Inspire (The Muse #1)(12)
Author: Cora Carmack

I do just that, pulling my lips wide, and he kisses me, frenzied and so, so good. He takes a step forward, then another, moving toward a plain couch in the center of the living room. When we’re almost there, he finally lowers my feet to the floor, sliding his hands down to the curve of my ass. I stumble a bit and wince when a sensitive part of my foot drags across the carpet.

“Shit,” Wilder breathes, pulling away. “I forgot. I’m a jackass. Sorry.”

It takes me several long seconds to stop staring at his mouth. His lips are wet and swollen, and I know I have a matching pair. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. Really.”

He scoops me back up, and this time I don’t pay attention to my dress. I wrap my arms around Wilder and go to kiss him again. He shifts, placing a kiss on my cheek instead and says, “Feet first.”

“Look at you,” I say, dragging my mouth over his jaw. “Chivalry is alive and kicking apparently.”

He groans when I close my lips around his earlobe. “Alive, yes. But definitely in danger of being put aside for a better offer.”

He nudges open a door with his foot and says, “Light on the right.” I reach out and flip the switch. The bathroom is small and sparse, one of those where all the necessary items are crammed into as little space as possible. He has to turn sideways to get me through the door. There’s no bathtub, just a standup shower, so I’m not sure how he intends for me to wash my feet. The sink is tiny too, so there’s no perching up there.

Carefully, he sets me down in front of the shower. “It’s cramped, I know.”

I open the glass door, and then laugh. “Handheld showerhead, huh? Well, isn’t that … helpful.”

His eyes fix on me, and I swear I can almost see what he’s picturing. Mostly because I’m picturing it, too. He takes two steps back, putting him out of reach and out of the bathroom. “You’re single-handedly trying to kill off what’s left of my control.”

I shed his jacket and hang it up on an open hook on the wall.

“Maybe control isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Stepping inside the shower, I leave the door open so I can see him slide down the wall to take a seat in the hallway. His broad body and long limbs look so good posed there. If I were in the business of making art, rather than prompting it, I wouldn’t hesitate to snap his picture, to capture that look he’s giving me. As I reach for the showerhead, he says, “So your name is Kalli. You’re twenty-one. You’re not intoxicated. You have an incredible knowledge of mythology even though you despise it. You have a sweet tooth, and a tendency to misplace your footwear. What else should I know about you, Cinderella?”

“Not drunk. Sweet tooth. Hates mythology. That’s about the gist of it.”

I turn on the water, and jump at the first spray of ice-cold water. I adjust the heat, directing the nozzle at the wall while I wait. I look back at him, and my stomach clenches. I want him. Badly. I can’t explain why it’s happening or why it’s him, but my body knows even if my mind doesn’t. But now that there’s distance between us, and warm water stings against my abused feet, my mind is firmly in the driver’s seat.

This guy isn’t my type. Or at least, he shouldn’t be. In my head, I keep seeing that guy from the grocery store. He looked all business. And typically that kind of man isn’t exactly open to artistic expression. That doesn’t mean I can’t influence him, but it does mean that his reaction to me would be unpredictable. The more ordered and analytical the mind, the more likely that my abilities will cause adverse effects.

So for all intents and purposes, I should be nowhere near this guy. I should clean up my feet, maybe borrow a pair of flip-flops or something, and get the hell out of here.

But I’m not thinking of him like one of my artists.

No, he’s something altogether different. Not to mention his appearance tonight has left me questioning all the assumptions I’d made in that grocery store. I was already wrong about him being Gwen’s father. What else am I wrong about?

I don’t like being wrong. Not about people. My ability to read them and analyze them is a skill I need in order to maintain the line … that damn line that I cannot cross again.

“You’re in school?” he asks.

I nod, leaning over to get a better angle on my feet. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“You graduating this semester?”

He rubs at the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his. I want to replace his hand with mine, soothing whatever thoughts have him troubled.

“No. I got started late. I’m in my second year now.”

Hmm. Maybe that explains the tattoos. Perhaps they came before all-business-Wilder.

“I figured you were already out. Don’t see many college guys wearing ties.”

“That’s just for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“An office that would bore you to tears. I work part-time for a friend of the family. Accountant.”

“Accountant? And is that what you’re planning to do after school?”

He shrugs and instead turns the question back on me. “What about you? What’s your major?”

I smile and switch to my other foot. “Undecided.”

He stands and steps into the bathroom. He pulls open a medicine cabinet and removes a box of band-aids, setting them on the sink. “Is that because you don’t know what you want to do?”

If only things were that simple. I’ve had lifetimes to chase whatever career or hobby I wanted. Those wants are superficial though. They’re ornaments meant to pretty up existence. What I want … it goes far deeper than that. And it’s completely untouchable.

“Sometimes the last thing that matters is what we want to do.”

He crosses until he’s standing just outside the shower.

“I get that. I used to think I could do whatever I wanted as long as I wanted it bad enough.”

I stand up straight, holding the showerhead at my side.

“What changed?”

He shakes his head, tangling his fingers in his hair for a moment.

“Everything changed. All of it.”

I don’t like the way the lines of his face transform, turn defeated. Now I see Atlas in him. I don’t know what it is he’s holding up or how long he’s been at it, but I can see the fatigue. It’s a feeling I know like the back of my hand. I want his almost smile back.

I ask, “Do you ever just want to say fuck it all? Screw common sense and go after what you want anyway?”