “I’ve... I’ve never done anything more than kissing.”

“Oh,” I say, the knowledge of her innocence going straight to my cock. “That’s okay. That’s not a problem.”

“Okay,” she replies, putting her hand on the back of my head and drawing me in for another kiss.

I’m more than happy to oblige, squeezing her hips through the plush fabric of her dress. She makes an eager noise into my mouth, and I step in closer. I’m starting to get hard, and I have half a mind to take her right here in the studio... but right as I start to hike her dress up, the door opens and someone clears their throat.

“Blake,” a familiar voice belonging to Professor Morris, the ceramics instructor, says, “this is improper use of studio time.”

“My bad,” I reply, taking a step back from Jenny. Her face looks like it’s on fire.

“You two need to take that somewhere else,” he says, sounding unamused.

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