Page 4 of A Virgo's Muse
“No.”
“Why not?”
I swallowed. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“Because I lost it,” I said. My voice barely above a whisper. “The spark. The feeling. I thought it was gone. Then you showed up last night, dropped some cryptic-ass line, and disappeared like a movie villain, and now I can’t stop thinking about a man made of iron and grief.”
His mouth twitched in a smirk, almost a smile.
I crossed my arms. “You always sneak into women’s studios uninvited, or am I special?”
“You’re special,” he said simply.
The silence after that was so full.
“I wasn’t trying to pull you out of anything last night,” he added. “Just wanted to see what you’d do with the feeling.”
“Well,” I said, stepping closer. “I drew you. In my sketchbook around 2:00 a.m.”
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak. I could see it in his eyes. He already knew I would.
“I don’t know what this is, but something about you makes me want to create again.”
He finally closed the distance between us, and now, we were inches away from sharing the same breath. He smelled like smoke and sandalwood.
“Then let’s create,” he said, taking off his hoodie, tossing it somewhere in the studio.
I didn’t know why he was having this effect on me… not fully. But a part of me, the wild part I kept buried beneath routine and lists and Virgo logic, wanted to find out.
“Then let’s create.”
I watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Her body already did. It was in the way she shifted when I stepped closer, the way her fingers twitched like they wanted something to hold but didn’t know what.
I pulled my hoodie over my head and tossed it to the side, not caring where it landed. Her eyes flickered down for half a second. It was just long enough for me to catch it. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t smile either. She was playing hard to get, but I got time. Her lips could lie all they wanted. Her body didn’t.
I moved toward the back of the studio where the clay was kept. The air back here felt thicker somehow, heavier. Maybe it was the quiet hum of the wheel. Maybe it was her.
“You ever work with clay?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
She leaned against the table like she was in control, arms folded across her chest, one brow cocked like she was unimpressed. “Maybe once in college. Didn’t like the way it stuck under my nails.”
I stepped past her and turned on the wheel. The soft whir of motion filled the silence.
“Then you weren’t doing it right.”
I pulled the stool closer and patted the seat in front of it. “Come here.”
She stayed still for a moment like she was debating. Then she pushed off the table and walked over, slow and steady, like she was not giving in, just humoring me. But I saw the curiosity in her eyes. She sat, crossed her legs, and leaned back just a little too casually.
I pulled a chair behind her real close and sat down so my chest brushed her back. I didn’t touch her yet. I just let the tension bloom between us.
She was warm.
Up close like this, I could smell the remnants of vanilla and paint. Her skin looked like it held stories. Her hair was tied up high, leaving her neck exposed, and I had to resist the urge to press my lips to the dip behind her ear.
Focus,I coached myself in my head.
