The Muse's Undoing

He’s so hard, it feels like swallowing a sword, and even though he doesn’t go fast, it’s no less brutal on my throat.

“You want my cum?”

“Mmhmm…”

“I’m close,” he tells me. “You feel so fucking good. Shit.”

I wrap a hand around his ass and stick my middle finger, my longest, directly into his hole.

“Fuck!” he shouts.

Nailing his prostate and applying pressure to it, he shudders and gasps. “Holy shit.”

He grabs me by the back of the neck and shoves himself in deep. His cock gives a rough throb and spills. Heat fills my throat, cum slipping down like warm cream. He sounds broken by the orgasm, and his body nearly bends in half as he pants through gush after gush. He backs up enough to let me taste it, and I love him for that.

I suck at his crown, licking his slit and savoring each new, sticky drop. His cum is thick and rich, lacking in bitterness, maybe because he prefers tea to coffee, but maybe because how could anything coming out of him possibly be bad when he’s so good?

He finally slides out of my mouth and moves to lie beside me. He turns me to kiss him, seeking the taste of himself on my tongue. His growl is primal and possessive, and it does things to my body chemistry that might scare me later but feel exactly right for this moment.

“I need to get the fuck away from you,” Matthew says.

“You absolutely don’t.”

“How am I supposed to function knowing you’re alive and breathing somewhere I’m not if I don’t start practicing?”

“Don’t worry about that.” I kiss him again, unable to get enough.

He wraps himself around me, and I return the embrace with equal strength. We kiss again and again, each one heavier and hotter than the last.

Like we’re making up for lost time.

If I think about that too hard, I might break.

I don’t want to think about anything.

Not the fact that I may be falling for him. Not the fact that he’s never had a romantic relationship for more than a few months. Not the fact that we’re legally brothers or that being together would be complicated in ways I don’t want to consider.

It’s easier to think of us like we are now. Inevitable.

Inseparable. Together.

30

MATTHEW

If I hadn’t made Fischer leave, I would have either suffocated him, or suffocated somewhere inside him. Even still, the kiss I gave him at the door as he was on his way out threatened to totally derail me. He just looked so…sad. Like a kicked puppy. Or more like a puppy I was dropping off at a kennel with no understanding of when I’d return to get him. I swear to God, I almost asked him to move in with me.

He is every single one of my triggers—both bad and good—all wrapped up in a sexy, mirror-eyed, wild-haired package that I want with a ferocity I’ve never wanted anything. But I realized I’d literally tear him apart if he stayed another night. I would have been too much, and something deep, deep inside me is screaming not to fuck this up. To let him breathe. Give him a chance to save himself.

I send him a text five minutes after he leaves, when I’m sure he’s on his way back to Manhattan—a long rambling explanation about how this is necessary and important, and we need to at least pretend to go on about our business and live functioning lives.

His response is, “Whatever.”

It doesn’t take long to realize I was too hasty. Letting him leave was a stupid idea. Not being with him is a waste of time. I try to mitigate my distress by cleaning my apartment, doing a better job on the workshop floor with a mop. Afterward, I work on an idea for a new sculpture, inspired by the sketch of Fischer in the chair I’d done earlier. It would test my glass and soldering skills, and it’d be a hell of a lot edgier than the tree, but it’s clicking with me—like maybe I’m finally tapping into my artistic voice. It’s niche, but it’s far more interesting than the Tiffany lamp rainbow piece in my loft. I sink into an internet rabbit hole involving Mt. Vesuvius, brothels, and all the people encased in ash in Pompeii.

I also do an extensive search to see if someone else has already done what I’m thinking about doing. I have one recurring nightmare where a snide gallery owner calls my work derivative, and that particular rejection would be my own personal kiss of death. I’d put away all my pencils, paints and etching tools and throw myself in the East River if someone ever said that about any of my pieces.

It’s why I can’t get the Tiffany lamp comparison out of my mind. Once it occurred to me as a reference, I haven’t been able to shake it.