Page 58 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
And then she takes my face in her hands, gentle and tender, and kisses me.
I am truly in another world.
More so when the kiss turns urgent.
Heated.
When hands slide up and under clothes, and breaths become needy and desperate. When my shirt is off, she stops, seeming nervous.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re hurt. I don’t want to hurt you more.”
I laugh. “Trust me, being with you only makes me feel good.”
“Are you sure?”
“I promise.”
She runs her fingers gently down my chest, over my stomach. “No pain?”
“Only pleasure,” I whisper.
“Only pleasure,” she repeats softly against my lips.
Then we lie down, shifting side by side, hands exploring, touching, traveling.
Lips everywhere.
Mouths needing, seeking, finding.
And soon, we’re a tangle of limbs and flesh.
And then, I am inside her, making love to a Muse, in a boat, in a painting.
Under all the stars in the most beautiful sky.
We are side by side, face to face, as she hooks her leg over my hip. Slowly, we move together, taking it easy, savoring every second.
Her eyes lock with mine as I go deep in her, and when her lips part and she leans her head back, all I can think is how much I need this, how much I need her, and how I have to find a way to save this woman.
Because I want this life with her inside a painting. All surreal and dreamlike.
But more than that, I want a real life, beyond the blue waters, past the starry night, far past the frame.
Into the world where I spend my days.
Because I want my nights with her to become days with her.
I want it all with Clio.
We lose ourselves in each other, in the sounds, in the touch, in the connection.
Once upon a time, many weeks ago, I fell for a work of art.
A painted image of a woman.
I didn’t know her. I hadn’t talked to her.
Now, I’ve fallen for the real woman behind the painting. I know her. I talk to her.
I touch her.
And I’m certain, too, that I won’t be happy in a world without her.
22
After we leave Starry Night, we head to Gabrielle with a Rose, and Clio puts her hands on the painting, closing her eyes as she concentrates on repairing it. She smooths her palms over the shawl where the work is the most faded, and tries to coax the color back into the layers of paint.
Without success.
She might try until the sun rises, so I finally tug her away and see her to her painting, giving her a good morning kiss before she goes still.
On my way out, I pass Gabrielle with a Rose again, and I catch sight of The Swing hanging nearby. I step closer—a woman stands on a swing in a sun-dappled garden, and the dark-blue bows on the front of her dress are now gray-blue, and the whole gown looks faded from too many washings. I pause to touch it gently with my palm, the way Clio had smoothed Gabrielle’s shawl, and I feel as if I’m saying goodbye to another friend.
When I reach the front doors, I wave to Gustave. “How did your sculpture in the subway art contest go?”
He grins broadly. “Fantastic! Can’t thank you enough for helping me figure it out.”
As I congratulate him, something Clio said hits me—about helping artists realize the potential in their work. I did that for Gustave. I keep hearing how I’m a human muse, but it’s only in this moment that I feel like one.
And it feels pretty damn good.
His phone rings, and he glances at it. “My buddy at the Louvre,” he says, offhand. “I wonder what bizarre story he has this time.”
“I wonder,” I echo, but with a pit in my stomach.
Gustave answers the call, waving goodbye. I return it but pretend to check my phone for an excuse to stand there and eavesdrop.
“Oh, sure, I believe you,” Gustave says a few exchanges in. He catches me still there and rolls his eyes at whatever his friend is telling him. “Our seascapes spring leaks all the time.”
I raise my brows in a silent question, as if it doesn’t matter and my gut didn’t just knot like a pretzel. Gustave tilts his phone away from his face and stage-whispers, “The big Géricault in room seventy-seven is dripping onto the floor, apparently. Told you he was a loon.”
“Sure,” I say. “A real nutter.”
Worried my face will break, I turn toward the door, and Gustave turns back to his phone call. “Well, just mop it up. See you on Sunday for cards?”
I stagger outside, like I’ve been trounced all over again.
The Louvre doesn’t open for another four excruciating hours. I go home and manage a bit of sleep, then wake so tired that I wonder why I bothered. A shower helps, and so does coffee, then I’m out of the flat and at the museum in time to be one of the first people in the door.
