Thomas's Muse: A Quidell Brothers Novella

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  “You haven’t touched me, Sammie.” He’s next to me now, so close I feel the heat rising off his skin, but he keeps his hands away. “God, you are beautiful.”

  I want to know this man, to be tasted by him, to feel his tongue and his lips against my mouth, my nipples, my clit. The fantasy won’t work anymore. I need the real Tom.

  I reach to unbutton his shirt but he stops me, his hand wrapping my wrist and holding me firm.

  “You have no idea how much I want you.” Tom’s voice fills the room, a booming, low call that plays up my spine.

  His words resonate inside my head and chest, flooding between my legs. He has no idea how much I want him. The need flickering in my belly is like an animal. It wants out. It wants Tom in, his cock gliding in and out on my slickness.

  “Then let me touch,” I whisper. “Let me suck you.” Let me feel.

  His eyes narrow for a split second. He releases my wrist but leans away toward his easel. Chest out, body elongated, for a moment Tom is on his back and the full wonder of the bulge in his pants is plain to see.

  I groan, staring, wanting nothing more than to touch. I need to know. My fingers work his belt.

  But he sits up again before I undo the clasp. “Wait.”

  He has the cloth in his hands. The one with the smudges he used to clean his fingers. He folds it over and over until it’s a clean, white, long rectangle and all evidence of his work is on the inside.

  I watch the cloth. Other men have tried to tie me up. I don’t like it. Why, I don’t know, but it’s not my thing.

  His face crunches up in frustration. “I want you to feel the difference between what you had and what you could have now.” His hand tightens around the fabric. “I’m not him.”

  “No, you are not.” You are much, much better, I think. His art, his work, his soul, his body all curl around me. Tom is focused, but he’s not Rick. He’s not flat.

  Maybe I can distract him from his cloth. I fumble with his zipper again but he pulls away my hand.

  “Sammie, wait.”

  “I don’t want to wait. I can’t wait. Not any—”

  His mouth covers mine. I lose all my breath to this man—he draws it out of me as if he’s sucking out poison. I’m left a blank slate.

  No more words circle in my head. That place I go when I hit the fantasy is here, alive. It’s his world, his context. It’s this room he’s filled to the brim with creation, with paints and charcoal and paper. With his weighty easel and the stacks of canvas against the wall. With the lone candle on the floor and the pool of heat it throws. The room lacks the expected bits of life he’s supposed to have. Chairs. A couch. But what Tom has is so much better. So much more alive.

  He tastes the same as his scent—male and warm. His lips work hungrily over mine and I respond with a greedy need I didn’t know I had. This isn’t just about wanting to feel his muscles tighten and flex as he fucks me or about knowing he wants it as much as I do. Nor is it about moving on.

  His hand finds my breast and he palms my nipple through the cup of my bra, groaning into my mouth, and my back arches in response. Maybe he whispers my name. Maybe he’s like me, unable to talk. We both shudder.

  His tongue flits into my mouth and tangles with mine. I lose my remaining breath.

  Why is he still dressed? I paw at his shirt, pulling and tugging. I need access to his chest. To his skin. I feel his hard muscles under my palms but I can’t see. I need to see.

  He wraps the cloth from his easel around my eyes.

  I stiffen.

  “I want you to feel, Sammie,” he rumbles, his lips taking my earlobe much the same way they took my mouth. Nibbles flicked my skin, both cold and hot at the same time. My scalp tingles and I sigh, letting him tie the blindfold. “That’s all. Just feel.”

  The world drops into darkness, but Tom is against me, pressing his still covered erection into my belly, and I somehow know where everything is. The candle’s heat gives the room directionality. The pillows and throw feel soft against my bare back, the carpet rough. And Tom’s clothes rub against the lace of my panties, demanding entrance.

  “Tom…” I whisper. He’s on top of me, heavy and strong, and his mouth works along my jaw.

  His fingers stroke mine, weave into mine, and he pulls my arms up over my head. “Touch me, Sammie.” But he lifts away.

  Cold air rushes over my breasts and I gasp, wanting him back. How did I live before, without his body on mine? Why, four years ago, did I pass this up?

  I reach for him, my hands grasping, though I can’t see. But I know where he is. I know he’s kneeling between my legs, my magnificent Tom, waiting.

  I won’t disappoint him.

  11

  Sitting up, my fingers find his hips. I glide them along his belt, feeling a hitch with each loop. His zipper feels hot, the metal teeth vicious, and I need to release him from his torture. He’s rubbing against my hand like he can’t help himself and a rush of power rolls through my body. He blindfolded me, but not to dominate, and I understand what he meant by I want you to feel.

  First, my hands pull his shirt out of his waistband. The fabric crinkles in my grip, crisp as a white dress shirt should be. I find the bottom button and carefully, slowly, undo it.

  A low groan rolls from Tom. I imagine him looking down, his face intense. His eyes are full of carnal joy because he’s watching me—blindfolded me in only my bra and panties—and I trace my fingers over his abdomen as I undo the next button.

  But I don’t know what he’s experiencing. “What do you see right now?” I have to know. I undo another button.

  The shirt twists and his hand touches my shoulder, my cheek. “What I want.”

  I’d been a mirror, I think, to protect myself. Maybe also to hide. But I can’t now. Touching forces me out from behind my glass wall and I whisper his name. “Tom.”

  “Sammie.” His hand curls into my hair and his stomach suddenly pulls away from me. A kiss takes my mouth, hot and intense. Once again, he pulls the poison from my body.

  I pull away and he groans, his hands finding my breasts. He’s pinching, rubbing and the fabric constrains. I wiggle, reaching for the hooks, but his fingers find them first. My bra lets go.

  A vibration moves through his torso as if he’s let out a subsonic growl, and his mouth descends to my chest. No man has responded to seeing and sucking at my breasts with so much masculine joy. I almost burst apart, broken into little bits of sensation caused by Tom’s roving mouth and possessive hands.

  I force his shirt down his arms and he lifts off me. Cold rushes between us and for a split second I don’t know where he is, but fabric crinkles—I hear him pull it off—and I orient again. My body knows where Tom is. As does my focus.

  Undoing a belt while blindfolded is more difficult than I expected. A giggle pops out and Tom laughs too, until he cups my breasts.

  “I want to rub my cock right here.” His palm slides between them, over my heart. “I want you to feel it everywhere.”

  Oh, God, I think. I’m through his belt, through the zipper, to the cotton weave of his boxer-briefs. I have no idea what color they are, but my mind screams black. His briefs lie flat over the hard muscles of his hips and I run my hands between his trousers and fabric, feeling the square perfection of his ass. I don’t touch his cock. Not yet.

  When I pull his hips toward me, I get the full wonder of his hardness against my face. A breathy moan pushes between my lips. My mouth waters—I want to taste him. I have to taste him. He releases himself from the boxer-briefs and his cock springs against my lips.

  His shaft feels velvety under my fingers, and rock hard. He’s long and thick—perfectly shaped. And all I want is to run my tongue over his sensitive head.

  I smooth his pre-cum over my lips, tasting him. He’s intense, exotic, and I take him into my mouth, working slowly. He wants me to feel, and I want it too. I want this with him, to be aware of his entire body’s responses, and not just the force of his cock as it
hits the back of my throat.

  “Jesus, Sammie.” His hips tense under my hands.

  I’m taking him deep, swirling my tongue and sucking so hard my cheeks pull in. One hand helping my mouth while the other brushes through his trimmed pubic hair.

  I want to see. I feel the v of his hips and the ripple of his abs, and I want to see. I lift away my hand to fiddle with the cloth over my eyes.

  “Leave it on,” he croaks out as he stops my fingers from lifting away the blindfold.

  I stop vacuuming his cock, but I keep its perfect head in my mouth, waiting. What else is he going to do? My body screams—I can’t take much more. Every inch of my skin ripples as if my nerves are jumping up and down like screaming fanatics. Tom makes every single one of my cells swoon.

  His hands grip my breasts again and he pulls them up, making me arch my back. My head falls back and I exhale hard. My entire body moves and the next thing I feel—the next thing I know—is his cock rubbing against first my left nipple, then my right. I want to scream. It feels good. So, so good. How can this be? I have to have him in my mouth again.

  But he’s between my breasts, pumping hard. My saliva on his cock offers some lubrication but it dries fast and only his hot skin rubs against my breastbone. But before it starts to hurt, he groans and pulls away, vanishing from my perception. For a second, I’m disoriented again, lost without his body to give me direction.

  Then his hand pushes me back onto the pillows and I flop, bouncing off the softness. He grips my hips; my panties vanish down my legs, pulled off faster than I could do it alone. And he’s spreading my legs.

  Is he going to fuck me? Will he pump into me the way he pumped between my breasts. “Please,” I whimper. “Now. Please.”

  Fingers rub along the top of my stockings. A palm descends to my mound, grinding into my pussy. I whimper again, my back arching.

  He’s on top of me, covering me completely. His cock burns against my lower belly and I whimper, but his mouth covers mine. This kiss is deep, lingering, hungry. It rolls through my entire body, a wave of brilliance I’ve never experienced before. It’s Tom. Only Tom.

  Each of his touches is more possessive than the ones before. More demanding, as if he’s losing patience. As if he truly, honestly wants me.

  It makes me hotter.

  “Fuck me, please. Tom! Now. I’m on the pill. Come in me. Please. I want you to come in me.” I wrap my legs around him and push my feet into his hamstrings, making his hips grind against mine. I want him inside. I need him inside.

  The noises he makes lack words but carry meaning: Quiet. The muscles of his shoulders tense under my hands. Tom breaks the force of my hold and his body pulls off mine.

  “Tom!” Why is he doing this? “What’s—”

  His mouth descends onto my pussy and his tongue immediately finds my clit. I buck against him, my entire body suddenly, completely electric. I know he wants me to come. Now. Right now, as his fingers probe and his tongue dances. Before he’s inside me.

  The orgasm quakes me down to my bones. My throat constricts. My hands jitter. And Tom doesn’t stop.

  He licks and finger-fucks me, drawing my orgasm out into one shudder after another. How long it lasts, I don’t know. I’m lost.

  Until he takes a hold of a handful of breast again.

  His cock is against my belly. He’s flicking my nipple, and his mouth is working along my jaw, toward my earlobe. “You are beautiful. How can you be so beautiful?”

  His words filter through me, washing over me like rain water. He’s the beautiful one, my hard Tom. He dominates this moment. He dominates my world.

  He’s curled against me, rubbing, his muscles so tense I almost hear them hum.

  I squirm, trying to move so when he pumps, he’s pumping into me and not against my bellybutton. But he’s holding me tight, his grip on my arms intense. He’s not letting me move. And his thrusts become stronger, more powerful.

  “Tom, in me. Please. Fuck me.”

  “Ah!” His head lifts away from my neck as his orgasm spurts onto my belly.

  What just happened? Why didn’t he come inside me? Confusion strangles my thoughts and I can’t think. What did I do?

  “Sammie,” he whispers. He’s still with me, holding on. His arms tighten.

  I touch his head, feeling his soft hair. He’s fiddling with the blindfold, untying it. When I see again, he’s using the cloth to wipe his cum off my belly.

  “Why?” I should be angry, but only confusion fills my head. He felt so good. Extraordinary. But I feel like something’s missing, and it’s not just him pumping into me.

  I don’t know what to say. I just don’t want him to let go.

  He makes a face like he doesn’t want to talk.

  This is complicated, I think. I’ve never dealt with complicated before. It’s always been clear-cut fuck-and-go. Or fuck-and-sleep, like with Rick. But with Tom, it’s more. He’s kissing my forehead, his arms tight around my body.

  I could run away. Go back to the loft. But Tom pulls me into his arms, even if he doesn’t want to talk, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

  I need to admit it. To myself. To him.

  I curl around him. He feels warm, strong. Perfect. His skin, his body, his muscles, all fill my perception, my world, even without the blindfold.

  I see, finally.

  And I see Tom.

  12

  Samantha

  Full and glorious sun streams into the bedroom through the wide open curtains. I lay on his bed, naked, next to the beautiful and still sleeping Mr. Thomas Quidell. The bright morning dances over the strong, sculpted muscles of his back.

  In the sunlight, I see what I couldn’t last night. The sheet rides low on his hips, revealing a toned and perfect body. He’s no longer the kid I fantasize about; he’s someone I know in detail. But not full detail, the way I want it.

  All I want to do is start in the center of his wonderful lower back, laying a kiss on his skin one inch at a time, up between his broad shoulders to the nape of his neck.

  But I don’t. He’s snoring softly in that steady male way guys do when they lie on their stomachs. I should let him rest.

  Carefully, I swing my feet over the side of the bed. A pile of clean and folded clothes sits on the top of his hand-me-down dresser, and I root through it, looking for a t-shirt. I don’t want to put on my work clothes. It’s Saturday morning and…

  I look back at the bed. We didn’t talk last night. We had sex—not penetration sex, but sex—and we didn’t talk about it. He carried me into the bedroom instead, pulling me tight to him and kissing my forehead until we both fell asleep.

  I didn’t speak, either. We were together, in his bed, and for once I felt calm and safe. And I knew I could let my subconscious figure it all out.

  I pull a t-shirt over my head. It’s worn, old, with a fading logo of a nineties band on the front. It drops over my ass but I should find my panties. When he wakes up I’ll ask to borrow some sweats.

  He shifts a little and the bed groans. It’s a comfortable mattress. I grin to myself, remembering those days right out of college when I, too, had no furniture.

  I still don’t. Everything in the loft belongs to Rick.

  Frowning, I look down at my hands as my gut suddenly clenches up. I didn’t end it with Rick before I left the bar with Tom. I didn’t call. Hell, I didn’t even send a text.

  But I know why: revenge. And now I wonder if I’m just as shallow and flat as the man I’m about to leave behind.

  Tom mumbles something, his deep baritone washing through the room as if carried on the sunlight, and I wonder how such a wonderful man—such a good person—could ever want to be with me.

  Softly, I tiptoe out of the room. Sun streams into the living room as well, and his entire apartment is bright and shadow-free. It’s cleaner than many bachelor’s apartments, but that could be because he hasn’t lived here long enough for the place to turn into a man cave.

  But I
don’t see that happening. Tom is sensitive to his environment, and to what his environment brings to him.

  Yet he still brought me home last night. Samantha Singleton, the fucked-up work fuck-buddy.

  His sketchbook leans against the easel leg still. I pad over, the soles of my feet rubbing on the apartment’s carpet, and pick it up.

  There I am, half naked and stretched out on the pillows—and I’m beautiful. He’s drawn me, arms out to him, my face full of contradictions. There’s unvarnished, intense desire in my eyes. The tip of my head suggests uncertainty, but it’s not in my body. He’s what I need.

  But he’s hazed it, too, as if he can’t quite see me. Like I’m hiding something from him.

  I grip the sketchbook. He wouldn’t have kept me in his bed all night if I was just some fuck buddy. And it’s not what I want. I see it in this mirror he’s made for me and I feel it all the way to my bones.

  Standing here in the full glory of the light he throws on his life, I realize I need the light thrown on me, too. Because before, I couldn’t see what I’d been groping for.

  But will he tolerate me while I figure things out? I know, deep inside, hell, from outside too—from my skin and my elbows and my earlobes where he nibbled last night—I want him to. Sharing with him, being open no matter how scary it is, will be worth the pain.

  The sounds of shuffling turn me around. Tom stands in the hallway, a pair of plaid sleep pants low on his gorgeous hips, and his hand rubbing across the top of his head. “Do you like it?” He points at the sketch.

  I’d half expected him to ask why I’m still here, but I know that’s not him. That’s my own fears talking.

  “Have you done gallery shows?” I hold out the book and the wondrous drawing. “You need to do gallery shows. This is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He blinks, but a small grin works across his lips. “Do you want breakfast? I could make us eggs.”