Becoming His Muse, Part Two Page 4

  He sets his beer beside mine. The two bottles sit side by side, sweating, as he wraps his hands around my foot. Like before, in the studio, he seems less intimidating below me looking up, and I feel stronger, more powerful, as he stares at me with desire. He moves slowly, too, easing my boot off with careful tender movements. He slips off my thin sock and then slides his thumb against the bare skin of my arch. I place my hands on the bed behind me, to help hold me up, to allow me to lean back slightly. His simple touch, exerted with a deliberate pressure, has traveled all the way up my body to my back, which wants to arch to match the curve of my foot.

  He reaches for my other boot, frees my foot, presses his thumb into my bare skin again. I sigh as his fingers run up along my Achilles tendon, and then his hand slides to my shin bone, and then upwards, to my knee. As he moves upward his pressure steers outward, and with a hand on each of my knees he pushes me open, stretching my skirt, which he’s pushed above my knees as he’s followed the ridge of my shin bone.

  He moves closer, edging himself between my knees, sliding his hands along my thighs until he reaches my buttocks. He locks on, and pulls my pelvis closer to him. My knees yield, fall open further, and my arms, stretched a little too far, bend until I’m on my elbows. I look down across my chest, the curve of my belly, the stretched lap of my skirt to his chest, face, and tousled hair, wedged between my thighs. I want to squeeze, hold him there forever. My sighs have turned to shallow pants.

  “Thirsty?” he asks.

  I nod. He reaches toward the floor, passes me a beer bottle. To take it, I have to adjust my weight on my elbows. In shifting, I rock him between my thighs. I hear him sigh and release a light moan. I sip the beer, let the cold liquid run down my throat. Nothing can ease the rising temperature inside me. My clothes feel constrictive. As if he knows this, he eases my skirt higher, pushing the clinging fabric up to my hips. He stares at me with heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth partially open.

  I pass him back the cold beer bottle. He takes it, sips from it, his eyes fixated on mine. I watch his lips as they suck from the bottle. I watch his throat as he swallows. And then I feel his thumb slide from my outer hip toward my inner thigh. He follows the satin line of my panties. His thumbnail snakes across the seam, crossing the stitched boundary, making me gasp.

  He smiles at the sound, pulls the bottle from his lips, and narrows his gaze at me. I am still dressed, except for my bare legs, exposed as they are from the high rise of my skirt, but I might as well be naked. I am made raw and revealed simply by his look.

  “You’re hot,” he says.

  It’s true. I am flushed, damp with sweat, and I want to rip my clothes off.

  “You’re beautiful and hot, Ava Nichols.”

  I lick my lips, watch him. “Undress me,” I whisper. I draw my thighs together just a bit. He smiles at that, takes another sip of beer.

  “Soon.”

  His thumb still rests lightly at the edge of my panties, which are wet with wanting.

  “Now,” I say. “Please.”

  His brow furrows the tiniest bit, as if he’s not happy about my impatience. I’m about three seconds away from ripping his clothes off, too. I draw my thighs together to squeeze him into agreement.

  He shakes his head lightly. “You’re too hot I think.”

  He does two things in quick succession: one, his thumb, pulling aside the triangle of my panties, skims over my swollen clit, making me cry out, and two, he presses the cold beer bottle against my wet lower lips, eliciting a sharp intake of breath coupled with a bucking, writhing scramble away from the chill.

  He puts the bottle down and I still myself, recovering from the shock of heat and cold. I feel myself throbbing intensely, pleasurably. My thighs have fallen open, relaxed. I’m flat on my back on his bed. He’s moving between my legs, taking his shirt off, flinging it to the side.

  I rise up on my elbows to look at him. Smoothly bare-chested, he grins devilishly at me.

  “I’m still thirsty,” he says. Then he bows down and his mouth is on me, the perfect temperature and texture, the kiss to end all kisses.

  Chapter Five

  Logan O’Shane’s perfect lips suck and lick me to ecstatic heights. His tongue, so often full of wit and whiplash remarks, is weaving lines of wordless pleasure along the throbbing folds of my pussy. I hold fistfuls of his duvet in each hand, my back is arched, my heels push into the end of his bed, I hold his gorgeous face between my flushed thighs. My pelvis rocks against his tempestuous mouth. He probes me thoroughly, licking and lapping until I am squirming beneath him. I whimper and cry out, try to push his head away. It’s too much. I feel as if I will crawl out of my skin from the intensity of his focus, and I don’t want to leave my skin. I want to inhabit it fully, push it to the edges of its pleasure limits, but it’s as if I’m there already, at my limit, the edge of myself. My chest heaves with deep breaths mixed with shallow gasps. Is this an orgasm already? Or something beyond? All I know is that I’ve never felt this before. Did I come when his thumb brushed against me? Or when the bottle shocked me to my core? I feel as if I’ve been coming since he laid his lips on me, peaking and peaking and never subsiding. How much am I imagining, how much is really happening? I want to stop and step back. I want to feel my blood in my veins at their normal thrum, not this roiling explosive electricity, as if I might burst from the boundary of my body.

  My head is turning side to side, my breath seems to slosh in my lungs, but he won’t let me go, he draws me tighter to his face and I feel myself buried there, I feel myself drowning in sensations that pervade everything I’ve come to know about sex, which in five minutes has been reduced to nothing. He comes up for a breath, licking with light flickers, and I think, yes, air, a break, a coming back into my own self, but no… his tongue doesn’t let up, and there’s something else now… I cry out, my neck arching with the deepest sensation of all. Open, wet, and tingling with raw ecstasy, I know I can’t take much more, and then I feel two long fingers enter me. They slide into my private darkness, slick and warm, and I feel them slowly curl. His mouth sucks up my clit as if to swallow it whole, while at the same time, his fingers curl back inside me and begins to tap lightly. I let out an animal cry, folding my arms over my chest and then throwing them wide open in surrender as my pelvis bucks with a mind of its own, taking me from a realm where I thought orgasm was one thing into another world where I give over to the climax rushing through me like tornado wiping the prairie clean of anything it knew to be itself.

  It takes a while for the wild storm to fade, and it doesn’t entirely. I am pulsing with the echoes of ecstasy. These little pulses are the epitome of what I knew pleasure to be before. Now they are simply aftershocks. What has happened?

  I try to catch my breath. I couldn’t form a word right now if my life depended on it. But I don’t have to. Logan is here with me. I’m aware of him now. He’s on the bed with me, slowly, gently, removing my clothes. His are mostly off. When did that happen? He wears boxers almost the same color as his sheets, and they don’t quite fit right now. The head of his cock, a supple curve of peachy-pink skin, is pushing its way out. I try to lift my arm to reach for him but I can’t seem to move. Logan’s moving my arms for me. Out of my sweater, out of my bra, its shoulder straps falling away. The cool air on my hot skin is a welcome relief. I make an effort to roll onto my side, toward him.

  “Shhhh,” he whispers. “Relax.” He slips my skirt and panties off my hips and I lay there limp and nearly lifeless except that I feel as if life has been recalibrated inside me and I just need a few more minutes to catch up to the change. He straddles me, his hips across my stomach, and I welcome the weight, as well as the peachy-pink tip of his cock that is so much closer now. He bends down and kisses the top of my forehead, my nose, each cheek. Then he holds my cheeks in his hands and brings his lips to mine.

  “You are gorgeous,” he whispers. I could be made of gold or sunlight right now, that’s how I feel in his eyes. And my body still puls
es with pleasure. The passing storm has left so much electricity in the air of my being. Lightning could strike anytime.

  Logan looks into my eyes. Holding my gaze, he lets go of my cheeks and scoops up my breasts. He palms them gently at first, looking at each one as if wanting to memorize their similarities and differences. My nipples rise to attention with such devoted adoration. He rolls them between his thumbs and forefingers, pinching lightly. I sigh.

  He shifts his weight so he can slip out of his boxers. I stare at him, my lips curving into a smile. He looks like I know he’ll taste: delicious. The peachy-pink head of his cock is just the tip of a long thick shaft that is smooth and strong and rooted in an island of short dark hair. His balls are round and taut and move with him fluidly, changing shape as he shifts his weight. My fingers reach out to touch the tender skin, which responds to my touch like a soft sea creature. I stroke the base of his cock while he holds its length out to me.

  “I’m hungry now,” I say. “Feed me.”

  He moans lightly as he straddles me again. This time across my chest with my arms above my head.

  “You’re sure?” he says.

  I nod, open my mouth, keep my eyes on his. He directs his cock to my lips. He does this slowly, and I’m glad, because I want to feel that smooth, tender skin slide along my lips. They tingle as they wrap around him.

  “Mmmmm…” I close my eyes. He pushes up against the roof of my mouth. I try to resist gagging but can’t help it as he pushes deeper toward my throat.

  “Wait,” he says, his voice hoarse. He pulls away and gets off of me. What did I do? Why is he off the bed now? He looks down at me, eyes gleaming, but he’s not smiling.

  “I think we talked about you spending some time on your knees.”

  I push myself up. I still feel quite limp, spent, even though I’m also still wet, and very, very hungry from him.

  “On the floor?”

  He grabs me behind one knee, helps to swing my leg off the bed.

  “Yup, on your knees. Right here.”

  I slip off the duvet and onto the carpet. It’s colder down here. I hold onto his calves, try to adjust myself between his legs. My back’s against the side of the bed. I look up at him.

  “Like this?”

  From where I’m sitting his cock angles out like a beam. Beyond, he’s looking down at me. His mouth is open. He’s breathing shallowly. He palms his balls, slides a thumb and two fingers around the base of his cock and angles it toward my face.

  “Knees, Ava.”

  Oh. I’m sitting on the carpet, on my butt, and I’m really too low to get him in my mouth anyway so I rise up on my knees. I grab his cock with one hand to steady myself. He moans. I tug lightly. He rocks back on his heels a bit and thrusts his pelvis toward me. He looks gorgeous like this. I wrap both hands around his length and direct the tip of his cock toward my lips. He’s looking down at me through hooded eyes.

  “Like this?” I say teasingly.

  His yes is barely a word, it’s more of a grunt. He leans toward me but I keep him just an inch from my warm, wet mouth.

  “This is my punishment?” I say, my eyes round and wondering.

  “Ava…” There’s a warning tone to his voice as he pushes toward me again, determined to enter my mouth. His hand wraps around the back of my head. I’d better get on with this. His impatience is only making me wetter.

  “You want this?” I stroke his length with both hands, twisting lightly. I kiss the tip of his cock. He leans his head back and groans. I extend my tongue, extra wet with saliva, and swirl it around the smooth head. Then I wrap my lips around it and suck. He moans and then his pelvis starts rocking.

  This is not punishment at all. It’s pure pleasure. Not that I can get him all the way into my mouth. He’d have to go part way down my throat for that, and I have a pretty severe gag reflex. He’s trying though. I cough a bit, draw him out, suck on the tip for a little break. He holds the back of my head, pushing himself back into my mouth, right to the back of my throat. I gag again.

  “That’s your punishment,” he says.

  My eyes start to water. I try to relax my throat and breathe steadily through my nose. Some women can do this deep throat thing but I haven’t mastered it. I pull him out, drag my lips and tongue along his length. I tug on his balls, subtly communicating that I might tug harder if he keeps going too deep. He likes the faster stroking and deep sucking on the head. I start moaning with my own pleasure. The motions, and his building desire, are causing a river of wetness to gather between my legs. I’m partially supported by my heels and I start to feel trickles along my ankles. Logan guides himself deeper into my mouth again. My pleasure moaning stops and I feel a whimpering moan build.

  “Relax your throat, Ava. It’s all right. Lean your head forward a bit and let your lower jaw drop. That’s it. Now imagine I’m gliding in and out of your pussy…”

  My clit starts pulsing. I want to feel that. My pleasure moans return and my throat does start to relax. I can feel him pressing deeper, into a tighter space. I focus on breathing as he retreats and holding my breath as he enters.

  “… I’m going in and out and it’s effortless. Soft and smooth and delicious. I can tell by the way you taste you are soft as velvet inside. I can’t wait to get in there. That’s it… Imagine me sliding in and out, going deeper each time.”

  He’s thrusting very slowly, but with each thrust he goes deeper, and it doesn’t seem so hard anymore. Each time it feels as if I’m swallowing him, and then he slides back and that feels strange, but as he comes forward again, I feel the urge to swallow him deep.

  “Oh baby, that’s good. Too good. Ahhhh… Oh. Okay. I think we’ll stop there.” He withdraws from my mouth but I don’t want that yet. I grab his shaft with one hand and dig the other into his flexed ass cheek to pull him closer. I stuff him back into my mouth. I want to drive him wild, make him crazy. His legs are trembling slightly. I suck and swallow him as deep as I can. My fingers are wrapped around the base of his cock and my lips are now grazing my fingers.

  “Ava… Oh, Ava. Wait…Not yet.”

  His ass clenches, his balls go taut, and I feel the pulsing of his cock. I pull him out and work his cock with my hand, sucking hungrily on the end. His grip is light in my hair. Glancing up, I see his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back. He’s far-gone now. I feel his coming surging up from deep inside.

  “Ava, watch out…It’s… I’m…” With a deep groan he thrusts forward and warm liquid hits the back of my throat. I pull him out, so I can see, and multiple bursts hit my chin, my neck, and my chest as I watch him give himself to me, his legs barely holding him up now. After the last burst he sinks down to his knees in front of me. He gathers me into his arms, uncaring of his warm cum trickling between my breasts toward my knees. His mouth finds mine and he kisses me deeply, probingly, our scents mingling in a kiss that seals our secret pleasure.

  Chapter Six

  The other day he said he didn’t sleep much, but right now he’s sleeping like a baby. I stare at his relaxed face. The intensity is gone, the anger, the ‘act’. I can see a little of what he might have looked like as a boy. I think back to the photos in his office. Were any of him? I’ll have to look more closely next time I’m there.

  Right now, we’re curled up in his bed, and even though I’m tired from our pleasure, I feel as if I could stare at his sleeping face for the rest of my life. The hard edge of his jaw is softer, his perfectly sculpted lips are slightly parted and I can see the glint of his teeth and the pinky hue of his tongue. I’m tempted to press my lips against his mouth while he sleeps, to steal a kiss he won’t remember, but I’m not sure if that will shock him awake or if he’ll push me away or maybe just lie there unresponsive.

  I content myself with tracing a line across his cheekbone and over the soft skin of his temples until I reach his forehead. I let my fingers run along the arch of each eyebrow, amazed at their smooth density and the definition they give to his face. Tak
e away these dark expressive lines and the squareness of his jaw, and with his eyes closed in sleep, I can use my imagination to see him as he might have looked before his tumble into manhood.

  Yet I really know nothing of this man, or his boyhood, or family, or past or future. We’ve only had these few fiery moments so far. In that time he’s gotten under my skin in a way that mesmerizes me. Do I need to know more about him? More than this power he has over me, this way I come alive under his gaze, his touch? Perhaps not. He wants me to inspire him, but I don’t really know how to do that. I only know how to feel what I feel. Maybe all I can do is share that with him in some way.

  I’m tempted to kiss him again, to wake him up so we can keep going, but I resist. It’s late. I have classes tomorrow. So does he. And I’m still kind of in shock at the line we’ve crossed.

  At the same time it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Yet I know it’s not. I know it’s wrong.

  Oh, what have we done? We’ve taken the first beautiful, slippery steps down the slope into the dangerous and forbidden. So why do I feel as if I’m floating in some heavenly dream?

  I graze a finger along his jaw, feeling the stubble there. I want to feel every growing hair, every whisper of his breath. He shifts in his sleep, sighs, and turns toward me, but doesn’t waken. I lightly touch the small round scar by his collarbone. He flinches slightly but soon settles into a deeper sleep.

  I wish I could stay longer, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’d lie there worrying about the best time to sneak out. How early would it have to be to avoid anyone else in the building? Most classes don’t start earlier than 8:30, but maybe some people go to the gym, or to an open studio, like I often do. I can’t take a chance. I can’t get caught here. We can’t get caught together.

  I pull the duvet over his shoulders and turn off the side lamp. Then I gather up my clothes and get dressed in the bathroom. Carrying my boots under my arm, I tiptoe to the door and slip out. The hall is dim, empty, and silent. But then out of the silence I hear sobbing. I stop a moment, turn to listen. Someone on this floor is crying herself to sleep. My new feelings of happiness, satisfaction, and excitement are so different from the deep, private sadness I’m overhearing. I feel an urge to comfort the crier, and yet I’m not supposed to be here at all. As I push through the door leading to the parking garage stairs, my heart feels stretched in multiple directions.