Becoming His Muse, Part Two by KC Martin Page A

all flow out, your beautiful magic, and I’ll catch it in my fingers, and with it weave more magic.”
    His words fall through the dilating pleasure of my coming, and it does feel like magic, as I open up to the cold night, supported by his warm, strong body and presence.
    I give over to bliss, safe in his arms, completely oblivious to my surroundings, feeling only the shooting flares of delicious coming arcing through me, expanding brilliantly at first and then fading to a soft warming glow.
    As rippling waves of satiated desire recede, he holds me, kissing me lightly on my cheek, my hair. He slides his hand out from under my sweater. He leaves his other hand in my jeans a little longer, holding me still and quiet. The pressure of his still hand is comforting, soothing, after my satisfied desire, but I know he’ll pull away soon. I feel his heartbeat against my back. I don’t want to move, but we need to. We’ve been gone longer than we intended and it’s chilly; our heat flared and burned and now it’s dispersing into the cold night. When I shift, trying to get my feet under me so they might effectively hold me up, he slides his hand, slowly, out of my jeans.
    I turn to see him pulling something from his pocket. A handkerchief? I smile as he wipes his damp hand.
    “Always prepared, are you?” I hear something I don’t like in my voice, a kind of veiled suspicion. Where did that come from?
    Why did my mind immediately jump to him doing exactly this with other women in other places? Why, after the delicious pleasure he’s just given me, do I suddenly feel defensive and suspicious?
    I don’t like my feeling of powerlessness, of him rejecting my urge to touch him, of him having such control of me. Of me not having any. Is he always in such control? With everybody? I think of the group of wannabe writers, mostly women, waiting for him in Mick’s. How each and every one of them would probably love to be in my shoes right now. In my jeans more like. Maybe they are. My jealousy flares.
    “Are you fucking any of your groupies?”
    Logan’s eyes widen, and then blaze with anger for a second. He gives me a hard appraising look. “Only with their minds.”
    My stupid, blurted question has clearly pissed him off. I want to take it back. I feel like a petty insecure child.
    “I’m sorry, Logan. I just…”
    “Listen, Ava. You asked if I’m always prepared. The answer is no, because tonight I found myself without a condom, otherwise I might have fucked you doggy style against this planter. I would have liked that. But I wasn’t ‘prepared’. I am, however, adaptable . And I quite enjoyed this.”
    “But you didn’t even…” I glance down at the front of his pants, at the remains of his erection.
    “You energize me, Ava. You were damned sexy a few minutes ago, in your desperate desire for me.”
    I feel a little embarrassed now. I was so hungry for him. I literally begged him to have sex with me.
    “But the green monster comments dampen the flame,” he says, frowning. “It might give you a sense of control to feel jealous about a handful of writing students, but it looks ugly on you. Your real power over me— and that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Your sense of power? The power you want lies in your desire for me, and desire for its own sake, that place where you are vulnerable and out of control . You gave me something tonight, Ava. Something greater than an orgasm. I’m going to go back into that bar, say my goodbyes, go back to my room, and ejaculate on the page. Figuratively .”
    I feel stupid now. He’s right. I ruined a perfectly sexy moment.
    “I’m sorry I got jealous.”
    “You don’t have to apologize. I understand jealousy. I know when it gets its teeth into you it doesn’t want to let go. But it kills things. Ruins them. The reassurances you want are words I can give you, but they’re just words in the end, promises. And promises, like rules, often end up getting broken.”
    A sharp