Page 41 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
I run my hand through my hair, smiling ruefully. “It’s new information to me. I don’t entirely know what to make of it. But the whole thing doesn’t seem as ridiculous when you say it.”
She gasps. “There is nothing ridiculous about inspiring people to create things of beauty. Just think of a world without—”
“Slow down,” I say, smiling at her passion for art. “I meant, ‘human muse’ sounds either pretentious or silly, except from you.”
Clio makes it sound like something I want to be.
“Well, obviously,” she says.
“What’s obvious about it?”
She seems flustered for a moment, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Obviously it seems much more reasonable coming from the woman from the painting.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Good point.”
Gesturing to all the art I’ve interacted with, she admits, “Truthfully, I feel like a bit of a fool for not realizing it sooner.” Her tone shifts to mischievous as she strolls closer.
“Do you now?” I match her playful turn.
One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Well, I mean, how else would you be the only one to see me and the other paintings?”
“What about the guy Gustave mentioned? The lemon at the Louvre.”
She shakes her head. “Forget the Louvre right now. Forget lemons.” She trails a finger down my arm, sending heat to every point in my body, returning my thoughts to more than kissing, and only more than kissing. If a lemon fell from the sky or shot up through the earth to land in my hand, I’d toss it over my shoulder without a second thought.
“What lemons?” I ask, my eyes locked on her, as I take her hand, leading her to Starry Night, to the little nook away from the guards, away from everyone.
Where it can be just us.
Once we’re there, her eyes swing behind us, checking for anyone, and then she smiles, all cat-that-got-the-cream. She backs up to the wall between two Monets—The Artist’s Garden at Giverny on one side and Regattas at Argenteuil on the other. The way she leans her shoulders against the wall pushes her hips forward, hip bones jutting slightly beneath the gauzy fabric of her dress.
And she waits, expectantly, for me.
This is a dream. She is a dream. I have imagined this expectant, pulse-racing temptation since I first saw her on the wall at Remy’s carnival of a home.
I’ve wanted her, all of her: lips, hands, mind, mouth, body.
Now I’ve gotten to know her, and my desire has intensified. Multiplied.
I step closer. “You know what you said a few minutes ago? About more than kissing?”
She nods, her lips parting slightly, and I can’t look away from them. “Gee, I remember it perfectly.”
“So sassy,” I say with a wicked grin, cupping her cheek, then sliding that hand down to her shoulder, along her arm, to her waist.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. “Maybe I want kissing and more than kissing.”
“At the same time?” I tease, my fingers toying with the fabric of her skirt as my hand travels lower to give her what she’s asked for.
What my bold, confident, and sometimes enigmatic Clio wants.
More.
I crush my lips to hers, pressing my body against her.
Letting her know I want her too.
The second we collide, she gasps, a wonderfully needy sound that thrums through my entire being.
That drives me on.
I kiss her more deeply, and she answers by looping her hands around my back and grinding against me.
I heed the call too.
One hand holds her face. The other reaches the end of her dress, sliding under, traveling along her soft skin.
Her breath hitches the closer I get to the apex of her thighs.
My body heats, desire pounding through me as I cup her, feeling her need, and she cries out, a desperate, gorgeous sound.
Then, she moans as I slide my fingers under the lace and against her, where she wants me.
I shudder.
She trembles.
I kiss her harder, a little deeper as my fingers explore all her lush wetness.
She moves with me, rocking her hips against my hand, seeking out more contact, more touch. And I listen to all her needs, all her wants, touching her the way she seems to crave.
We move and bend together.
We rock and moan.
But soon, kissing becomes too hard.
And our mouths fall away as I roam my lips across her chin, her jaw, my fingers playing with her, gliding over and in.
Soon, she’s gasping, the sexiest murmurs in the world tumbling from her lips.
And my name too.
My God, the way she groans it as she’s rocking against me, as her lips part, as her eyes squeeze shut, is the most sensual sound in the universe.
I stroke a little faster, crook my fingers just so, and when I see she’s daringly close to shouting my name, God’s name, a curse, I cover her mouth with mine, losing myself in her kisses, and she comes apart on my hand.
