Page 32 of The Muse
“No.”
She pouts and moves her leg a little, enough so that I scowl over the glasses again and consider trussing her into position if she can’t keep still.
“That’s a very serious face, Mr Foxton,” she says, giggling again.
“Art is a very serious business for me, Ms Castlewood. It’s what paid for the roof over my head.” Her eyes widen at that as if she’s never considered the amount of money I’ve made from painting over the years. A lot is the amount. As she’s probably just worked out, if she knows anything about London property prices, especially in this area. And I might get the same amount again if this type of work keeps coming from somewhere inside me.
“Being an art critic is just for fun then?” she asks.
“Unfortunately, not.” Another line drawn, the curve of her back swept into her highly erotic arse. “The Herald isn’t quite as strong as it used to be. My father needed someone who wouldn’t charge a fortune for critiquing London’s art scene. So here I am.”
“You wouldn’t have come back to London if not for that?”
“There’s not a cat’s chance in hell that I would have come back to this place unless I had to. Paris felt more like home than London ever has.”
“How long were you there?”
“About twelve years.”
“And I suppose you speak French fluently?”
“Oui. Bien sûr.”
“Guess I’m lucky then.” I look over my glasses again, questioning the statement. “Well, if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t have been so thoroughly introduced to a particular new art form I’ve been enjoying. Which you’re very good at, by the way.”
The compliment washes over me like the caress of her silky hair, as does the thought of showing her some more honest fucking the moment I think she can handle it. “With a body and face like yours, I dare say someone would have soon snapped you up,” mutters out of me as I continue drawing. “I can't honestly believe you've lasted this long.”
“It was important to me. I’ve heard all the horror stories before. I didn’t want to be another pathetic girl or cliché. I wanted the right guy.”
My hand stalls, fingers hovering over all those lines that have come so easily. The right guy? I doubt I'm the right guy. And at no point have we even mentioned anything beyond fucking. Frankly, I wouldn’t even know how to discuss more than what this currently is. Not that I’m entirely sure what this is. It is all instinctual, though. Part of me, like this drawing is—like that painting of her out there is.
I frown and carry on drawing, thumbing in more shadows to contrast with the light. It’s all slightly stalkerish if I'm honest with myself. Which is something I’ve been trying to ignore, especially considering her age, the virginity card, and the fact that she’s back in my bed again. If I even thought about tying in the jealousy that could be rising at the thought of other men, I might have to acknowledge a serious interest.
“What’s the matter with The Herald?” she asks, after a while.
“Why is that important?”
“It’s not. I’m just trying to make conversation. Being still is hard when I’m still looking at yourcockand thinking about sucking it. Also, something I’ve never done before.”
A wide grin breaks out on my face, eyes peering at her over these fucking glasses again. “That’s a dirty thought from such an innocent mouth, Ms Castlewood. It sounds very nice, though.”
“Well, I’m not innocent anymore, am I? You’ve certainly seen to that. You'll have to teach me all the dirty French words to use.”
I chuckle. “You’re a provocative little madam this evening, aren't you?”
She smiles and softly flutters her eyelashes I’m trying to ignore. I lean back, getting a better angle, and then hold my finger up as she tries opening her legs to tempt me back to her. “Absolutely not. Be still, young lady.”
Thankfully, she nuzzles her head back into place, gently laughing again.
Perhaps talking about The Herald will keep this cleaner.
I pick up the wine and drain the glass, refilling immediately. “We have a takeover bid, which is tiresomely dull, but it looks like it’s going through. Broderick Media?” She looks blank. “They were at your interviews. My father just about screwed the business up, or rather the influx of online media and his inability to move with it did, and now he’s having to take a bale out.”
Another line sweeps across the page, my thumb smudging the majority of it, leading down to the very thing she was thinking about showing me earlier. A chuckle rumbles through me at the thought, eyes quickly glancing at her again. I’m doubting erotic posing is something she’ll be interested in, other than this simple position. Could be, though.
“And you don’t think it’s the right move?” she asks.
“What?”
