The Muse's Undoing

“You think?” he asks.

“Don’t you?” I respond, his question putting another twist of unease in my gut.

“You just never said whether you wanted to be out with me.”

My hand moves in slow circles beneath his shirt. “I’m sure if it comes down to it, we’ll figure all that out.”

“Stop saying if,” he murmurs, reaching for me.

I move closer, and he props himself up until we’re both on our sides. He kisses me, dragging my leg to wrap around his waist, shoving our chests together and using his entire body to make out with me.

I dissolve into the moment. This was what I waited all night for. What I woke up in the dark several times missing, what I need and crave with every fiber.

When he pulls away to take a breath, he strokes my rough cheek with his thumb. “What’d you do last night?”

“Wished you were here. I want you to quit your job,” I say, blurting it out before we get too involved in each other that I forget to say it.

“Why?”

“Because you should be able to focus on your art. You should be molesting me in my sleep, and you can’t do any of that when you’re not here.”

“You don’t think I’d be too idle?”

“I don’t think you have it in you. But you’ve barely touched your work.”

“I mean…” He glances down my body. “I’ve been a little distracted.”

“You said you could multi-task.”

“I was flirting with you. But I’ll think about it,” he says, pulling up my shirt. I help him take it off, and then I go for his. Chest to chest, we fall into each other’s mouths again, the kiss growing deeper and dirtier with each passing second. We both have rock hard erections to work against as we grind against each other, grabbing assess and fistfuls of hair.

45

MATTHEW

Ibreak our kiss, my processing speed slow to catch up0 with his mouth all over me. “You really want me to quit my job?”

Fischer wilts in our embrace. “Matty, please…”

Jesus…

Our connection is like nothing I’ve ever known. I feel his defeat. His shredded heart. I feel his desperation and the way his body strains to have me close. I feed off it, even. It makes me willing to do anything for him. His pain hurts me—maybe even worse than it hurts him. He’s like a permanent bruise on my chest. Every time he presses it, it aches.

“Let me talk to Gibson,” he says. “You can at least take a leave. I need you with me.”

“I can talk to him,” I say. “He’s flexible, and there’s plenty of guys that need shifts.” I kiss the side of his head. “Don’t worry.”

Fischer’s hand slides between us, over the front of my pants, finding my cock and groping at it. My system startles, but all that comes out is a low moan. He stays on it, fondling me through my pants until his breaths grow heavy against me and my dick is hard and chafed.

It feels off—more like he’s trying to cope with something he doesn’t want to verbalize, but my body doesn’t care. My brain wants to stop him. Smooth all this over some other way. Make him a drink, rub his back, encourage him to talk it out, but then he undoes my pants and pulls out my cock, spitting on his palm and gripping my shaft. “I need you,” he whispers. “Please…”

Anything, I think. Anything for him.

This is toxic. It has to be. Nothing that feels this good can be healthy.

Ignoring the voice in my head, I ask. “What do you need?”

“Just take me,” he whispers. “Hard. I want to feel you everywhere.”