Page 21 of The Muse
“Yes,” she snips, crossing her arms. “Intense. And grumpy. You’re not overly welcoming this morning.”
“Grumpy and intense?” She nods. “I’m not sure I’ve shown any hint of grumpy yet this morning, have I?” Her mouth opens to argue that point. I’m not in the mood for arguing for once. “In fact, I’ve been positively charming for me, I can assure you, but if you’d like to see some of my grumpy, I’ll be more than happy to put you over my knee.”
The eyes go wide, shoulders softening and mouth going slack as if she’s only just realised that I’m twice her size. I keep staring, potentially considering just getting on with my dirty little thoughts anyway. We’ve got time. And I’m amenable to any form of rough play she’d like to indulge in now she’s been broken in. It isn’t until I notice the blush rise through her whole body, the sweeping hue of it swarming inch by inch over her chest, chin, and cheeks, that I remember I actually have a bloody job to get to.
The thought deflates the hell out of me. As does the next concept that enters my brain—Landon Broderick is coming in. I check my watch and stand with a huff, still unsure how to proceed with little miss taut and tight and damn sure I’d rather stay here all day with her than deal with either my father or that wanker.
She looks up at me, still with a face full of bright crimson and her mouth open.
“Sadly, I should go into the office,” I mutter, pushing my chair under the table.
“Oh. Right,” she says, scrabbling upright. “Of course, you do. I’m sorry. I’ll go and get changed. Do you mind if I shower?”
“Help yourself.”
The entire time I can hear her showering, I’m staring at the screens again. It’s all I want to do today. I want her to stay here with me and watch as I show her what she’s helped me find again. Age or not, right or wrong, she’s made this happen for me. And not only that, but she’s somehow found a way of me thinking about sharing it with her.
The thought’s as curious as my reaction to her is. I’ve never shared before. Never even considered someone being in the same space as me while I create art, let alone involve them in the process. And yet I've now told her I need to go to the office. Considering that I don't really have to go, nor am I even tolerating the thought regardless of my father's wishes, I'm clearly not ready for whatever this is or could be.
Twenty minutes later and she’s back in the room looking as pretty as she did last night as she holds the door frame and slips on her shoes. She brushes a light gloss over her lips, making the blush pink instantly shine under the lights. “I’ve ordered an Uber. It’ll be ten minutes,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Alright.”
I wait, leaning on the island unit, and try to find some words that I want to say. I’m not entirely sure what the hell they are, though. Dinner again? A meet up? Or perhaps nothing. Nothing, as I’ve already told myself repeatedly this morning, is sensible.
“I had a nice time,” she eventually murmurs as she stands by the door. “Thank you.”
“For the food or the fucking?”
“Oh, God, your mouth.” A small laugh trickles out of her, eyes fluttering gently, as she rocks on her feet and grips her bag nervously. “But both.”
I smile and move over the room, not remotely sure what’s about to come out of me until I reach her. “Would you like to do it again?”
“Which bit?”
“Both. Preferably more of the latter. Lots of it, in fact.”
Another giggle. “Okay.”
“How’s your weekend looking?”
She smirks. “I’m sure I could squeeze you in somewhere.”
A full-bodied laugh rips out of me, lips stretched so wide because of the innuendo that I almost forget I’m a miserable bastard for a few moments. “Could you indeed.”
“If I must.”
“Right well, how about I take you somewhere and we see what happens after that. I’d hate to force myself on you.”
She grins, lighting up the room again. “I’m not sure I’d mind that much if you did.”
A horn beeps outside somewhere, probably signalling the fact that her damn Uber is here. I stare at her and reach inside my messenger bag for one of my cards, handing it over.
“Call me when you get home and we’ll arrange something.”
I should walk her out, really, give her that gentlemanly offer.. I’m not a gentleman, though. Or at least not normally. She opens the door before I’ve fully considered how gentlemanly I’m feeling, her hand hovering on the frame.
“I’m glad it was you,” she says coyly. My brow arches in question. “The sex. You knew what you were doing.” I should. I’m a whore at it, frankly. But if she thinks that's all fucking is, she's very much mistaken. She didn't get half of what I could have done to her.
