The Muse's Undoing

“Would you be able to talk?” I counter.

“If this is what you’re always like?—”

“It’s not,” I say quickly.

“No?”

The familiar pinging noise sounds behind me. “That’s the elevator. I have to get off the phone, but Fischer?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you. Get home safe.”

Forty minutes later, I’m holding open the door for 408 and her Great Dane. I glance out at the street to find Fischer emerging from a black car. Our eyes meet.

The look on his face transforms into something so single-minded and heated I could masturbate to a picture of it. The cane forces him to keep his gait casually paced, and I wait, trying to be patient, because for this one moment, the lobby is empty, and I just want to smell him—something. Anything.

I reach for his bag, a service I’ve never offered before, and he hands it over to me. We stare at each other as he enters the lobby, and I notice 801 and his dog waiting for the elevator in the vestibule just beyond the lobby.

“Did anything come for me today?” Fischer asks.

I look at him, confused.

His cheeks flush—exactly the way they do when I’m sucking his cock. “Like a package?” he adds.

Oh. Okay, I get it. “Not that I’m aware of. Yet.”

“Would you mind double checking? I can wait.”

“Of course.” I grab a dog treat, toss it to Daisy the black Schnauzer, who catches it in our well-practiced routine, and turn the corner into the mail room just as the elevator arrives. Fischer follows at a distance behind me. Once the elevator shuts, he whispers, “Come here, hurry.”

I shake my head. “Someone will see.”

“Like I said, hurry up.”

I’m only a few feet away, so I close the distance quick, pulling him into a hug and spinning him around so if anyone does happen to come in, I’ll be blocking him from view. It’s a romantic move, and I hear him sigh like he thinks so, too. He buries his face in my neck and inhales deeply, smelling the soap he bathed me in this morning. I groan softly at the memory. Our cocks stiffen against each other as I murmur into his ear, “You feel so fucking good.”

“Not as good as you.”

“If I could get inside you right now, I’d come in five seconds.”

“Dare you,” he whispers, clutching my shoulder blades as his cane clatters to the floor.

Fuck. The cane.

We both realize it’s recognizable at the same moment and pull apart. I bend to pick it up and step away from him. He’s got a bulge in his pants I wish I could get on my knees for. “You need to go cool off,” I say.

“I’ve been trying to cool off all day.”

I hand him his cane, checking out my crotch where I’ve got my own bulge showing off. He rubs his forehead, unable to take his eyes off it. “Jesus. I fucking can’t with you.”

“That’s not what you said this morning.” My tone is light, but I don’t like the distance, and I don’t like the word “can’t.”

The elevator door opens behind me, and I grab a random stack of mail, handing it to him. I’ve still got his messenger bag on my shoulder.

He takes the mail and scowls down at it, stalling.

“Fischer!” a voice rings out sharply, and we both stiffen. Ravenna.