Thomas's Muse: A Quidell Brothers Novella

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  He blinks a few times and I wonder if he can smell how much I want him, even though—God knows—I shouldn’t. I wonder if he’s going to turn me around right here and now, throw open the stairwell door, and back me against the ugly graphics on the door just so his fingers can find out for themselves in relative privacy what his sense of smell already knows.

  Sometimes being horny all the time has its drawbacks. It’s a plus, with Rick. When he’s in town. And not too tired from training. Or too busy making sure his tan is just right or his chest is smoothly shaved. I stifle a frown, hoping the new guy won’t think I’m frowning at him.

  He’s a gentleman. One obviously raised well, because he’s fighting to keep his eyes on my face. I imagine he’s holding in a growl, too. A deep baritone growl, one full of resonance from his huge chest.

  He sticks out his hand. “My name’s Thomas. Tom Quidell.”

  I wrap my palm around his, doing my best to be a gentlewoman. “Samantha Singleton. Sammie for short.”

  He winks and nods toward the door. “Do say, m’lady, from whence level of our dungeon of foodstuffs and factory numbers did you escape?”

  I chuckle, smiling, thankful he’s found a way to break the awkwardness, but his charm just makes me want him more. Which I shouldn’t. The broken spell lets in a sudden and unwanted burst of guilt. I look away.

  “Campaign Relations. I came down for—”

  “Oh!” He snaps his fingers and backs into his cubie. “The mock-ups.”

  My body doesn’t like that he’s moved away. I feel a pull, as if I’m supposed to walk forward into the gap between his cubicle walls, so when he turns around again I’m right there, waiting for him to run into me, in full body contact.

  A cardboard tube pokes out of the cubie, held in the air by his luscious hand. “My first.” He winks again, his chest out, but he shoves his fingers into his pockets when I take the tube.

  “When did you start?” I roll the tube between my hands, flipping it around like a wand. Why do his hands seem so familiar? Maybe it’s because they’re so masculine. And wonderful.

  “Last week.” He watches me, captivated. “I graduated Spring semester.”

  How could this huge, gorgeous man be a baby? Except he graduated, and was most certainly legal to drink. And no more than five years younger than me.

  He turns back to his desk to grab something and I take in the square perfection of his backside. The man in front of me was definitely not a baby.

  He holds out a card, a big smile lighting up his handsome face. “Just delivered this morning. You’re the first.”

  I take the card, glancing at his name, title, office phone, and e-mail, knowing full well I will have it all memorized before I return to my floor. “A business card virgin, huh?” I tuck it into my pencil skirt’s one pocket.

  His face takes on a raw edge as he watches my hand smooth across my hip. I don’t know if it’s because I said “virgin” or because he likes what he sees. Or a combination of the two. But he catches his look quickly, like a true gentleman, and offers his hand once more. “Nice to meet you, Samantha Singleton, Sammie for short.”

  We shake again. I back toward the stairway door, watching him and not where I’m walking. A chuckle rolls from his cubie, but his phone rings, and he turns away.

  So much for him following me into the stairway.

  As I open the door I frown at myself, as indignant as I am embarrassed. I just met a good guy, a smart, sexy guy, and a gentleman. I live with someone. I sleep in the same bed with another man. And I’m flirting like some horny high schooler?

  It’s not the first time my libido has gotten me in trouble.

  But part of me screams I need to pay attention. Would this temptation have occurred if the best part of my home life wasn’t Mickles rubbing my ankles and demanding a good petting?

  I stand in the stairwell for a long moment, wondering what to do.

  Thomas

  I just handed my first business card to the hottest woman I have ever met in my entire life. Auburn hair so shiny it gleams. Hazel-green eyes sparkling with life. Full, round lips and the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

  Holy shit, I think, barely keeping my mind on the chatter coming at me over the phone. I write down a few things, say a few ah-hahs and ask for an e-mail confirming the conversation before I hang up. My brother Dan told me before I started to “always get an e-mail. Believe me, you always want an e-mail.” Times like this, when all I can think about is getting into that tight little skirt to find what other tight little treats await me, I know my brother is a genius.

  Sammie Singleton. I do a quick search in the company directory. An assistant to an assistant. Been with the company four years. Started here my sophomore year at the University.

  So she’s a little older than me. And has the lushest real breasts I ever wanted to rub my face between. Big, little, I don’t care, but I like real. Fake looks fake. Fake feels fake. Some men don’t care but I swear I can taste the silicone.

  And her hips screamed fuck me. Pull up my black skirt and fuck me long and hard.

  I close my eyes and force myself to count as I inhale. I can’t get this worked up over a woman, especially one I just met. She could be married, for all I know. Or living with someone. If there’s one thing I learned from Dan’s divorce, it’s to make sure you know who you are sleeping with.

  3

  Samantha

  I spend the rest of my day refusing to think about one Mr. Thomas, Tom Quidell. About his white shirt or the leather cord tied discretely around his neck. Or how soft his hair would feel between my fingers. Because every time I do, I see Rick standing in front of our bathroom mirror, a towel around his waist, as he checks out his chest stubble.

  Watching Rick used to be the sexiest thing I could imagine. He’d come out of the shower and stare at me until I couldn’t take it anymore and went down on him. I’d suck him off and he’d throw me onto the bed and fuck me missionary style.

  At the time, it seemed so exotic. But now I wonder if it was just erotic.

  And maybe not all that erotic, either. Maybe simply expected.

  The bus bumps along the city streets and I look around at my fellow passengers. I’ve been riding this line, at this time, every day for eight months. In summer, it’s bright outside and the morning dew covers the sidewalk. I wait at the stop, my bag in my hand and my sneakers on my feet, with the same three people. In the evenings, I ride home with a different set, a guy and two older women with their bags and their sneakers.

  We take up our places but we don’t talk to each other. Sort of like how I take up my place on my knees in front of Rick and don’t know what it means to him.

  Or what it means to me.

  Inside, I wonder if there’s any beauty to the movements of my life.

  As I walk up the stairs to the loft, I remember, once again, Rick is gone on a shoot. This time, he’s in L.A. He won’t be back for four days.

  I stop outside the door, my key in hand, and stare at the heavy wood slab. It’s hung on massive iron hinges setting off its rough, original look. I think it must have been part of a worktable at some point, or maybe a floor. This door, it has history. And now it’s trying something new.

  I drop my bag on the floor and hit the light switch, even though there’s enough evening light I should be able to see. But the curtains are closed. Rick must have shut them before he left this afternoon.

  Flinging them open, I flood the loft with low sunlight. The main window faces west, and we’re high enough in the building we see the sunset. Tonight, the sky spreads out red and gold, and lights up the world.

  There’s a piece of paper on the table, but I know what it says. Itinerary notes, flight numbers, and the unspoken reminder to feed Mickles. It’s the same every time.

  The cat prances around my legs, starved more for affection than for food. I pick him up and he rubs his soft fur against my cheek, purring and licking and meowing.

  He migh
t be a boring kitty, but he’s a good boy. And he prefers the curtains open, just like me.

  I set out his food and drop onto the couch. It crinkles as I lean back, its not-so-buttery leather muttering about my invasion of its domain. I pull a pillow under my head and look up at the solid beams crossing the ceiling. In the evening light, I see a few cobwebs, and wonder how to get the vacuum up there. Then I wonder if it’s worthwhile.

  My hand wanders to my thighs, as my mind wonders about other unknowns. I have a steady life with Rick, a good-ish life, but my brain’s screaming excitement! Possibilities! New new new!

  The handsome and huge Mr. Quidell.

  I can’t think about him anymore. I can’t think about either man. So I dip back into my old fantasy, the one of the art student with his huge pad of paper under his arm.

  He sits on the mound of lawn in front of the library, his pad propped against his pack. He’s a puppy, tall and not quite filled out yet, with big hands and big feet. Bright, pale eyes watch me as I walk along between the buildings and the bike path. His gaze is intense, piercing, as if he likes what he sees. Wants what he sees.

  On the couch, my hand pulls up my skirt and my thighs part. I end up here more often than I want to admit. Training makes Rick tired. Perfection comes at a cost, and usually it’s our sex life.

  I’ve gotten quite good at dealing with it on my own.

  In the fantasy, I bite my lip, watching the gorgeous art student watch me. When I duck through the sliding doors into the library, his eyes narrow, and he’s up off the grass, pad in one hand and pack in the other.

  I duck through the second set of doors, into the library’s cavernous lobby, glancing first to the left, then to the right. I need someplace private—a quiet corner to study. But I know he’s right behind me, his tall stride long and purposeful. He’ll follow. But how deep into the stacks will he go?

  On the couch, my fingers find their private place, their quiet corner. I rub my clit lightly at first, feeling my fantasy self stride between shelf after shelf of books. In the fantasy, I want to rub myself, but I roll my hips instead, pushing my thighs together.

  I know he’s there. I know he’s watching.

  This part of the library has wide, tall windows, but it’s a corner rarely visited. I stroke the spine of an old book, one untouched for ages, and I know I don’t want to end up like it. Not in my fantasy, and not on my couch, where I wiggle.

  He’s there, at the other end of the long row of books, standing square to me, his pale eyes intense. The pack hangs from one of his hands, the pad from the other. His grip is strong, firm, and I wonder how those fingers will feel on my skin.

  I back against an old metal desk, one that’s been pushed into the forbidden corner of this forbidden section of the library. Sun streams in from the lone window behind it, but scattered by a rolling shelf full of books. I lean back into the dappled light, knowing my legs are parting and my nipples are pressing through my thin t-shirt.

  On the couch, by myself, I sigh.

  In the fantasy, he’s right there in front of me, looking down at my face, his head slightly tilted. He drops the pack onto the desk on one side of me, but holds the pad.

  He wants me to see.

  The pages flip and then there’s me. And me again. Walking. Smiling. My hand on my pack’s straps. Another of me watching as the world passes by.

  He’s been drawing me for days. Weeks, maybe.

  The pages turn again. Me, now in places I’ve never been. In a studio. On a bed I don’t know. They are his fantasies. His desires.

  Me, naked, reaching out to him.

  His eyes intense, he closes the pad and drops it on the other side of me, trapping me between his possessions. The pad crinkles and a rustling breaks the silence.

  He wants me. This beautiful boy wants me and he’s been shy—too shy to say hello, but not shy enough to keep from drawing me on my back, nipples erect, his hope that I want him as much as he wants me blistering from the page.

  In the fantasy I rub my hand over the bulge in his jeans. A groan rolls from his throat and he looks up at the ceiling. I see his smile.

  Leaning forward, he reaches around my side to smooth the paper, his gaze locked to mine. I’m breathing hard, this close to him. He’s gorgeous up close—thick sandy brown hair and beautiful blue-green eyes. I trace the leather cord tied around his neck.

  When he leans toward me his shoulder brushes my breast and I gasp. He doesn’t pull away, just stares at my chest, a hungry look making his young features seem older than he is.

  “My muse,” he says, his voice low and resonant. He may not have filled out yet, but his voice has. “You are perfect.”

  His mouth descends onto mine, searching and a little naïve. But he’s strong and his stomach feels wonderful and rock hard under his shirt. I yank on the fabric, pulling it up to get a look at what my fingers feel.

  “Take off the shirt.” I say, rubbing my hands all over his skin.

  He glances back into the library, but does as I say. His shoulders and arms do not disappoint. I rub cheeks and lips against his chest.

  I’m so hot that when he tongues my mouth again, stealing my breath, I almost come. He chuckles, his hand moving under my skirt to my itty bitty panties, and a finger finds its way underneath.

  “I want to see,” he growls. “Let me see.” His other hand yanks on my shirt as he backs away enough to see both my breasts and my pussy. He doesn’t let go. I’d scream if he let go.

  My fantasy man watches his finger dip in and out like he’s never seen a woman’s parts before. His other hand is working hard on my nipples, yanking and twisting, and I’m dying, it feels so good. He moves two fingers inside me and I’m bucking now, moaning, and his face is pure carnal joy. He likes how I react to him, and it just makes me want to fuck him more.

  Just how he’s looking at me makes me so horny I want to scream. The bulge in his jeans is too much and I unbuckle his belt, balancing carefully on the edge of the desk. He’s cupping my pussy now, rubbing against my clit with the palm of his hand, and also keeping me from falling. His arms take all the work of holding me still, one hand working my fantasy clit the way my real finger works my real clit, the fingers of the other curled into the front of my bra. His biceps may be developing, but they are beautiful. A groan rolls from his throat, a deep groan, one urging me on. I work at it, but it takes effort to release his glorious cock from his boxer briefs. He’s big—long and thick—and I can’t believe my luck. Those hips are going to pound me hard and I’m going to come again and again.

  I stroke him with a firm grip. He’s hard—unbelievably hard—but his cock feels velvety and smooth. Wonderful. I roll my thumb over the tip, spreading his pre-cum, before licking the pad of my thumb.

  God, my fantasy man tastes as good as he looks. Clean and wonderful and like a man who knows how to work.

  His eyes narrow, his lids dropping, as he watches me suck at the pre-cum on the tip of my thumb. “Suck me,” he demands, holding me where I am.

  Oh, I think about it—how the crown of his cock will feel against my tongue. How taut his muscles will be as he tries to thrust into my mouth. How my throat will take all of him.

  But this is my fantasy, not his. “You first.” I widen my legs, leaning back. I want him to lick me. To taste and want to fuck me so bad he’s gripping my hips enough it hurts.

  His hand pulls off my pussy and cold air washes in behind it. Both hands pinch my nipples. Both flicking and squeezing and I let out a whimper. My pussy convulses, a pre-orgasm rippling up my belly. When he gets his tongue on me I’m going to come all over his face.

  “Oh, God,” I moan.

  In my fantasy, his cock pushes into me. Hard.

  On the couch, where I lay in the real world with my pencil skirt hitched up, I moan. Shudders flood from my contracting pussy all the way to my toes and my fluttering eyelids. I drop down, my fingers still rubbing. I’d forgotten the brilliance of this fantasy.

  How m
uch better it is than Rick’s hard abs and his demanding stare.

  I open my eyes. Mickles sits on the back of the couch, licking his paw like he doesn’t care one bit what the human is doing.

  I sit up even though all I want to do is take a nap, and think back to that last semester on campus. I spent a lot of time in and near the arts buildings as I finished off my last few classes and I remember my fantasy hottie and his pack and his artist’s pad. Lots of students set up to draw passersby. He was one of many.

  It dawns on me that the details of my fantasy could just be my new crush entering my desires. Maybe I added them this time. But no. Those details have always been there: pale eyes—blue-green in the bright sun—broad shoulders, even if they hadn’t yet completely filled out, and the leather cord around his neck.

  And the luscious hands.

  I grab a pillow, suddenly so embarrassed I don’t want anyone to see my face, not even Mickles.

  And I realize why Tom seemed familiar.

  All these years I’ve been using a memory to get myself off that, more often than not, worked better than thoughts of Rick. A memory of a hot guy I didn’t know.

  Until today.

  4

  Thomas

  I bounce my pen on my desktop—snap, snap, snap. My foot is going at the same rate—tap, tap, tap. And I’ve been semi-hard for three days, thinking about Ms. Sammie Singleton.

  We crossed paths twice since she appeared on my cubicle threshold all sweet smelling and lickable. Both times she smiled and looked away and I wished I was better at reading people. Coy or embarrassed, I couldn’t tell.

  I think she’s avoiding me, so the second time I stood my ground. “Do you want to have lunch today? It’s nice out.” I waved my hand at the weirdly green windows of her floor. They hazed Campaign Relations and everything within reach. Except her. They did nothing to cut her beauty.

  She just blinked at me, not answering.