Becoming His Muse, Complete Set (21 page)

“I’ll do the best I can,” I say. He leaves me to my work and heads off to a department meeting.

I’m grateful for Dr. T’s belief in me but he doesn’t understand the pressure my parents are putting on me to apply to law school. But I’m not going to. They won’t be happy to hear that I’m determined to live New York after graduation, and maybe forever after that.

Sometimes I imagine living in New York with Logan, with him writing and me painting, but I stop myself. He never talks about a future together. But I can’t seem to help fantasizing. I’ve never felt so intensely about another person in my life.

I’m not alone in my admiration of him. He’s gotten more popular amongst the female student ranks, if that’s even possible. His hotness, paired with the double unattainableness of being a prof with a fiancée, has made him exceptionally intriguing. Sometimes my jealously flares when I see other students flirting with him, but mostly I feel a sweet guilty pleasure slipping behind the scenes and having him — every hard, sexy inch of him — to myself, and this pleasure far outweighs the jealousy. It’s even beginning to wear down my fear of getting caught.

I love my sexy, delicious nights with Logan. And he insists he needs me. His first draft is building chapter by chapter and he gives me credit for its flow and power. He won’t let me read any of it but one night, he tells me a bit about it while we lie naked under tousled sheets sipping wine.

“My pages are full of you, Ava,” he says. “Indirectly, every inch of you is expressed in a phrase, an image, a motivation. And it’s good. I never say that, because I can never tell, but I can
feel
it this time. It’s so different…” His smile is bemused as he looks at me, and then it disappears. I see a flicker of fear in his eyes, but then he blinks and it’s gone.

I curl up into shoulder and whisper, “Is it full of raunchy sex?” I nip and kiss his neck as I make my way down to his nipples.

“There’s some sex, yes, but it’s… I don’t know…”

As my tongue slides across his belly, circles his navel, and heads lower, I feel his cock pulsing, filling itself with the magic blood that makes his soft skin go hard. He’s stopped talking, perhaps in anticipation of pleasure or maybe he’s unsure of what to say.

I lick the tip of his cock. “Is it good sex?” I take him into my mouth and I hear his breath catch.

“It’s more than sex,” he says huskily, and then his hands are in my hair and he’s guiding my mouth along his length. “It’s just more…”

And then we don’t need more words as we slip and writhe and press against each other.

When I sneak out later that night, I hear crying again. If it’s Madeleine, she doesn’t show any signs of her inner torment during the week, but her nightly sufferings sound tragic. I pause in the hall to listen for a moment, and then I remind myself to get a move on. In my tired state, I drop my bag, which thumps to the floor. The crying stops. I hear footsteps. I jolt to attention and dive for the door just before another door opens.

“Hello?” I hear from the stairwell. It’s definitely her voice. I hold my breath until I hear her door close and then start tiptoeing down the stairs to the parkade exit.

Nearly getting caught makes me realize I’ve been tempting fate visiting Logan’s apartment so often. We need some other options. I leave another message for Derrick and Casey. I’m hoping they’ll show up to Dr. T’s lecture the next day.

On my way there, I see Madeleine Hare talking to Dean Ascott outside the auditorium. I freeze. Does she know it was me last night? Is she telling the Dean about it right now? She looks awfully serious.

She sees me and waves me over. I can’t turn around now. I have to keep moving forward.

Dean Ascott turns toward me. He seems to be sizing me up. He frowns.

“Professor Hare was just telling me I should keep my eye on you.”

I swallow hard, preparing for the worst.

“She says you’re in the running for the Promising Artist Award.”

I blink, and then let out a sigh of relief. Madeleine’s watching me closely. But if she knows something about last night, she isn’t choosing to tell the Dean about it right now. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Dean Ascott is still talking. I force myself to listen.

“There’s a pretty generous prize attached to that,” he says. “Enough to set up a modest studio for a year.”

I know about the prize. All the visual arts seniors do, though we hate the idea of competing with each other for it. Secretly, we all wish to get it. It requires impressing established independent gallery owners, who are always the jurors for that award. Past recipients have gone on to be represented by reputable galleries. It’s an award that launches careers. And if I had that money, it wouldn’t matter what my parents thought of my future plans. I’d be able to do what I wanted.

“Thanks for your encouragement,” I say to them both, dying to escape this awkward moment and disappear into the auditorium.

Stealing the words from my mouth, Dean Ascott says, “I should be going. Keep up the good work, Ava. And keep in mind, the prize money doesn’t have strings attached either. It can pay for whatever your next step is in life.” I try to hide a frown. He knows my father doesn’t want me to pursue art after graduation. “Good day, Professor Hare.” He nods to me and then walks off toward his office in the faculty building.

“You still haven’t stopped by for that chat,” says Madeleine once he’s moved off but before I can get away. “You can come by my apartment if you like. I have a feeling you know where that is?” She gives me a strange look, as if she’s hinting at something more. It makes me think she does know it was me last night. My uncontrollable blush doesn’t help my case.

“I will. Soon.”

I duck into the auditorium and slump into a chair beside Ronnie, who’s already looking like he’s dozing off.

My mind’s buzzing. I whisper to Ronnie, “Are DnC here?”

“Haven’t seen them in weeks,” he mutters.

Dr. T dims the lights and starts discussing the first slide.

I’m having a hard time focusing on the lecture but I force myself to take notes. I keep thinking of Madeleine’ look. Does she know? If she does, is she going to report us? If I just lay low, will she forget all about it? Should I tell Logan? Or am I worrying too much? One thing I know for sure is that I can’t visit Logan’s apartment anymore. I text him during class. He writes back saying it’s been a long time since he’s had reason to pout. A minute later another text comes through.

I’ll try to think of something.

I hope he does, because unless DnC call me back, I’m all out of options.

When the lights come up, I prod Ronnie awake.

“I can copy your notes again, right?” he says, yawning.

“Sure. But seriously, what’s with all the napping? Dr. T’s worried about your progress on your project.”

“I’ve been up late working, if you must know.”

“On your sculpture project for your show?”

He frowns. “I wish. I’ve had to take another job to make ends meet.”

“Doing what? Where?”

“Dishwashing at a pub.” He makes an ‘ew, gross’ face. “Thought I was done with that kind of work back in high school.”

“I told you before I could lend you some cash if you need it.”

He shakes his head. “Too proud to beg, Babe.”

“It’s not begging, Ronnie. It would be a gift.”

“Your notes are enough of a gift.”

“I wish you’d let me help you.”

“You know what would help? Buying me a beer at Mick’s.”

He slides his arm through mine and we head across campus.

Later that night, on my way home from Mick’s, I get this text from Logan:

Meet me across from the Steady Drip next Sunday.

Sunday finds me standing under a shadowy awning waiting patiently, obediently, for Logan. I had to break my tennis date with Ruby, but she has a good idea what I’m up to, and we agreed to keep up the pretence of playing tennis Sunday afternoons.

“It works for me, too,” she said, winking. “I’ll be able to visit Dale and Jonathan won’t have to get his knickers in a twist. But you be careful, Ava,” she cautioned. “You don’t want this whole thing to blow up in your face.”

I’m going over all the ways that could happen as a light rain begins to fall. Then a small white sports car pulls up to the curb. Logan is behind the wheel.

My mouth gapes. He motions for me to jump in. I hurry to do so before anyone sees us.

“Dr. T let you borrow his precious Aston? Why?”

“Ostensibly to drive out to the country to gather sources of inspiration for my writing. In this case, I’m gathering up my source of inspiration
and then
heading out to the country.”

It feels strange to be in Dr. T’s car, his pride and joy. I also feel a little guilty.

“He must really trust you,” I say, running my hands along the stitched leather seat.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe because you lied to him.”

“Is an omission of the whole truth the same as a lie?”

“In most cases.”

“But not this one.” Logan reaches over and squeezes my knee. His touch obliterates all my worries about getting caught. Now all I care about is him touching the rest of my body.

“Where are we going?” I say.

“Wherever the road takes us.” He smiles as he switches into the left lane and slides into fourth gear. I smile, too, as we speed up.

We roar off to the next town where no one will recognize us. It’s such a relief to get off campus. Away from there, we can forget we’re student and professor. We are outside the boundaries of broken rules.

I wonder if Logan’s going to take me to a motel, an afternoon check-in would be the quintessential symbol of an illicit affair. But he drives us out to the country past farm fields and forests.

We park at the edge of a field and make out like high schoolers until the windows steam into an opaque shield that removes us from the everyday world.

Between kisses and gropes, he says, “This has always been a fantasy of mine.”

I murmur, “What exactly?”

“Making out with a coed in a car at the edge of a field. I never got to do these things growing up. I never even graduated.”

I’m surprised. “From high school?”

“I was in a gang. I was rough. No time for school. I made it up later.” He kisses my neck and slides his hand up my skirt. “I missed sweet moments like this. And there weren’t any fields in the city. Just abandoned lots fringed with chain link fences.”

“What kind of gang?”

“Not drugs. It’s where I learned how to fight. So I could stand up to my father. Stop him from beating me up.”

My heart aches to think of Logan being in pain, having to fight when he wanted to be left alone. “Your mom, what did she do?”

“She couldn’t fight.

“Is she…?”

“Still alive? Yes. She’s in a home in Florida.”

“And your father?”

His jaw clenches. “Gone.”

I can by his tone he doesn’t want to talk anymore. I kiss him tenderly, and then more passionately. Stroking the growing bulge in his pants, I undo his top button.

“I think this might be part of the fantasy?”

I withdraw his erect cock and curl over the stick shift to take him in my mouth. Leaning back and closing his eyes, he moans with pleasure. A few minutes later he says, “Let’s switch seats.”

He slides into the passenger seat and then pulls me on top of him. He draws up my skirt. It’s very cramped, and awkward, but also kind of a fun challenge.

We move against each other with small, gentle pulses. Chest to chest, we stare into each other’s eyes.

“My sweet innocent Ava,” he whispers.

I don’t feel innocent. Not at all. But I like that he calls me ‘his’.

After, we find a café where we can sit across from each other and drink coffee with steamed milk and talk about art and life and death how we can’t wait to be naked again.

The next Sunday we find a country inn. Waiting a week has built up our sexual tension and our hunger for one another is more explosive and desperate. As soon as we’re through the door to our upstairs room, Logan shuts it and pushes me against it.

“A week is too long,” he says, roughly stripping me of my clothes. He takes me standing up against the wall, his own clothes still on, only his pants unzipped to his thighs, so that his cock is free to drive into me with relentless desire. I am drunk on his desire for me. My legs wrap around tightly around his waist. He groans with his fast building release and then curses into my neck.

“It’s okay,” I say, feeling utterly aroused but not quite at the brink of orgasm.

“I couldn’t wait,” he says by way of apology. “You’re too delicious. But that’s only the beginning.”

We run a bath in the claw foot tub. We climb in together and he washes my back. With slippery, soapy hands he massages my breasts. I feel his erection growing again. We dry off and move to the bed, where he lays me down and trails kisses from my collarbone to my pubic bone.

“You first this time,” he says, licking the soft crease at the top of my thigh, and then his tongue is at my center and I’m lost in a blissful tide of undulating waves of sensation.