The Muse's Undoing

I sit on the edge of the bed and try to gather myself, my thoughts, and rein in my anxiety.

“You praying?” he asks.

I lift my head from where I had it bent over my folded hands.

He’s still dressed, and he’s holding two glasses of water.

I don’t answer him, watching as he moves from nightstand to nightstand, placing a glass on each. And then he’s standing in front of me, his fingertips underneath my chin, tilting my face up so he can look into my eyes. “You still with me?”

I nod.

“Scoot back.”

I do, and it gives him room to slide his knees onto the bed and straddle my lap. Sexiest move ever.

He lifts my hands and places them on his hips. His pants are still open, but his dick is back in his shorts. Still hard. Jesus, he’s hot. This is hot. He leans in slowly, and our mouths meet once…twice…and then we open to each other again.

He smooths his hands up my chest, my neck, then cradles my face as he kisses me first tenderly, and then taking the passion up a notch, one long stroke at a time. I lose myself in it for I don’t know how long. His stamina is truly staggering, and he’s so good at edging me with his mouth alone. I’m already close. But this time, I don’t think this is a reflection on me so much as how filthily erotic Matthew’s kiss is.

It’s an immersive experience. The way his body moves against mine, the way he sighs into my mouth, the way sometimes it’s just a wet, open-mouthed thrashing of tongues that I can’t even describe except to say it drives me right to the limit until he closes his lips and changes his method into something less dirty, but far more intimate.

Eons pass before he gets a firmer grip on my face and separates his mouth from mine. “More,” he whispers.

“Anything,” I say like a beggar.

He backs up, standing to strip his clothes off.

I grab a sip of water while he’s pulling his shirt over his head. As he lowers his arms to get rid of his pants, his pecs flex, and his abs crunch. I know for a fact he’s never set foot in a gym, so I have to assume it’s the sculpting that keeps his muscles so toned. I have a thirty minute free-weight routine prescribed by my physical therapist that I do most days of the week at home. Overall, our builds are similar, but the similarities end there.

I’m olive, he’s rose-gold. I’m dirty-blond and he’s dark-haired…everywhere. My gaze travels the trail from his navel to his cock. He’s waxed, I think. I keep myself hairless, too—a habit I picked up in my Grindr era and resurrected once I got back to New York.

“Why are you not naked?” he asks as he shoves his pants and boxer briefs down past his calves.

I lie back on the bed, peeling my underwear off, hyperconscious of my erection slapping my belly.

He steps away from his discarded clothes. Toward me. “Fuck, you’re pretty.”

My face heats. I’ve known for a long time he sees my scars differently than I do. Not as disfiguring but as proof of life. But the enthusiasm behind his obvious attraction is beyond reassuring.

After crawling over me, he drops onto his side and runs a hand down my damaged leg, tracing my longest scar with his fingertip, like he’s drawing it on. “So, back in the day,” he says, “Did you ever sixty-nine?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you a secret…I haven’t with a man either.”

I’m fucking quivering. “Can I ask you something, too?”

“Sure,” he says.

“Do you always top?”

“No.”

“Do you need?—”

“No,” he says firmly.

I was going to say more, but my brain is glitching again with a naked Matthew next to me. “Should that hurt my feelings?”