The Muse's Undoing

“Well, I’m not gonna draw you a map. That would take all the fun out of it.”

“So, you do think we can make it work?”

“Definitely.”

“What makes you so sure?” I ask.

He pulls our hands down to his lap, letting go of mine long enough to feel the hard length of his erection behind his cargo pants.

I draw a shaky breath. “I haven’t been with a man in a long time.”

“You’ve been with me plenty,” he disagrees.

“I haven’t touched a cock in years, though.”

“Is it coming back to you?” he asks, nudging his hips up to press into my hand.

It’s like my core is melting down. Overheated and molten.

I withdraw my hand and run it through my hair. I have a strong feeling that my whole theory of sex is about to be re-written.

24

MATTHEW

Despite the cane, the limp, and the slightly asymmetrical nutsack, Fischer is egregiously sexy. And it’s not just his wild hair or his silvery eyes, which are a major factor, but he’s got this low voice like an audiobook narrator, and that round ass on his slim frame is one of the best I’ve ever seen.

No one in the world acts like he could give less of a fuck. Unless he wants something, and then he becomes need incarnate.

Bottom line? It’s impossible not to be attracted to him. I’ve genuinely tried over the last few months—and more than once over the last eight years with varying degrees of success. But sometimes when I see him walking through the lobby of the Eastmoor, I’m barely able to stop myself from following him into the elevator and mauling him.

Ever since I watched him jerk off in the club, he’s been the only one my body wants—the only one who has a chance of relieving this constant ache.

His pale blue sweater turns his eyes the exact same shade. The smell of him keeps wafting toward me—sweet and evergreen. A combination that makes me think of trips to Lake Winnipesaukee growing up. Trips Fischer never went on with us because he always claimed to have other plans. Anything to avoid the family.

Stepping out of his way, I gesture him inside my loft for the first time. His cane moves first, followed quickly by his damaged left leg and then his right until he’s standing in the center of the wide-open space.

My loft is big. Formerly a kid’s dance studio, it has high ceilings and windows lining the back wall, bringing in a ton of light during the day. The floors are sprung wood. The walls are exposed brick. My bed is against the rear wall, in the center beneath the windows. There’s a sitting area off to the right, and to the left is the tree sculpture, my workshop, and the kitchen. The bathroom is big, and it’s in the back right corner above the stairwell.

Fischer points at the tree. “That?”

“That’s it.”

“Holy shit, Matty. Holy shit.”

Honestly, I don’t want to talk about the tree. I’m happy for him to finally see it, but I don’t want it to distract from what’s been building between us all day. I want him naked, all his scars visible at once, and then I want to make up for lost time and fuck him until he’s sobbing with pleasure. That’s what I want. To bury all my sleepless nights and insecurity and fear about our future inside him.

He glances back at me and points at the sculpture with his cane. “May I?”

“If that’s what you’re here for,” I say.

He gives me an exasperated look. “Hit pause, Casanova. This is a big deal.”

I remain a few paces behind him, feasting my eyes on the way his ass curves into his upper thighs.

I try not to look at his face as he examines my art. Like I said, it’s not a deeply personal piece, but it is personal.

He bends forward, ass to me, and gets a closer look at some of the facial etchings on the glass shards. I have a nearly photographic memory for faces, but I have his memorized down to the pore. “This is…” he begins softly but doesn’t finish, straightening up and taking in the tree as a whole from beneath the glass leaves arching overhead. “My God…” He clears his throat and casts a quick glance back at me like he’s clocking my location. “Does it have a name?”