Page 20 of The Muse
A guttural groan falls from me as I wrap her hand around it, and my mouth attacks hers.
“Fuck,” I murmur through our lips. She grips and twists, finding her way around my cock. “Like that. More. Tighter.”
My own hand leaves hers, threading through us so I can get to her pussy. It’s already wet and ready for me when I get to it, slick juices covering my fingers beneath the lace. I pull away from her mouth, watching as she feels my fingers slip inside her. A moan leaves her, her face burying itself in my neck. I lift it again, too absorbed in the hungry gaze that’s building in her and those lips that quiver and moan. Fucking beautiful. Every inch of her. Skin, muscles, that blonde hair framing her face to perfection.
I roll us almost instantly, unable to keep myself away from covering her. The briefs get pushed down, both hers and mine, and the bra's ripped from her perfect skin until we’re nothing but naked bodies and heat. I shouldn’t. I really fucking shouldn’t. Innocence is not meant for the likes of me. Never has been, especially considering this age gap, but my teeth rip the foil of the wrapper, fingers pulling out the condom before I question what the hell I’m doing any more than that. Too pretty. Too perfect. And too embedded in me because of the art she’s helped me create again.
I’m having this.
And she’s taking it.
~
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stare through the open door into the main lounge and ponder what the fuck it is that I’ve done. Morning sun filters back at me, the light of it creeping across the floor as if reminding me of last night. It doesn’t need to. I can remember every bloody sensation and every moan, gasp and orgasm I pulled from her. She was exquisite in her untamed beauty, unbridled in her virginity, but that isn’t what's confusing, it’s the end result now.
The morning after the night before.
I turn and look back at her, watching as she sleeps soundly under the darkness of the closed curtains. She’s small in my bed, her legs tucked in tight as if even she knows this was wrong. Never in my life have I taken a woman to bed that is so young in comparison to me. I have a limit usually, a point at which it’s deemed acceptable. And last night, in whatever frenzied state I was in, I broke that limit. Add in the virginity aspect, and I don’t know what the hell was going through my head other than arrogant male need.
The bizarre thing about all that is I don’t really give a toss. Confused, yes, but regretful? Not in the slightest. She’s as pretty now as she was the first time I saw her, and even more so given the fact that I can still feel myself inside her innocence and she’s still naked. Tempting. But the rights and wrongs of it all—I’m not sure. Didn’t seem to stop me last night, though. And it isn’t stopping me from wanting to crawl straight back inside her now, either.
Instead of doing just that, I stand and pull some shorts on to head into the kitchen. I need to have a few words with myself, try understanding where I go from here if there’s anywhere to go at all. Sleeping with women normally involves me being an arsehole the minute it’s done or passing out from drink. This time, for reasons that I can’t fully comprehend, not only did I wrap her into my hold and keep her there for the night, I’m also contemplating more than that with a woman too young to even know her own mind yet.
The moment I’ve put the coffee machine on, I stare at the tall screens still keeping one end of this flat locked down from her. Is it just that? The painting? The effect both it, and her, are having on me? I don’t know. Maybe I should just finish it and be done. Say good morning and goodbye. That would be sensible. It’s not like I’ve got a damn thing to offer someone her age other than my own tetchy nature and absolutely no fucking interest in raising a family, anyway.
I sigh and walk back to the machine, taking my double espresso shot so I can sit at the table to contemplate some more. What, I’m not entirely sure, but whatever it is I’m discussing with myself keeps whirring around until I finally hear movement coming from the bedroom. My gaze goes to the half open door, perhaps hoping that the vision of her stepping into my space in the broad light of day might make a decision for me. It does. She looks like a bloody seraph wrapped in beauty as she creeps in shyly with my robe drowning her.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, tucking the belt in tighter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you’d mind me in this or not.” I keep staring, interested in my own odd reaction to the sight of her in my space, let alone naked in my robe. “Do you? I can just shower if you do and be on my way. I wouldn’t mind one of those, though.” She nods at my coffee cup, a small, nervous smile on her face. Still, I stare, now apparently fascinated with the light moving across her exposed collar bone and unable to articulate anything at all. “Sorry, I’ll go and get dressed,” she says. What?
“I would rather you didn’t.”
“Of course,” she says, turning for the bedroom. “It was presumptuous of me and…”
“Get dressed, I meant.” My coffee goes to my mouth, gaze still trained on her. She twists back, her face seeming confused, as she looks back at me. “Undressed, yes. Dressed again—no.”
“Oh,” she says, smiling a little more. “Okay.”
Silence. I like it. And I appear to like her past one night of fucking as well. Curious, if not bloody stupid. I stand and move to the machine again, pulling out a chair for her as I go and pointing at it. “Sit.”
The silence carries on as I make her the same drink as mine and feel myself smile. That’s as interesting as seeing her in my space. Mornings and smiling are not the norm for me. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I even thought about smiling this early in the day.
“It’s nice,” she says after a while. I put her cup down in front of her and arch a brow as I sit, unsure what’s nice. “The loft. Or it would be if you unpacked those boxes and tried living in it rather than just existing.” My other brow shoots up. “You’ve been back a year, right? I think that’s what you said last night.” A little over that. “I was a bit tipsy, so I could be wrong. The light is good, though. Pretty.” It certainly is, and it’s better now she’s in it shining her smile around. “But if you could just get a bit of art up, some colour, it would make it a bit more … friendly? And honestly, that strange smell needs to go. What is that? It’s like oil. Or vinegar maybe.”
It’s paint. New paint. A painting of her.
My lack of conversation, or replies, seem to make her grab at her coffee and sip gently as if she’s just realised she’s talking too much. I look at the light on her face again, watching as it highlights cheekbones that I need to get on that bloody canvas.
“Any other opinion on the way I live that you’d like to address?” I ask.
Her head rears up. “Oh. No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” She looks at the coffee again. “I was just …” She puts the cup down, straightening her shoulders. “Oh, God, I’ll just shut up.”
I’d rather she didn’t do that either. It’s quite nice listening to her voice here, especially as it's soft and vulnerable this time instead of the shouting match that occurred last time.
“Why would you want to shut up?”
“Because, well.” More looking at her bloody coffee rather than at me. “Well, it would help if you weren’t so bloody … intense.”
“Intense?”
