The Muse's Undoing

I left him for so long—left him wanting. Left him searching and needing. I don’t deserve this much of him. There’s almost no chance I won’t disappoint him.

But I can’t resist him, either. Having him like this—committing to me—is getting to me. Emotionally. As much as I want him, as much as I’ve known since our first kiss that I was utterly fucked, here I am like a bird flying straight into a turbine engine, hoping for the best. That maybe I’ll get lucky.

“You’re everything,” he argues. “There’s no way you couldn’t be enough.”

I nod, glitching.

I let go of his cock because holding it suddenly feels awkward. I put my hand on his rough cheek instead, and he does the best and worst thing I can imagine. He pulls me in for a hug.

His hands smooth my shirt up and down my back, chin resting on my shoulder. I melt against him. His arms are my safe place. My sense of personal space includes him.

I trusted him with my broken body, and now he’s asking me to trust him with my heart, and I find, suddenly, that it’s a leap I’m not sure I can take. I’m not sure I know how to. If I could leave my family—my son—what the fuck makes me think I won’t turn into some selfish asshole again and leave him, too? I would never forgive myself.

Still, in his arms, it feels like he’s welding all the pieces of me threatening to fly apart back together. I breathe deeply, and the air releases from me jaggedly, lust saturating and confusing every cell in my system.

“You overwhelm so easy,” he says.

The thing is, I normally don’t. One of the most common words used to describe me is stoic. I’ve had to be. Expressionless. Unbiased. Unfazed. But I’m more like a dormant volcano. Quiet, unassuming, until it’s all too much, and I explode.

“You overwhelm me on purpose,” I say, half affirmation, half accusation.

Everything about tonight feels different than being with him at the loft. It’s not a “last time,” or merely “one more time.” It feels like a beginning, and I’m afraid to trust that feeling. I know how wild he is. How inconstant with his lovers. He’s my best friend, and I know more about him than he realizes. Those apps he uses…

I know one other thing without a doubt—I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I wonder if his other lovers felt the same way when they were the center of his attention, the object of his desire. He’s beyond passionate. Everything he does, he does with his whole chest. Despite my seeming lack of participation in our liaisons so far, he still doesn’t make me feel like I’m simply a series of holes to get off on, or that I only get some small part of him. It feels like while I have him, I have all of him. But how can I be enough, much less everything? Divorced with an ex, a kid, a demanding job—I’m spread so thin already. He could have more. He could have anyone he lays his eyes on…

“It’s insanely hot,” he tells me—meaning the fact that he reduces me to a mass of shivering need whenever he touches me.

That same need kicks into a higher gear at his words and overrides the sudden onslaught of doubt—it’s not going anywhere. But he might, if I don’t work to keep him here. “What’re you gonna do to me?” I whisper with my mouth practically on top of his ear.

I feel the shiver running through him, and I give his earlobe a lick to test a theory. He sucks in a breath. Good to know…

“Depends on what you can handle,” he whispers shakily. “I know what I want to do.”

“I’m listening,” I say.

“You want me to paint you a picture?”

“Yes,” I sigh against his ear, making his grip on me tighten, making him rub his cock against mine again, heating me back up.

“I want to get you into bed. Get you really comfortable. Really hard. And then suck your cock while you’re sucking my cock. I wanna come in your mouth. And then bury myself inside you.”

It’s my turn to shudder. “You want to fuck me to sleep?”

“If you’ll have me.”

I nod, my chin digging into his shoulder. I wanted him here for a reason.

Matthew pulls back but keeps his hands on me. He looks me up and down and says, “Why don’t you head that direction since you walk so slow. I’ll just be a minute.”

“What are you doing?”

“Grabbing some water. We might need it.”

“Okay,” I say in the manner of Jesus.

I take a moment in the bathroom to remove my shirt, make sure I don’t smell, and just for good measure, I brush my teeth. He’s still not in the room when I finish up. I hear him, though, in the kitchen.

I remove my pants but leave my underwear on. My hard on has flagged due to nerves and intrusive thoughts like “you’re such a bottom, though.” What did that even mean? And does he think I’m good at it? Is it a dig? Is he a strict top, and he has a sixth sense about it? Why am I twisting myself in knots over someone I know outside the bedroom as well as the back of my hand?