The Muse's Undoing

MATTHEW

It’s one of the longest shifts I’ve ever worked.

Since Fischer hasn’t left the building to go to the club, I can assume one of two things. He’s lost in his work, or he’s fucking Ravenna Gallo.

I’m not even gonna pretend I’m okay with that. It’s been on my mind constantly—all these women he fucks. But especially her. I watch her comings and goings closely. She’s more polite to me—in a way that’s noticeable, like she wants me to put a in good word for her. She never leaves the building or returns with anyone else. No other men or women. Most nights, she stays in.

If Fischer’s been going to the club, he’s managing to do it off my radar. On nights I work the evening shift, it’s conceivable he leaves the building after I do, but what I think is more likely is he’s seeing Ravenna more than he’s letting on.

I don’t blame him. She’s petite. Stacked. Sexy. She’s clearly into him. She’s also convenient. And with Fischer’s leg, I imagine it’s easier to take an elevator ride than it is to walk up the street to the club.

708 and 912 come in, and I get busy grabbing the delivery that arrived earlier for one of them.

Once they’re on their way upstairs, another half dozen people arrive before I get the sense that everyone’s settling down for the night. There’s a certain calm that comes over the building around midnight, but instead of finding the deep breath I usually take once it hits, my mind goes straight to 907 and the railing that could be ongoing. Because now I figure they fell asleep, woke up, and got right back into it. It’s what I would do.

“Fuuuuccckkkk…” I groan, picking up a pen and drawing the scene exactly as I’m picturing it. She’s riding him, pinning down his hands, and he’s arched in ecstasy.

I get up to sweep and dust before five. And then come the runners, the dogs, and the surgeons.

Finally, a few minutes before Killian is supposed to show up to relieve me, I send Fischer a text.

Still want me to come up?

If he doesn’t answer, I’m out of here.

But he does. Right away.

Fischer

You promised.

My hand shakes, relief flooding me hard. He was right last night. I have been avoiding him. But I wasn’t lying either. I’ve been busy. Busy trying to burn some of the intensifying obsession I have with him out of my body. Since the night I spent sucking cock didn’t do shit to help me stop wanting him, I’ve been hooking up with randoms on Grindr, trying to get the need fucked out of me by graceless, grunting tops across the street at the Plaza.

The famous hotel is ripe with closet cases on out-of-town business looking for a quick piece of ass in the city. When I need someone to fuck my brains out, there’s no place like a luxury hotel suite to get the job done by someone who’s not ashamed to post a pic of his cock on a hook up app.

It’s not not working. I’m distracted, and my ass is persistently achy, but one more hug from Fischer with him all helpless and missing me might turn me into a puddle that would do anything to please him.

This is going to sound insane, but I jerk off before I go up to his place once I hand the building off to Kil. I go ahead and picture all the things I wish could happen when I get to his apartment but know can’t, and I spend my load in the staff bathroom sink so I’m not overly tempted to shoot it down Fischer’s throat. Because not only shouldn’t he allow that, but he wouldn’t. And I am capable of controlling myself.

But sleepy Fischer tests me.

He’s in the kitchen when I let myself in. His hair is a wild mess with sexy waves falling across his eyes. His stubble has grown out from last night, and his silver eyes are half-lidded because he hasn’t had coffee yet. He’s wearing a tight, white tank, which I have kind of a thing for, and loose fitting navy pajama pants. They hang low on his hips leaving a sliver of his waist visible, which I immediately stop looking at. Instead, I offer to make the coffee.

“Thanks,” he says when I step behind him and urge him out of the way.

“Sure.”

Instead of moving, though, he turns and wraps his arms around me. Thank fucking God I jerked off first, because he’s as close as he can get without defying the laws of physics. I can feel his cock.

“It’s so fucking good to see you,” he sighs.

“Why’s that?” I ask, knowing I should move away but unable to make myself.

“You make me feel better. You always have.”

My eyes close because those words land painfully in my chest. I want them to be true. The problem is I want them to be true in ways he can’t possibly want. I rub his back, and he somehow manages to mold his body to every curve and plane of mine. The fit is perfect, and arousing. Does he feel that?

Because I sure fucking do.