The Muse's Undoing

“I’m trying not to beg,” he says.

“What do you honestly think would happen if I stayed tonight?”

“Whatever we want.”

“You sure you know what that is?” I ask.

“I trust you.”

“Weird answer,” I murmur.

“That’s my answer.” He sighs, using his hand on my chest to push himself up and look at me. He could easily straddle my lap with one shift of his weight, and I wouldn’t stop him. He’s never looked sexier with those hooded eyes and swollen lips. “Fine. You can go. If you want.”

I shake my head. “You don’t play fair.”

“Not playing.”

“You’re not behaving well at all,” I tell him.

Half his mouth quirks in a grin as he glances down at himself. “I need to change my pants…” His words fade as he gets a glimpse of my lap. “Oh, you didn’t…” He smiles instead of finishing his sentence and works his way to standing.

“Fischer…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I get it. It was weird, right?”

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t. It was good.”

“If you say so.”

Fuck, he’s shutting down on me. There’s nothing to do when he gets like this except give him space. Now I really don’t want to leave. But it’s either that or pull him onto my lap and do something probably neither of us are ready for. I take a deep breath full of misgivings and change the subject.

“You should come out to the loft soon,” I say. “I finished the piece.”

“Did you?” he asks, now sounding distracted as he limps to the bedroom. “How do you feel like it turned out?”

“Decent. Maggie took some photos of it. I’m waiting on her to send them to me so I can start pimping it out.”

“Let me know if I can help.”

“Do you want to come see it next weekend?” I ask again.

“I’ll check my schedule.”

I roll my eyes. Great. He and I both know he doesn’t have a single fucking thing to do next weekend, but I’ll play along. I get we’re both dealing with big feelings here.

While he showers and changes, I put my spare clothes on—a t-shirt and sweats. I refuse to walk out on him like this, but with every passing minute I’m less sure what to say. When he finally comes out, he looks surprised to find me still here.

He sits down to pull on a different pair of flannel pants. Then he puts his elbows on his knees, hanging his head.

I wonder if he regrets asking me to stay this morning. Insisting on that kiss. He definitely has a way of begging without opening his mouth, though, and I’m a total sucker for it.

I touch his face, wanting him to look up at me. He does. “Are we all right?”

His jaw is tight, eyes wary. “You tell me.”

The truth is, I’m ready to stay. I’ll keep kissing him, I’ll let myself come in my pants, I’m ready to drop to my knees for him. But while this might have been inevitable—while it might be the one thing I’ve secretly wanted for eight years—what I need is more important, and that’s having him in my life.

I have to offer him an out while conveying with every cell of my being that the only thing I care about is having a relationship with him. It doesn’t have to look like my ultimate fantasy—in fact—it probably shouldn’t. Whatever he decides, I’m okay with. I rest my hand against his neck. “Try not to overthink this, okay? I’m good. I promise. I want you to be good, too.”