The Master and The Muses. Amanda McIntyre

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СКАЧАТЬ suppose I should start looking for a place to move,” William said. I looked at Thomas.

      “Nonsense, your room is your own—this place is your home, as well. There is plenty of room here, William. Besides, you are gone half the time on one of your bloody research adventures. No, I will not hear talk about moving. Don’t you agree, my dear?” He curled his arm around my waist, drawing me down to sit beside him on the arm of the chair.

      “Of course, William. We are family—you, Thomas and I. We wouldn’t dream of you living anywhere else,” I said, putting my arm around Thomas’s shoulder.

      I could not say what I saw flash in William’s eyes, but I looked away quickly, feigning a bright smile at Thomas. He slipped his hand around my neck and drew me close, kissing me tenderly.

      For any other man, it would have been a gesture of warning to another male—a sign of possession. But for Thomas, it was simply his way of saying he wanted me again.

      “Very well, then. I’ll try not to be underfoot too much.” William raised his cup, and as his eyes met mine over the rim, that summer afternoon flashed again in my thoughts.

      “I have a proposal for you, my muse,” Thomas stated as we lay in bed after one of our late-day trysts.

      I had been living with him for nearly three months and I’d discovered that his sexual appetite was insatiable, innovative and addictive. There was nothing I denied him.

      He untied the silk bindings from around my wrists and kissed my tender flesh, settling himself comfortably beneath my arm, his head on my breast. The mere thought of the word “proposal” brought to mind a hope that I continued to harbor deep inside. I waited, mentally telling myself to remain calm, to let him get out the words before I cried for joy.

      “I’ve been thinking, since I am between projects and still deciding what to do next, that I may consent to let John borrow you for his current project.”

      This was not at all what I was expecting.

      “John? But I rather like being your exclusive muse, Thomas.”

      He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at me as he twirled a strand of my hair around his finger. “I feel we both might benefit from a fresh perspective.”

      Fresh perspective? I had taken part in nearly every fantasy Thomas had ever designed in his head, proving without a doubt he had an endless imagination.

      “Is this your way of saying you are…tired of me?”

      “Oh, muse, of course not.” He kissed my nose. “But it will be good for you to find out what it is like to pose for another artist. It’s a professional courtesy to share one’s model.”

      “A professional courtesy, nothing more?” I asked.

      He tipped his head, studying me. “Do you doubt my intent?”

      “No.” I looked away and his hand caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.

      “Do not ever doubt me,” he said with a calm sternness. I’d never seen that look in his eye before, almost as if I had betrayed him by questioning his decision. He smiled then, and his expression softened as he lowered his head to kiss me.

      “It would be inhospitable of me not to share you. He has already asked and I told him that you wouldn’t mind.”

      “Of course not,” I replied quietly, my thoughts caught between disappointment and my desire to please him.

      “Perhaps you need convincing, my muse.”

      He kissed me again lightly, teasing this time as he eased his palm over my stomach, sliding his fingers between my thighs.

      “John is quite an interesting fellow. Well traveled. I’m certain he’ll keep you amused with his stories.”

      He kissed me again and I knew he was luring more than my body to be at one with him.

      “What will happen to our—” I swallowed hard, pulling his face to mine in a fierce kiss as my body trembled with pleasure “—our afternoon tea?”

      Thomas grinned, bracing his arms as he moved over me and nudged my legs apart.

      “You mean our afternoon fuck?” he whispered in my ear.

      Lately, he’d begun slipping naughty words into our lovemaking and he knew how they aroused me. His cock teased my opening. I couldn’t resist him and he knew it. I wrapped my arms around his waist, smoothing my hands over his firm buttocks, and pulled his hips toward mine, urging him to fill me. Satisfaction sparked in his eyes and he knew he’d gotten his way.

      “I’ll simply make sure—”

      He slid into my slick heat with a shuddering sigh.

      “—that John has you home,” he said, kissing me once more as he withdrew partway, “before afternoon tea.”

      He lunged deeper, emitting a lusty sigh. He was a scoundrel. A wicked, wanton scoundrel and I could not say no to him.

      I wrapped my legs around his hips, holding his body to mine, caught up in our frenzied coupling, and as we came together, I scolded myself for having doubted his suggestion.

      Later, as he dozed with me curled beneath his arm, I watched the light of day turn to murky shadows of twilight and thought about how my life had changed. It had been months since I’d last seen my family. In that time, Mama had had another birthday, as had one of my sisters. I was now living out of wedlock, with a man who loved me with his body, yet thought nothing of offering me as a prop to another man, with the belief that it would improve our relationship.

      I shut my eyes, overwhelmed with my thoughts, softly fingering the curls on Thomas’s chest. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps my absence would leave a hole in his daily life and by so doing, he would be spurred to commit to more than just living together. I looked up at his handsome face, thinking how easily he slept at my side. I hoped desperately that this would prompt a proposal of a different kind, as I had missed my monthly and wondered if I might be carrying his child.

      My flesh was numb. The portrait was supposed to be of a young woman lying in a river. The background had been painted and I, dressed in a gown that I understood was found in a secondhand shop, was to lie in repose partially submerged in a warm bath for hours, while John painted me. I was able to forgive John for the horridly musty stench of the wretched gown, but less forgivable was his failure to keep the water warm, as he had promised. Daily, for over a month and a half, I’d spent four to six hours in tepid water. I’d watched for my monthly and, when it did not come again, was pressed to tell Thomas, but chose to wait until I was sure.

      The painting was at a critical point. John was as immersed in what he was doing as I was in the water. Though the water had grown cold, I lay there thinking that I could endure it a few moments more. However, those few moments turned to minutes and those minutes to even longer. He did not break for a meal, nor offer me anything to drink. I sensed myself growing numb and bent my fingers to encourage the blood flow.

      John cleared his throat in way of reprimand, indicating that I should not move.

      “Your eyes, shut your eyes,” he said from behind his canvass wall.

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