The Muse's Undoing

I ignore that and lurch away from him, using my key card to let us into the building. The security guard downstairs gives a nod as we head to the bank of elevators.

Matthew had to have come straight from his workshop because he’s got glass dust all over his t-shirt and shorts. He smells like solder and sweat, which isn’t as bad as it sounds. Who among us doesn’t find artists particularly hot? The fact that his work is so physical only makes him more appealing. His talent is like porn to me, and with Gavin’s help, he’s managed to get some attention in New York over the last several months.

The tree sold about a month after Matty took a baseball bat to it. No longer a “Tiffany lamp,” it was disturbing and intriguing. After the Reel made its rounds online, galleries were contacting him. Including Ravenna’s.

Matthew wanted her to sell it. He said it was the least she could do, and I think he enjoyed the irony.

I know I did. The more I looked at the skeletal figure of twisted words, I could see the similarities between it and the lines he uses in his sketches. The glass was dazzling and beautiful, but Matthew was right—the real art was beneath all the pretty embellishments.

He has an upcoming show at a gallery in Chelsea, and I couldn’t be prouder of him. His new pieces are smaller, but stunning, dark, deep, queer, and sexy.

I’ve never wanted to be associated with him more than I do now because the idea of him taking another date to his opening does make me want to leave the country. But since that’s out of the question for every reason I could list, switching things up with my career is the next best thing.

I’m comfortable with my decision. Now I just have to explain it to him.

A newsroom never stops on twenty-four hour cable news, so we’re far from alone up here, but my office has a door. I close it behind us, and Matthew takes a look around. “This is gonna take more than one trip,” he says, distracted.

“I don’t need everything,” I assure him.

He faces me, and in a softer voice, with a wounded look on his face asks, “What the fuck?”

“I don’t want to be on TV.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Mission accomplished.”

I shake my head. “Not that kind of surprise.”

“Then what?”

“I want to marry you. For real. I want to be your best friend and your husband. I want to buy the apartment across the hall and live in it with you and Vaughn. I don’t want a fucking doorman anymore. I want you and me. I’m way too selfish to have it any other way.”

“Are you…proposing? To me?”

“You were never gonna do it.”

“It’s complicated, and I was waiting for the right time.”

“Well, so was I, but you messed that up. And I can’t wait until Vaughn turns eighteen.”

“Fischer…” His gaze goes all soft, and he reaches up to touch my face. I cover his hand with mine. “I want this.”

“I do, too.”

“No,” he says, crowding me, backing me up against the door. “I don’t think you understand. I need this.”

He slides his hand behind my belt and gets a grip on my waistband, yanking my hips to meet his. I drop my cane in my rush to grab him by the face. He kisses me, and I yield to it. God, he’s so hot when he forgets where we are, and it feels like I’m all he can see. “Let’s go home.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m angry with you, and you need to be punished.”

I get a head rush as my cock fills. “Baby…I like the sound of that, but…”

He shuts me up with his mouth and starts unbuckling my belt. I turn my head. “People are here.”

“You know I don’t give a shit about that. And you don’t work here anymore.”