Read His Inspiration Online

Authors: Ava Lore

His Inspiration (3 page)

BOOK: His Inspiration
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“There's underthings in the bag,” Malcolm said, his voice
startling me. Looking down, I found a discreet bag, colored silver, at my feet,
full of tissue paper. Bending over, I peeled back the paper and found a small
collection of lacy bras and flimsy panties in bright, startling colors.

Urgh. Colors. I selected the least offensive—a dark
indigo-purple—and pulled the panties on before sliding my arms through the
straps of the bra and hooking it in back. I tried not to think about Malcolm
and his intense eyes watching me get dressed, though I felt a heat light up my
cheeks anyway.

But the bra made my tits look amazing. And the indigo
complemented my skin, dammit.

I slid the sweater on, then pulled out a white wool skirt from
the pile, slipping that on as well. My boots, low-heeled and black, had
survived the paintpocalypse, and I slipped those on as well before selecting a
gray scarf from the pile and then shrugging into a soft black leather coat
covered in pockets. I'm not a fashion girl, but I have to say: I looked
good.

Malcolm stood, a smile on his face. Without a word, he led me
out of the bedroom and to the front of the plane, where he donned his own coat,
and then we exited, walking down a stairwell to the runway, like the rich and
famous do. I knew Malcolm was technically rich and famous, but it seemed weird
to see him surrounded by wealth. His sparse room at the top of his mansion
suited him far better than sumptuousness.

We entered a private car, and I watched out the window as we
drove from the airport to Dubrovnik.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

Mediterranean countryside. That was what greeted me. And a
crowded Mediterranean city. I hadn't expected these things, I suppose, when I
had realized where we were going. Croatia was forever wedded in my mind to
Bosnia and Serbia. Mountains and cold, and a war that had happened when I was
very young—those were the things I had called up in my mind.

But this place was lovely, by the Adriatic sea. It was like
Rome, or how I imagined Rome to be—I've never been—and it took my breath away.

A castle sat guarding the Old Town of Dubrovnik against the
threats of the sea. Red-roofed buildings and ancient stone churches and crowded
the streets peeked up at us from the walled city as we rode down toward the
sea. Our driver, far more adventurous than any New York cabbie, wove and bobbed
between other weaving and bobbing vehicles, until we got down to the wall and I
discovered that the old part of town—where we were going, I assumed—was
pedestrian only.

Wow,
I thought. I didn't have a lot of coherence at that
point. I felt like I had stepped into a completely new world, one that I had
never even imagined existed. Our driver stopped and we exited the car, Malcolm
holding the door for me, murmuring something about how our luggage would be
brought behind us, but I wasn't really paying attention. A chill and the smell
of the sea wrapped around me, and I huddled up next to Malcolm as he snugged
his arm around my shoulders and held me close, gently leading me where he
wanted to go.

We passed through the old stone wall and down stone steps to
land in a square mostly devoid of people, but filled with gray stone and
architectural details and puddles of rain reflecting the patches of blue sky
overhead.

“I'm sorry,” Malcolm said. “I'd heard it was warmer here this
year.”

I tried not to look like a tourist as we began a leisurely
stroll through the streets. Narrow alleyways peeped at me from between
buildings, terraces jutted around corners in the little paths off the main
thoroughfare, long stone stairways of a hundred steps flashed here and there.
People passed us, dressed beautifully for the cool weather, and fine clothes
shone prominently in shop windows.

I was utterly taken. Malcolm had been right. The place appealed
to my artistic sense, a city out of time. Another country, where magic might
happen.

After a few minutes of walking, Malcolm turned and led me down a
narrow alleyway. The old stone buildings reared up around us, stately and
imposing, blocking out the sky. A wooden door, ornately carved, was set into
the wall with a lovely arch over it. Malcolm pulled a key from his pocket and
opened it, gesturing for me to enter.

We climbed the narrow stairs inside, switching back on
themselves over and over again, until we reached a door at the top. Malcolm put
another key in this door and unlocked it before pushing it open and bowing to
me with a flourish.

“Our accommodations, my lady.”

I couldn't help but inhale sharply as the rooms beyond were
revealed to me. The entire top of the floor of this house was Malcolm's. Blonde
wood floor, clean white walls, sparsely populated with furniture... it was how
I had imagined his house would look, or how it would look after he was done
purging his actual house of
stuff.
It was beautiful, elegantly
appointed, and yet somehow also homey. Photographs and works of art hung on the
walls here, too, though they clustered and didn't sprawl over every available
space. A wall of windows, barely concealed by flowing sheer white curtains,
opened out onto a terrace. I crossed the floor and peered out.

“Oh,
wow,”
I had to say.

The red roofs of Dubrovnik's old town swept down and away from
us, and I could catch a glimpse of the gray winter sea beyond the castle walls.
In the summer, this place would be stunning. As it was, I wanted to make myself
a cup of hot tea, wrap myself in a blanket, and just stare out at the sea from
the comfort of the warm penthouse, curled up on the white overstuffed couch
facing the windows. Maybe read a good book. Maybe write one.

Maybe draw a bit.

“This is exactly what I needed,” I said to Malcolm.

“Yes, I thought you might,” he replied. “I am glad I brought you
here.”

I turned and studied him. He seemed very pleased with himself, a
beautiful smile gracing his full lips, his sandy hair falling in messy locks
against his forehead and curling over his ears and the collar of his jacket. He
was still a mystery to me... but a mystery that I was content with for now.

“Did you plan this?” I asked. It was stupid, but he seemed to
have known just what was in my heart, even when I didn't know it myself. I was
being stifled by the city, by my responsibilities. He'd
seen
that.

My heart gave a little flutter.
Stop that nonsense,
I
told it, but it didn't listen to my brain. It never did. I turned back to the
sea so Malcolm wouldn't detect the sudden, disquieting turmoil in my chest.

“I didn't quite plan it,” he said, coming up behind me. His
hands slid over my shoulders, his fingertips brushing against my neck and
through my hair as he helped me out of my coat. “I've been wanting to... get
away for a while. And I decided I wanted to take you with me. Yesterday. I
thought it would be fun. Though I didn't think that we would be coming here so
soon.”

My leather jacket slid down my arms and he tossed it onto the
couch. Turning, I smoothed my palms over his chest, under his own coat, sliding
my hands up and over his shoulders, slipping the fabric from his body. He felt
good and warm. I had the sudden impulse to lean forward and press my forehead
into his chest and just let him cradle me in his arms. “And why did we come
here today? Why not next week?” I looked up at him.

His dark cherrywood eyes bored into mine. His fingers found
their way to my scalp, running through my hair.

“Because I didn't want to lose you,” he said. “Whatever line I
crossed, I wanted you to know I was sorry. I don't want to cross it again,
until you tell me it's all right.”

For a terrible moment I thought I might cry.

“Shut up,” I told him. “Can we please just fuck now?”

His mouth broke into a grin. “You are so eager,” he said. “And
yes. We are going to fuck. I think it might be my masterpiece. Let me show you
how.”

I wanted to fuck
him,
not just fuck him as part of his
art, but the way he said the word
fuck,
lingering on the
f
and
drawing it out before cutting it off abruptly had gone straight down my spine
to my pussy.

I had it bad for Malcolm Ward. I didn't like it, but, well, can
you blame me?

Linking his fingers with mine, Malcolm led me away from the
windows, through the kitchen and dining area, and then around the corner where
a piano sat in a room lined with bookcases and full of books. Then we turned
and circled to the back of the flat, into a narrow hallway. At the end of it I
saw a large, open room with a bed in it. The master bedroom. Two other doors in
the hall were open, letting light from the small windows fall inside, and we
entered one.

It had been turned into a studio. A sculpting studio.

It looked remarkably like Felicia's studio, except there were no
tables of tools, only a large lump of red clay in the middle of a plastic tarp
in the middle of the floor with two buckets of water beside it. Wet towels
mostly covered the clay, and the air in the room was almost uncomfortably warm.
I stood just inside the door, wondering how badly my clothes would be ruined
this time. It would be a shame; they were so new and so lovely...

But then Malcolm turned and reached out, his fingers gathering
the hem of my sweater, and gently he pulled it over my head, revealing my new
bra. Reaching around, he unhooked the back of the bra, and slid it down my
arms, leaving me topless as he moved his hands to my waist and fiddled with the
hook and zipper enclosure on my wool skirt. I realized that he had watched me
dress in the plane so that he would know how to undress me.

He was good. I was glad he was good.

The wool skirt slipped to the floor, and he knelt down in front
of me again, removing my boots before hooking his thumbs into my panties and
sliding them down my legs, until I stood naked before him, vulnerable and
trembling, needy and filled with desire. I wanted him to touch me so badly. I
wanted to touch him so badly.

He stood.

"Undress me, Sadie," he commanded.

Yes, I thought. God, yes.

I wasn't as methodical as he was. My hands shook as I assissted
him out of the soft cashmere sweater he wore, trembled as I helped him shuck
the fine cotton undershirt. I reached his trousers and undid them, my fingers brushing
against the growing bulge that I'd never touched directly. It excited me like
nothing else ever had. I wanted him inside me, pumping and fucking, until we
both couldn't stand.

I moved his trousers over his hips, taking the opportunity to
finally run my hands over his ass, letting my fingers take an illicit squeeze
before moving on. He wore boxers beneath his pants, and his erection was now
full and hard, straining against the fabric. I swallowed, wanting to take it
into my mouth, just to taste him. I wondered what he would taste like. Would
his precum be sweet or salty? Would he leap and harden further in my mouth?
Would he grab my hair, or let me lead him?

I untied his fine leather shoes and helped him slip his feet
from them before gently peeling his socks off. He had startlingly beautiful
feet, I realized. Well formed, not hairy. Warm. Well taken care of. I let my
fingers wander over his toes for just a moment before assisting him out of his
other shoe and sock. Then I slipped his trousers from his legs and he stepped
out of them, standing before me only in his underwear, his cock beneath his
boxers hard and ready for me.

I licked my lips and reached up, grabbing the waistband of his
boxers and dragging them down his hips.

His cock leaped out at me, proud and tall, long and thick, and I
almost moaned at the sight, imagining it inside me. He was well-groomed down
there, and I found myself smiling. The dark, clean smell of his skin hit me,
and I leaned forward and buried my face in the soft flesh of his testicles,
inhaling deeply. He smelled good, like soap and cock. I opened my mouth and
took one ball past my lips, sucking on it gently, and above me he cried out,
his strong, muscled legs trembling.

I reveled in my power, nipping and licking his balls, feeling
the weight of them on my tongue, but avoiding his cock even as it strained
toward me, aching for my touch. He'd kept me away from him for quite long
enough, I thought, he could stand a few moments of teasing. Payback is a
delicious bitch goddess from hell, and she gives great head.

His fingers wound through my hair, but he didn't try to guide
me, only cradled my skull in his hands, as though he wanted to reassure himself
that I was real. I smoothed my palms over his straining thighs, and then,
finally, I sat up and licked the clear, gleaming jewel of precum from the head
of his cock.

"Oh," he said. "Sadie." And there was such
wonder in his voice that I was afraid to look up into his face. What intensity
of emotion would I see there? I wondered. And was I ready to confront it? Ready
to accept it?

I'm a coward. Instead, I opened my mouth wide, slid my tongue
under the head of his cock, and forced myself to swallow all of him.

God, he was huge. I felt the soft head of his shaft pulsing at
the back of my throat even as I fought not to gag on it. He was long, and wide,
and when at last my nose came to rest against the base of his penis I was
trembling with the effort of it. I could only hold it for a moment before
retreating, but it was enough for Malcolm, it seemed. When I reached the base
of his cock, he groaned, his fingers tightening in my hair, his legs faltering,
and when I drew back he did so as well, popping his thick cock out of my mouth
quickly as though I had already overwhelmed him.

Reaching down, he pulled me to my feet, his dark eyes burning,
and then he put his arms around me and pulled me to him, skin to skin. His
flesh burned against mine, his cock pressed into my belly, wet with saliva and
so close to my aching entrance that I thought I would die if he didn't push his
way inside me
right now.
I slid my hands over his hot body, feeling the
quiver of his muscles and the sweet, tight tension inside him.

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