Inspire (The Muse #1)(13)
Author: Cora Carmack

If possible, his expression grows even darker. Defeat overlaid with guilt.

“Every single day.”

All I want to do is wash that away. I can inspire genius works of art, moving music, writing that pricks the soul of humanity. I can elevate a person to the kind of success of which they’ve never even dreamed. But at the moment, I feel like none of that means anything if I can’t make him smile.

I reach out my hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he takes it. Then I hold tight and turn the showerhead on him.

Chapter Six

The shocked look on his face as the water sprays up his chest draws a laugh from my throat. I’m not completely psycho, so I don’t turn the water on his face, but he wastes no time taking advantage of my hesitation.

He steps right into the shower with me, and I jump back, slamming into the tile wall. In my surprise I get a little wild with the water and end up catching him in the face anyway. I cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from laughing, and he takes hold of my other wrist, using my own hand to spray the water back on me. It hits me in the neck first, then as I try to pull away, sprays down my chest. I gasp as the water soaks through my dress, and if he didn’t notice my lack of bra earlier, it won’t take much for him to notice now.

I fight back, trying to regain control of the nozzle, and instead I end up pointing the stream of water straight up and it splashes down on both our heads. I squeal, and try to squeeze around him, thinking maybe I can get out of the door. My feet slip on the wet floor, and he catches me around the waist, laughing. “Oh, no you don’t. You started this.”

Another jet of water comes toward my face, and I manage to turn just in time so that it only catches my hair and neck. I look down, and can’t control my laughter any longer. He’d stepped in still wearing his shoes, and they’re soaked now. As are his jeans and the bottom of my dress. We probably look ridiculous.

In my complete and utter delirium, I forget about keeping a tight hold on the showerhead, and Wilder succeeds in wrestling it away from me.

“I’ve got you now.”

He steps back, lifts his arm to aim, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I raise my hands to cover my face, but the spray doesn’t come. Hesitantly, I peek out from between my fingers to find him staring at me, his eyes dark and piercing. I’m aware then of just the way his soaked shirt clings to his toned body, and I have no doubt that my own clothes are plastered to my wet skin. Heat pools between my thighs, and I squeeze them together to ease the sudden ache there.

He moves in close, and I catch my breath. He circles one arm around me, and greedily I pull my own arms up to loop around his neck. But he doesn’t come in for a kiss like I expect. Instead he turns the knob behind me, shutting off the water and returning the showerhead to where it belongs. I’d thought to make him smile, but the look he gives me now is all hard angles and dark, serious eyes. I look past his shoulder to see that we’d left the door of the shower open, and water has collected in a puddle on the floor outside.

I swallow.

Shit. This was not at all a good idea. I made a giant mess and probably pissed him off, and I really, really need to just get out of here. This is what happens when I’m not thinking strategically. Normally, with an artist, I’m able to keep my head. I play on their emotions, while keeping mine rigidly in check. I read them, trying to decipher what they want and need before they ever tell me. It’s my job to be their ideal woman, the one who’ll motivate them and make passion burn so hot in their blood that it spills over into their art. But I don’t need to be Wilder’s ideal woman. I don’t want that. I just want to be me.

The hand that had held the showerhead smoothes over my damp hair and down until he pushes the wet mess off my shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“That I’m an idiot.”

A slight curve curls across his mouth.

“Because you started a fight you couldn’t win?”

“Because I just am. For so many reasons.”

His fingers trail from my shoulder down to the arc of my collarbone.

“God, do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are?”

I swallow and don’t answer because I’ll sound like a complete and total bitch if I say the truth. Beauty is the only attribute of mine that never changes, regardless of whatever guy I’m with. And it’s a compliment to which I’ve grown callous.

“Kalli, I—” He stops and closes his eyes.

I reach up and run my thumb across a drop of water trailing over his cheek.

He releases a heavy breath and turns his face into my hand.

“What do you want?” he asks. “Give me the truth.”

In a perfect world?

“You.”

His hand curls around the back of my neck and he jerks me forward to meet him halfway. His kiss is wet and brutal, and I feel boneless in his arms. Incorporeal. Like the only the thing holding me together, the only thing tethering me to this existence is the drag and crush of his mouth against mine.

My back presses against cold tile, and his hand bunches up the wet skirt of my dress until he manages to peel enough of it away to slide a large hand against the bare skin of my thigh. His fingers are slick against my leg, and my breath catches in my throat.

He breaks away from our kiss, and his mouth plays over my shoulder, dragging down the strap of my dress with his teeth until it falls to my elbow. The hand on my leg slips higher as his tongue teases at my collarbone. Then he moves lower to the drooping neckline of my dress. His fingers brush up against the edge of my underwear, and I can’t stop the moan of anticipation that escapes my lips.

He hesitates then, pulling back slightly just before his hand or his mouth reach the places I really want him.

But I don’t want him to slow down. I don’t want him to think.

Because then I’ll have to think too.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?”

I reach for him, plucking at the hem of his soaked shirt and pulling it up and away from a slim, toned stomach. When I keep pulling, he lets me tug it over his head. It slaps provocatively against the floor, and my body clenches in response.

“Please touch me.”

He seems to war with himself for a few seconds longer, but when I trail one long finger down between his pectoral muscles, the indecision disappears. He wraps an arm low around my waist and pulls me up against him.

“You could tempt a saint.”

“Are you a saint?”

He slides a hand down to cup my ass, pulling me forward against the hard ridge of his arousal and answers, “Not by a long shot.”

Stepping out of the shower, his feet slap against the puddle on the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist to be closer to him, but then he has to angle us sideways just to fit us through his narrow bathroom door. I drop my head to his shoulder and laugh, and his own chuckle sends shivers racing across my skin.