Page 28 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
She tastes like a song, like a perfect summer day. She shivers as I touch her. It’s so sweet and so sexy at the same time. She’s warm and lush, her breath shuddery as I slide my lips across hers. A tiny gasp is the first sound she makes, then a soft, enticing ohhh.
I don’t stop.
I don’t want to.
Nor does she.
I hold her face in my hands, exploring her lips like it’s all I’ve wanted to do all day, all night, all year.
Perhaps it is.
Because this kiss feels like it was always destined to happen.
Like our lips were meant to touch.
Soon, she’s snuggling closer, exploring too, her tongue skating over mine.
My head goes hazy, and my heart is beating so damn loudly, she must be able to hear it. The guards on their rounds and the stars above the city can probably hear it too.
And in these delirious kiss-drunk moments with Clio, I don’t care about anything at all but the taste of her, the feel of her—the sound of her as we lose ourselves in an intoxicating kiss after midnight, surrounded by nothing but vaulted, echoing halls of endless, ageless beauty.
But even the best things must end.
After a time, we break the kiss, and she simply smiles at me with bee-stung lips then gestures to her home.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, you will.”
“What will you do during the day?”
I don’t have to wonder.
I’ll spend it waiting for the night.
10
And the nights are worth the wait.
For the next few days, my life seems to pass by in a dream state. A trance of fantastic first, second, third, and fourth dates.
Sunlit hours pass molasses slow, and evening hours race by like they have somewhere to be. One moment follows another too quickly as Clio and I wander through the Musée d’Orsay enjoying each other’s company.
We eat, dining on sandwiches, bread, and croissants.
We talk, discussing art and music and ballet.
And we ramble too, chatting about little things, the smell of flowers, what color would have been better on that bridge Monet painted, and if the Moulin Rouge is as fun as the paintings make it appear.
And we kiss. I lose track of time in our kisses, stolen in alcoves, stairwells, quiet corners far away from the prying eyes of Van Goghs and Toulouse-Lautrecs, those Peeping Toms.
We kiss like it’s the only thing we’ve wanted to do all day.
We kiss good night like it’s all we’ll want to do tomorrow.
And it never gets easier to say goodbye to Clio at the edge of her frame.
Despite the impatience that runs like white noise through my day, there are still things that need doing. I’m not merely a guy infatuated with a beautiful, lively mystery of a woman in a painted garden. I’m also a university student and a museum intern.
So I put some effort into being more present at school and work. Of course, since my independent study project and my duties as docent and guide at the Musée d’Orsay both center around Woman Wandering in the Irises, I can’t totally leave her behind. Which is a good thing, since I don’t want to.
On the fifth day since I met Clio—because that’s how I tell time now—I drag myself to an early lecture on campus and then a meeting with my faculty advisor. Ironically, he cautions me not to rely too much on indirect sources for my research—I’m not sure I can get any more direct than to be dating the subject of the painting itself.
With that done, I head to the museum for a full schedule of tours. Along the familiar route, I pass an art gallery where a Jack Russell terrier snoozes in the front window, stretched out between the clawed feet of an antique chair. He’s fast asleep, so I don’t slow to greet him, but I do spot my friend Zola coming from the opposite direction. She’s the spitting image of Zoe Saldana, so much so that I’ve seen tourists do double-takes in the street, which always makes me chuckle.
Zola owns the gallery along with her wife, who is a renowned art authenticator. She’s done work for the Musée d’Orsay as well as museums around the world.
I wave, and Zola grins when she spots me. “You caught me coming back from my coffee break,” she says, a gleam in her eyes.
“What’s today’s verdict?” I ask.
She shows me her phone and her latest blog post, featuring an image of two tiny pink-and-blue espresso cups from Ladurée, turned upside down.
I cringe in exaggerated horror. “Not the vicious two cups down.” It’s not the worst rating on Zola’s coffee blog, where she reviews espressos at cafés all over the city, but it’s pretty bad.
“Ladurée’s espresso was simply awful.”
Shaking my head sadly, I put a hand on her shoulder. “Zola, how many times do I have to tell you? All the coffee in France is wretched.”
