The Master & the Muses (7 page)

I moved my fingers over the hard ridges of his phallus, my thumb delicately skimming across the velvety tip.

“Do you wish to please me even more?” he asked, lifting my chin to meet his heated gaze.

I licked my lips and nodded.

He held my shoulders, easing me down to my knees in front of him. His erect cock jutted proudly from a soft patch of dark hair.

I looked up and received his nod. I eased my hand along his warm length, watching as his eyes drifted shut. Empowered, I leaned forward to kiss the glistening tip.

“That's it, my muse.”

He stroked my neck, his fingers deftly skipping over my chin. “You are good to me.” His guttural moans spurned me on. Something inside me yearned to harness the power of this man, his authority, his leadership in the brotherhood, and to watch him unravel before my eyes.

His hand covered mine, guiding my stroke, showing me the secret spot at the base of his cock that made him cry out with pleasure.

A sharp, bitter taste appeared on my tongue and I drew back, standing as I wiped my mouth. Thomas turned away, his hand working rapidly, his breath catching as he cast his face heavenward and emptied his seed on the grass. The firm muscles of his buttocks clenched and unclenched with the fierceness of his release.

I stared at his backside, mesmerized by the hard, angled plane of his body. He looked over his shoulder and I averted my eyes, ashamed to intrude on his privacy.

He came to me and took my hand, bringing it to his lips.

“You should see your face, blushed with color, with yearning.”

“Yearning?” Of course, I knew what he meant. I took a deep breath and moistened my lips. My body teetered on the precipice, ready to fall apart.

“Oh, yes,” he whispered, bending down to grab my skirts, lifting them higher as he backed me against a tree. His eyes sparked with arousal. “Your turn.”

Without pretense he slipped his hand down the front of my thin cotton drawers, his long fingers parting my drenched folds.

My breath caught as he parted me, dipping into my warm crevice, stroking long and slow as I held his sinful gaze. I grasped his shoulders as my body tightened, his smiling face hovering over mine.

“There now, let go, my muse,” he whispered against my mouth.

I shut my eyes to the exquisite pleasure that coursed through my veins, awakening every nerve ending. Thomas kissed me, his masterful fingers summoning each delicious spasm from me.

“Live with me,” he said, releasing my skirts. He raised his hand to his mouth, tasting my juices. “I do not want to be away from you ever.”

I was smitten with his request, but I knew to say yes to him would mean banishment from my family.

“As lovers?” I did not expect anything more from Thomas.

“As my muse,” he responded, kissing me passionately.

“What will people say?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If they must pry, then I shall simply tell them that you are my new pupil.”

He dropped to his knees and drew me into his embrace.

“Do not make me wait another moment for your answer, Helen. It is sheer torture!”

I laughed, something I hadn't done in weeks, it seemed. “Very well, but I warn you, my skills in the kitchen are limited.”

He looked up at me and grinned. “My sweet muse, it is not your skill in the kitchen that interests me.”

I held his face and smiled. It was a heady thing to have the devoted attention of a man like Thomas. I wondered if he'd ever had a model living at the studio before, and I considered how William might respond to the news. Could I wait forever to find the happiness I deserved? With Thomas at my side, I had no need for anyone else.

THOMAS DUCKED AS MY PAPA HURLED THE
painting across the room, barely missing the top of his head. My mama shoved my sisters into the back bedroom and closed the door. My portrait lay splintered on the floor and I knew it would soon be firewood.

“You have scarred my little girl—” Papa started, his face turning purple with rage.

“Papa, I am no longer a little girl—”

His eyes, full of anger, turned to me and he raised his finger, shaking it with fury. “You have lied to your family, Helen. Your deception is not a small matter—it is unforgivable.”

“Papa, please—” He cut me off with his upturned hand. I turned to Mama, pleading for her to make him understand.

She stood to the side, wringing her hands with worry, but she did not come to my defense.

“Mr. Bridgeton, I assure you that Helen has been treated very well…”

“Do not,” Papa bellowed, “speak in my house!”

“Papa,
please
try to at least be decent to our guest,” I said.

“Decent?” His voice rose and my mama covered her mouth
with her apron. “Do not talk to me about decency.” He glared at me and then at Thomas, and headed for the door, his jaw set firm. He stopped long enough to grab his hat. “I am going to the barn. I don't wish to find either of you here when I return.”

A quiet, strangled sob tore from my mama's throat. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Papa did not look back as the door slammed behind him.

Had I truly believed they would understand or support my decision? There was nothing more to be said. I stood and brushed past Mama as I went into my room to collect a few of my things.

My sisters, Beth and Rosalind, peeked out of their room and I stopped to hug them both. I handed my bag to Thomas who waited by the front door.

“I'll wait outside,” he said.

I gave Mama a brief hug, not knowing when or if I would see her again.

“Be well, Helen. Take your medicine.” She stroked my cheek, and I burned her leathery skin into my memory. As I walked to the carriage, I saw the light was on in the barn, which meant Papa was inside brushing the mare. It was what he always did when he wanted to think. I debated whether I should tell him goodbye.

Thomas seemed to read my mind.

“Do you need a moment?” he asked, holding open the carriage door.

I took one last look over my shoulder, drinking in the tiny cottage with its slanted roof and peeling paint, the sagging porch that Papa kept meaning to fix. “No, let's go,” I said, getting into the carriage.

I leaned back against the soft, cushioned seat and stared out the window at the familiar rolling landscape. I hoped against hope that my parents would have a change of heart, knowing I would not make a decision of such consequence without careful thought. However, in my family's world, women were still considered inferior in many ways, expected to be content serving the men in their lives, and I knew deep down that they would never understand.

Thomas took my hand and brought it to his lips. “I will take care of you, my muse. I don't want you to worry. We are your family now, the brotherhood and me.”

I looked at him and wondered if I was really gaining my freedom or simply trading the men that I served.

Thomas took me to his bed that night, soothing my pain with his tenderness, turning my concerns to pleasured sighs. I surrendered myself body and soul to him, something I'd been reticent to do before. If this was servitude, then I welcomed it for the luxurious power that I felt in my decadence.

My fingers curled around the bedrail and I welcomed the pain of my knuckles tapping against the wall with the increased motion of Thomas's fervent thrusts. His long hair swayed, brushing over my flesh, and his eyes penetrated my soul, claiming my body, making me want to give back, to meet his challenge. I arched toward him and he caught my mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, demanding my climax—my loyalty. Crying out his name, I gave him everything and, in return, he gave me all that he
could
give. It was enough…for now.

 

In the days that followed, we existed in a state of marital bliss, without benefit of the legal and moral paperwork. We lived with the smug belief that conventionality was misguided, and my security was founded on the idea that what we had was pure and true.

It was early morning; the heavy fog of London still blanketed the rooftops. After awakening me with a frenzied bout of lovemaking, Thomas was in the mood to paint.

He had dragged me into the studio, him in his shirt and me wearing nothing but a blue silk drape that he handed me in haste.

“On the lounge,” he ordered as he set to the task of arranging colors on his palette. I had grown used to his impulsive bursts of inspiration, quite often occurring in the afterglow of passion.

We nibbled on fruit and a little cheese. It was all that we had in the kitchen.

Thomas stood over me, eyeing the drape. He held out his apple for me to take a bite, as he experimented with the cloth, trying to find what pleased him.

I squealed when his hand playfully squeezed one of my breasts.

“Forgive me. I thought that was the drape.” He grinned.

“You insatiable rogue,” I teased.

“Merely appreciative of your beauty, madam, and if I may say, your breasts are a true gift of nature.” He bent his head, pushing back the cloth to reveal my breast, and left a tender kiss on my flesh.

“As plump as a succulent peach.” He glided his paintbrush across my skin, circling it deliciously slowly around my nipple.

“I grow hungry just to look at you,” he whispered, leaning forward, his soft lips touching mine. “How will I ever get this painting done, you naughty muse?”

“Perhaps you need my inspiration?” I held his smoky gaze, feeling brazen. He had a way of making me feel my body was a work of art, created for his pleasure alone.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, sweeping the brush along the underside of my breast, the soft bristles teasing my senses. I discovered to what degree Thomas was skilled with a paintbrush as he delicately stroked the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs.

The corners of his mouth lifted when he parted me like a flower and tickled me with his brush, causing me to squirm with need.

“So exquisitely beautiful it is, my muse, to see your arousal.”

I covered my face with my hands, lost in his taunting stroke. Thomas was an exquisite lover, showing me pleasure in ways I'd never dreamed. I'd come to ignore the niggling in my head that he'd never once used the word
love
in any of our conversations—never once whispered it when he took me to his bed. I also ignored the fact that his friends rarely stopped by anymore since I'd moved in.

My thoughts dissipated as his tongue replaced the brush, his creative mastery summoning a shuddering, toe-curling climax from me.

A sound from behind brought Thomas's head up and he casually pulled the drape over my naked body.

“Will, you're back. You should have sent word. I'd have met you at the station.” Thomas rose to greet his brother.

I sat upright, holding the drape over me as best I could, bolstering the courage to look at William, wondering how long he had been standing there before Thomas noticed him.

“William,” I stated quickly, slanting a quick glance at him.

“Helen,” he responded evenly.

“We've got news to share, Will. Helen has moved into the studio on a permanent basis.”

If William was shocked by the news, he kept it concealed well.

“Then you two are…together now, I surmise,” he said, averting his eyes from mine.

Thomas chuckled and slapped his brother's shoulder. “As if that wasn't evident, eh, Will?”

My face burned and, finding a large throw, I quickly wrapped it around me. “I'll go get dressed and fix us some tea.” I hurried from the room, wondering how after all this time I should be uncomfortable in William's presence.

The two brothers could not be more opposite. They possessed equal charm, but while Thomas seemed content in his bold approach to life, William was quiet, as though he was still searching for what it was he wanted.

Since Thomas had taken me under his wing, he'd become so much more than just my lover—he was also my friend and my teacher. He was on time with my weekly sum for posing, took me to museums, plays and to grand mansions where we dined with writers and other artists. He'd made me a part of his life, embracing me in every way that a suitor intending marriage would. He created a desire in me, encouraged my passion and nurtured it. No one had ever treated me like this. I felt like a goddess when I was with him.

I brought tea into the studio, pouring for William first, and then Thomas who, I noted, liberally laced his with whiskey.

“I 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.