Page 42 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
And nothing is better than this—the woman I am falling so hard for reaching the heights of pleasure in the midst of the most beautiful art in the world.
Pleasure I gave her.
Pleasure I want to give her again and again.
Here, there, and on the other side of the gallery too.
Let the Monets watch. Let the Van Goghs gawk. Let all the Cézannes gaze at this woman and me as we tangle together in this museum in Paris after midnight.
Yes, I do have a Clio kink, and I definitely have an art kink.
Because I would really like to fuck her surrounded by all the masters.
After we clean up, we wander back to her frame, and she doesn’t seem the least bit shy. Rather, she seems wildly delighted.
“So, that was decadent.”
“Better than chocolate?”
She stops, running her finger along my bottom lip. “Better than an apricot tart.”
“High praise indeed.”
“The highest.”
She takes a beat, her eyes locking with mine. “Can I do that to you?”
I laugh as my body screams yes. But practical me knows it’s too risky. I bring her close, whispering in her ear, “I just want to make you feel good. There will be time for all sorts of other things.”
She pulls away, arching a dubious brow. “I’m holding you to that.”
“You can definitely hold me to it.”
We reach her frame, and I can’t resist another kiss.
We linger on each other with soft hints and mere whispers of kisses, until she says, “More,” and crushes her hungry lips against mine in a feast of kissing.
At some point we break apart to breathe. “Tomorrow, I want you to come to my place,” she says, so much mischief in her blue irises.
“The gardens?” I ask, processing what she’s asking, a new possibility unfolding.
“Yes, and I’m going to hold you to it.”
I groan in pleasure. A big art kink indeed.
I start counting down the hours.
15
I see a familiar face in my only tour the next day, and it’s a welcome one this time. Emilie gives me a little wave and then a quick smile when I notice her in the group.
I wish I had seen her before we started. I want to ask if she’s heard from the Paris Opera Ballet. It’s so easy to imagine her on the stage. Even the way she moves around the gallery is graceful but powerful, as if a swan mingled with a leopard to make her.
When we stop at the Degas I’ve gotten to know, though, I do a double-take. How have I not noticed before that Emilie is a photocopy of Emmanuelle? She’s older, but with the same delicate bones, the same black hair and milky skin.
“You look just like her,” says a round woman standing next to Emilie, so I know I haven’t imagined the likeness. “Maybe you’re related.”
The group turns their eyes on the flesh-and-blood girl, and Emilie’s ears flame red.
“You never know,” she says, glancing away.
The attention seems to make her uncomfortable, so I jump in and guide the group to the next painting, taking the scrutiny off of Emilie, catching her relieved and grateful smile.
When the tour ends and the group disperses, she lingers behind, as I’d hoped she would. I find her near the Van Gogh, tilting her head as she gazes at Dr. Gachet in his royal-blue coat.
“So?” I say, and she turns to smile shyly at me. “Are you dancing under the chandelier now?”
Her smile transforms into one that’s broad and beaming. “And hanging out with the Phantom in the underground lake. But he hasn’t crashed the chandelier yet.”
“I knew you’d get in!” I grin, oddly proud of her, despite barely knowing her. “That’s amazing. Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” Then there’s a pause, and Emilie seems to start and stop for a moment, before saying, “Would it be weird if I asked if you want to grab a coffee with me?”
“Weird to get coffee?”
“Weird for me to ask. The coffee is just coffee.” She waves a hand vaguely. “Lucy is my only friend outside of ballet, and you know how she and Simon have been grafted onto one another.”
I laugh, because that’s accurate. “Sure. That would be great.”
We leave and walk around the people lounging on the steps of the museum, stretched out in the warm August sun. I tense when I see Max on the sidewalk, but he’s sketching a young couple, moving his pencil quickly across the paper. His hands are normal, supple.
Is normal Max a sign that thwarting Renoir’s forgery efforts has banished his ghost to. . . wherever the spirits of artists go?
As Emilie and I weave past him, I say hello. It’s like poking a bruise to see if it’s healing. “How’s it going, Max?”
“Going great,” he answers, sounding like the Max I know. “Just found out I’m going to be teaching a class on caricature at an after-school program. Applied for the gig a few weeks ago. I’m stoked.”
