Page 37 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
I set down the fork, push my palms against the floor, and lean into her, closing my eyes, dusting my lips across hers. Tasting her sweetness. She moans, a soft little sound, but still an enticing one that makes me feel dizzy everywhere, that makes my head go hazy. She inches closer, kissing me back with more fervor, her tongue sliding between my lips.
Oh yes, I like this side of Clio.
I like her exploratory nature very much. The way she wants to kiss every night.
Her hands slide up my chest, then she ropes them around my neck and brings me closer as she deepens the kiss.
She flicks her tongue across my lips, and my skin sizzles everywhere from this passionate side I’m learning she has.
And it’s a side that works for me. Oh hell, does it ever work for me. I nip at the corner of her mouth, then crush her lips harder.
Moaning in pleasure indeed.
Both of us.
Sighs and murmurs and soft groans fall from our lips, and for a few delirious seconds, I imagine sliding her under me, kissing her till her lips are bruised and bee-stung, till she’s arching against me and moaning in so much more pleasure. Asking for me to make love to her right here, in front of the Monet. And honestly, having this woman in a museum might very well be the ultimate fantasy—her and art.
A shudder jolts my spine as I imagine bringing Clio to new heights here in front of priceless treasures.
Perhaps I have an art kink.
An art and Clio kink.
Someone chuckles.
I break the kiss, and both of us swing our gazes to the picnickers in the frame. Their smiles have turned into laughter.
“I guess we’re putting on a show,” I whisper, smoothing my hands over my shirt, like that’ll knock the desire right out of me.
With a wicked grin, she runs a hand over her hair. “Not a bad idea,” she murmurs.
I clasp a hand to my chest. “My, my. Someone has a naughty side.”
She simply wiggles her eyebrows. “Perhaps I do.”
I can’t resist. I lean in to brush a kiss against her cheek, skating toward her ear. “And I love it.”
“Good,” she answers. “Also, you were right.”
“About the tart?”
“Yes, it made me moan in pleasure.”
I shoot her an appreciative stare. “Then we should have tarts every night.”
A flash of sadness crosses her eyes, maybe remembering her sentence, but then it’s erased. Her blue irises glint with mischief now. “I like that plan.” She squares her shoulders, gesturing to the food. “Now, stop distracting me with your fantastic lips. You’re such a show-off when it comes to your kissing talents.”
I laugh loudly. “Oh, shall I keep them to myself? Along with my other talents?”
“You better not. I want to know those talents,” she says.
And my God, if this woman was going to my head before, she’s carving out a permanent spot in it right now. Her directness and her confidence are so alluring.
“But I want more food before you introduce me to all your other talents,” she says.
“Fine, fine,” I say in mock annoyance as I shift my focus back to the spread. I show her the fruit crumble. “You know what the best part of a berry crumble is?”
“No. What’s that?” she asks with an impish grin.
“You’ve got your five-fruits-a-day requirement right there. Blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries . . . Well, four fruits. But close enough.”
She smiles and tries the crumble. “I feel so healthy right now.”
I point to the macaron I picked up at Pierre Hermé. “Now, this guy is one of those rock-star pastry chefs.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean? Rock-star chef?”
True, there were likely no famous chefs and certainly no rock stars in her day. “He’s written books. His stores are a must-see for tourists from all over, and the lines go out the door. He mixes absurd flavors together, and people love it.” I pick up one of the macarons along with its napkin and slide it onto her palm. “I got you a grapefruit-wasabi macaron. I figured you had probably never tried that combo before.”
She takes a bite, and maybe a second later, her eyes go wide and water. “My nose is on fire,” she says, with a laugh.
“Maybe they skimped on the grapefruit and just put wasabi in.”
“Oh, there’s definitely grapefruit flavor in there too,” she says, dabbing at her streaming eyes, but she’s grinning. “The tartness makes my tongue curl, and the burn makes my palate sting, but it was still delicious.”
I grin at her description. “You should do food reviews.”
She laughs. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Me? I like everything. But you can never go wrong with pizza. Or fries. Or chicken. Or roasted potatoes. Or sandwiches. I can pretty much eat all day.”
She laughs and leans closer to pinch my stomach. “But you hardly seem like you eat all day.”
