The Muse Page 10

  Having texted Claire ahead of time to make sure she’s home, my knock is answered almost immediately. When we’re inside, she looks me up and down, smiling and shaking her head. I grin sheepishly and she finally laughs, pulling me into tight hug.

  “Harlot,” she says happily. “Tell me everything.”

  I flop onto the couch. “I’m still processing. But holy hell, Claire, he’s experienced.”

  She giggles. “I knew it! And I’m so glad, I can’t even tell you.” She drops to the cushion next to me, her smile slowly fading. “I don’t want to be a downer, but there’s something you need to know.”

  Heartbeat tripping, I sit up. “What?”

  She winces. “Someone saw you walking together to his car. Holding hands.”

  My stomach nosedives. “Who?”

  “Griff heard it from Kirk, who heard it from someone else. I think it was a faculty member. Maggie Something-or-Other?”

  Dread crystallizes. “No,” I whisper, grabbing fistfuls of my hair. “No no no! Where’s my phone?”

  The sympathy on Claire’s face is overwhelming. “Plugged in by the coffee maker.” I jolt to my feet and beeline for the kitchen. Claire follows. “Before I forget, I talked to your mom this morning. I told her you were in the shower and would call her back.”

  “Thanks,” I say distractedly, grabbing my phone.

  The first thing I see is a text from James.

  Maggie saw us—I’ll take care of it

  Claire peers over my shoulders. “Oh, well that’s good, right?”

  I laugh humorlessly. “Not really. My entire academic career in the hands of one of his ex-lovers.”

  Claire sums up my emotional state with a succinct, “Ugh.”

  I don’t write James back, too sharp-edged at the moment to say anything remotely positive. Instead, I toss down the phone and scrub my face with my hands. As the situation sets in, panic cycles in prickly waves through my chest.

  Then Claire asks softly, “It was worth it, though, wasn’t it?”

  Memories of the day rise in a bright collage. His breathless moans as I fulfilled his carnal wish for my mouth on him. Fingers teasing my hair and skin as we lay curled together in bed. His debauched imagination, his salacious whispers in my ear. Learning the different languages of his laughter and smiles. The way his eyes lit up when I rolled on the living room floor with Rufus, scratching his belly until his legs twitched.

  My anxiety melts away.

  I look at Claire through my fingers. “So worth it. But I’m so sore.”

  She laughs in delight. “I’ll bet. Oh honey, I’m so happy for you. Not just because you got laid. You look happy. Glowing. And in the scheme of things, no one gives a shit. Professors and grad students getting together is the worst kept secret in history.”

  I grimace. “You’re probably right, but it could still make the next eight months of my life torture. If it blows up, what professor is going to want to write me a recommendation? Ack, I can’t even think about it.”

  “Don’t. Just enjoy the afterglow.” Giving me another hug, she says, “I have some reading to do. Don’t forget to call your mom back, okay?”

  “I won’t. Thanks, Claire. By the way, what was the cover story you gave Griffen and Brad?”

  She pauses at the kitchen door and winks. “Aunt Flo, of course.”

  I laugh. When she’s gone, I pour myself a glass of water and wander into my bedroom to call my mom. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a voicemail apologizing for missing her. And asking if we can move our call day to Saturdays.

  Sundays belong to James.

  I shower almost regretfully, washing traces of our final union from my skin. After drying off and pulling on pajamas, I throw his clothes in my hamper. Then I change my mind and grab the shirt, tossing it near my pillow.

  Once in bed, I open my laptop and review my assignment calendar for the week, but the words quickly blur. Even though it’s barely nine o’clock, I power down my computer, turn off the bedside light, and snuggle under the covers with my phone.

  His shirt tucked under my cheek, I text him.

  I miss you

  I wait a few minutes for a reply, but my heavy eyelids close before it comes.

  15. connotation

  My heart pounding nervously, I open the classroom door. The head of the room is empty, though most of the students are already inside. After trading greetings, I claim my desk and pull out my phone, bringing up the text message I received this morning.

  Sent at 12:01 a.m., it reads, Six days is 144 hours too long. I’m still smiling at the words when the door opens and James strides into the room.

  “Good morning,” he says, dropping his bag on the desk and facing the class. His eyes rest only briefly on my face, but the contact sizzles like a brand. “Who’s up for a field trip today?”

  The class murmurs enthusiastically.

  “Where to, boss?” asks Terrance.

  James nods out the window. “Based on the painfully stale content of last week’s journals, I’m thinking some fresh air is in order. Sun’s out and winter’s beauty abounds.”

  Groans mix with laughter. Molly raises her hand shyly, then blushes when James nods at her. “Do you want us to spend the time journaling, or just reflecting?”

  His gaze snaps to me. “What do you think, Ms. Eliot?”

  I clear my throat. “With short stories due next week for midterms, I would strongly suggest taking advantage of the time to reflect on your drafts in a new setting. Maybe read them aloud to another classmate.”

  “In public?” whispers Molly.

  Terrance says, “You can read to me, Molls.”

  James smiles slightly. “Exposure and vulnerability are integral parts of being a writer. Good idea, Ms. Eliot. Everyone team up and head outside. Find a place swarming with people and read your stories to your partner. Loudly.”

  More groans, but they do as he says, packing up and pairing off. When the classroom is empty, I ask suspiciously, “Do I sense ulterior motives, professor?”

  Chuckling, he strolls toward me and sits at the desk beside mine. “Perhaps,” he murmurs. “I did want to talk to you about a few things.”

  His gaze drops from mine and I stiffen. “Such as?” I ask softly.

  “I wanted to give you advanced warning. I gave you a low B on your short story. The word count was low, and I thought the antagonist lacked depth. I’m sorry, I know you wrote it the week of your father’s death, but—”

  My relieved laughter halts him. “James, it wasn’t A-material. Don’t worry about it.”

  He sighs, tension releasing from his shoulders. “I thought you were worried about your GPA. God, I felt horrible.”

  I reach forward and grab his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Stop. We can’t go down this road. And no one cares about GPA at this point. They care about letters of recommendation and writing portfolios.”

  He nods, but frowns slightly. “I thought you wanted a PhD.”

  My skin tingles. “How do you know that?”

  “You told me Saturday night,” he says gently. “The promise to Derrick.”

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I wait for shock to fade. I take a deep breath. Then another one, until the world levels out again.

  “Sorry, I, uh, don’t remember telling you that,” I finally say, opening my eyes to his intent gaze. “I promised Derrick I would go past a Bachelors, that’s it. Sure, we joked about me being Dr. Eliot—like people assuming I could do surgery when really I’m just awesome at writing papers—but it a PhD isn’t on the table for me.”

  “Why not? What’s stopping you?”

  I take another deep breath to overcome the impulse to snap at him. None of my feelings about school are his fault or responsibility.

  “Life. Just life. We’re talking at least three more years of school and adding tens of thousands to my already substantial loans.” I smirk. “Maybe I’d rather go your route. Get published and famous.”

  He smiles, b
ut his eyes stay somber. “I know you’ll accomplish absolutely anything you put your mind to.” After a small hesitation, he asks, “Have you given any more thought to the memorial?”

  I blink in stupefaction. “Is there anything I didn’t drunkenly confess Saturday night?”

  He chuckles. “Doubtlessly. Are you going?”

  I pause, then nod. “Yeah. My mom sent me an email this morning with the details. It’s next Saturday in Monterey.” I shake my head in delayed disbelief. “Apparently his will specified that he wanted his ashes scattered at this little beach near the church they were married in. I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

  “He loved her very much,” says James, and when I frown at him, he clarifies, “Obviously, given his last wishes.”

  I study him a moment. “Did you know him well?”

  He shrugs. “As well as any other student, I suppose. Dr. Eliot was a legend—former Poet Laureate, recipient of innumerable honors, with a reputation for shaping the careers of young writers. He was one of the main reasons I wanted to study literature at Stanford. He was a brilliant teacher but a tough one. I seem to remember an odd preoccupation with semi-colons.”

  “He hated them,” I murmur.

  James smiles, nodding. “I took every course and seminar he taught and worked my ass off for him to notice me. One of my finest moments was when he pulled me aside senior year and told me to apply for the Stegner Fellowship.”

  In lieu of a graduate level Creative Writing Program, Stanford offers the highly respected working artists’ fellowship. From my obsessive pre-term Googling, I know James didn’t complete the fellowship, but I ask, “Did you apply?”

  He shakes his head. “My book of poetry was about to be published, and I’d just completed my first novel.”

  “And the rest is history,” I say with a smile.

  He did, in fact, continue his schooling at Stanford, earning a Masters in English Literature and starting the subsequent PhD program, though he withdrew after year.

  By then, though, he’d been sitting pretty on the New York Times Bestsellers list and had snagged a lucrative publishing contract at the ripe old age of twenty-five.

  Watching my face carefully, he says, “You should know, I was invited to the memorial.”

  “What? Why?”

  He shrugs, visibly discomfited. “Richard and I corresponded occasionally over the years. Nothing in depth until, uh, recently. In the spirit of full disclosure, Iris, your father wanted me to write the forward for a book of poems he was publishing.”

  My breath whistles through my teeth. “Wow. Right up till the end, he was a selfish ass. I’m sorry, James, but he likely just wanted to capitalize on your fame.”

  He nods solemnly. “I’m well aware.”

  “Are you going?” I ask haltingly.

  “Only if you want me to.”

  I tilt my head consideringly, letting him sweat a minute. “Only if we fly down together and share a hotel room.”

  His eyes widen, then narrow, sparkling with mischief. “You little minx. You want to make a holiday for us out of your father’s funeral weekend? I’m aghast.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s a miracle I’m going at all. The man was basically a stranger. So, what do you say? King-sized bed, room service, and minibars? Or a Sunday without me?”

  He smiles slowly. “One condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “My treat.”

  I consider whether or not to be offended long enough to realize I don’t care. “Deal.”

  He snatches my hand, bringing my knuckles to his lips. “I rather like this new, less combative you.”

  I snort, then sober. “Speaking of combative, what happened with Maggie?”

  With a final kiss, he releases my hand. “You can be assured that by the end of our conversation, she wasn’t sure what or who she actually saw.”

  “Really? How did you manage that?”

  He cocks a brow. “The accent, naturally.”

  I kick his shoe. “As long as she doesn’t want proof—like physical proof…”

  “Not an option,” he says, then smiles wickedly. “Before I forget, how are you feeling today? You seem a tad uncomfortable in that hard chair.”

  Blushing, I kick his foot harder. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Mmm,” he agrees. “Insatiable, too, thanks to my little muse. I had a delicious dream last night about a white-sand beach. You were wearing this indecent bikini and were covered in body oil. I had to take an extra-long shower this morning—”

  The classroom door opens and Molly and Terrance walk into the room. By the time they notice us, I’m pretending to type while James points at my screen.

  “That sentence there needs reworking.” He looks up at the students. “Back so soon? How’d it go?”

  I dance my fingers on the keyboard, staring at the dark screen and trying my damnedest not to laugh.

  16. deconstruction

  By Saturday afternoon, I can’t wait any longer. Four days of keeping our distance on campus, plus four nights of long phone calls with barely restrained carnal undertones, have rendered me powerless over my need for James Beckett. After a quick text to confirm he’s home, I pack a small bag and call a cab.

  The front door opens before I’m even out of the car. James stands on the threshold, mouthwateringly shirtless as he holds Rufus by the collar. I rush into the house. The second the door closes, my bag hits the floor and I’m in his arms.

  Between kisses and stumbling progress to his bedroom, I mumble, “Sorry Rufus, we’ll play soon. I need to greet your daddy first.” James chuckles, maneuvering us into the bedroom and shutting the door before Rufus can follow.

  A piteous whine sounds.

  “He’ll live,” says James, and we fall onto the bed.

  My clothes are quickly discarded, tossed haphazardly around the room. A shoe hits a wall. My jeans lasso a floor lamp. I yank his soft pants from his hips and eagerly reach for him. He groans, cock swelling in my fists.

  “I want you,” he whispers against my neck.

  I arch beneath him, wrapping my legs around his hips. “I know,” I answer, dragging the tip of him through my wetness, torturing us both with the temptation of nothing between us. “Do you feel that? What you do to me?”

  He grunts, angling a hand between us to sink two fingers inside me. His mouth drops to my breast, tongue swirling around my nipple as his hand builds a shattering rhythm. When his thumb joins, smoothing in steady circles over my clit, I turn my head to bite a pillow.

  “Iris, sweet Iris, it’s become my mission in life to make you scream.”

  When he replaces his thumb with his mouth, I do scream—a ragged cry of surrender. My vision brightens, my body humming at higher and higher frequency. And just when I think I can’t possibly feel more, I look down and see his eyes on me.

  The climax doesn’t build—it explodes. I throw my head back and give myself over, again and again, until there’s nothing left to give. Slowly, his fingers and tongue retreat, and he rains kisses across my center.

  As I twitch and relearn how to breathe, he says lightly, “I would happily stay here all day, love, but if you want me to move, I need my hair back.”

  I unclench my fingers at last and he lifts his head. “Not sorry,” I tell him.

  He laughs, rising to settle back on his heels. My post-orgasm sedation fades beneath a fresh wave of need. I sit up and reach for him, determined to return the favor, but he grabs my arms and lifts me up. Seated on his thighs with my legs draped to either side of him, he palms my ass and tugs me closer.

  “This was the image in my mind,” he murmurs, “What I was trying to type. One-handed.”

  Arms around his shoulders, I roll my hips. “Like this?” I whisper. “You want me to ride you, James?”

  His teeth clench, eyes closing tightly. “Condom, right now. Or I’m going to do something stupid.”

  I scramble across the bed, yanking open a small drawer, and carefu
lly tear the packet open. The next moments aren’t graceful, but together we get the condom on. Then I’m back where I started. His whole body trembles beneath mine.

  “Take me,” he whispers.

  I don’t hesitate. He’s already at my entrance, so I rock myself onto him, pausing to adjust to each new level of fullness. When he can’t stand it anymore, he grabs me hard, meeting my next thrust with one that buries him completely. The angle is beyond consuming, more than pleasure. I still, gasping into his mouth.

  “Okay?” he whispers.

  I roll my hips experimentally. Fiery sensation expands through my limbs. “Oh, yes,” I answer, and find the rhythm my body wants. Needs. “More than okay.”

  As I move, strong hands roam up my back, through my hair, and down to grip my hips. Mouth angled to my ear, he whispers, “This feeling, right here and now, has brought gods from their heavenly thrones, started and ended wars, and shifted the borders of nations. Nothing in my life has prepared me for how you make me feel, Iris.”

  I shudder, finding his mouth with mine to stall further words. Because the ones he’s already spoken are too much, too powerful—they’re everything I’ve always longed to hear and didn’t believe could be possible for me.

  So I deny my heart’s desire to join my words to his and instead increase my body’s rhythm. I take him, just like he asked, until his tenderness shifts to the sharper edge of passion. Pushing off his heels, he lowers me to the bed, yanking my legs around his waist.

  From there, the only language we speak is wordless.

  While James takes Rufus for a walk, I wander downstairs perusing bookshelves and peeking into closed rooms. When I find his study, I can’t resist the temptation of a glimpse inside his writer’s mind.

  The room is spare—nothing on the walls, no furniture save a small couch, bookshelf, and a desk, the latter’s surface empty except for a closed laptop and his slim journal.