A Little Night Muse

by Jessa Slade

  He angled his face to track the dark spread of feathers across the bright sky. “Why else would I be here?”

  Why else? Oh, because he’d been forced there and had no other choice. Because he was too afraid to be elsewhere. She was just hypothesizing, of course. “Why do you love it?”

  He smiled, and a dimple appeared below the scar on his cheek. “Look around. Who wouldn’t be inspired?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Was he teasing her? But he couldn’t know she was musetta.

  He gazed across the valley. The sun glinted on the hint of gold stubble on his jaw. “Anyone who doesn’t love it here should just get the hell out.” Though the words held the ring of a warning, his tone was pensive.

  He was obviously not speaking to her, but to a memory. Still, she took the words at face value. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be here. As soon as she knew the Hunter and sylfana were within her grasp, she could contact the vizier, and then she would leave Wolly and Bunco in the dust with the speed of her departure.

  Until then...

  “It is magical,” she murmured. She kept her face turned upward toward Josh.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, his gaze drifted down to her.

  So close, snuggled into his chest, she saw his eyes weren’t truly muddy, just...complicated. The sparkle of light off the melting snow seemed to pick out each stroke of color, even the cloudy moonstone gleam that marred his right eye lens. Under her fierce regard, the ruddy flush returned to his cheeks. He shifted, and she felt the prod of his erection against her hip.

  Despite his commentary on the terrain and the hint of memories that troubled him, he was not at all unaware of her.

  She took advantage of his restless adjustment to nestle closer. “It is a cold magic though. Too cold for me.”

  He opened his coat and tucked her in. Pressed tight against him, something harder dug into her hip. She wedged her hand between them to feel the curved top. He sucked in his breath, whether at her icy fingers or sudden familiarity, she wasn’t sure.

  She traced the chunk of metal—not iron, but copper—that stood like a shield between her and the rousing heat behind his fly. “What’s this?”

  “My belt buckle.” His voice sounded strained.

  She tilted a little away from him to look down between their bodies. “That is a mighty belt buckle.”

  “Are you making fun, Miss Golden Slippers?”

  “Not at all.” From her angle, she couldn’t see much, but the ridges of carving ticked under her questing fingers. “It seems a fine buckle.”

  “It holds up my pants.” He caught her hand. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  She let him lace his fingers through hers. “You made it, didn’t you?” The echo of his spirit reverberated in the copper. “You are a metal smith, an artist?”

  “Just a cowboy. I learned some basics to shoe the horses, do a bit of machining when things break. The buckles...” He shrugged. “I sell a few, enough to pay for a bale of hay here and there. People seem to like them.”

  So he had a calling in him, simple though it was. He would be more amenable to her musetta powers. And he might have iron. Could she trick him into capturing the Hunter and sylfana? If so, she’d return to the phaedrealii a hero.

  She bit her lip. Her musetta powers had never been tried against a human on a task more critical than an ode. And look how well that had turned out.

  When Josh focused on her lips, she forced a smile sultry enough to melt a crater in the snow around them, maybe through the bedrock below. “You’ll have to show me more of your great talents.” More of what was hidden behind the metal.

  He must have heard the double meaning in her voice, because he did not let go of her hand again.

  Chapter 4

  Josh groomed Bunco, but the usually calming routine had no such effect today. With his hired hands spending the weekend in town thanks to the sudden freeze, the chores were all his. He took a slow breath, trying to find serenity in the scent of hay and the snuffle of contented horse.

  But his every nerve was fine tuned to the cabin. While brushing Bunco’s tail, he wanted to run his fingers through Adelyn’s dark locks. Would her hair be as silky as it looked? His fingers caught in a knot, and the tail twitched out of his grasp.

  “Sorry, sorry. I wasn’t watching.” Wasn’t thinking right, either, if he really imagined his gorgeous guest wanted his rough hands on her.

  Finally he made his way to the house, only somewhat dragging his boot heels. When he had left this morning, the cabin had seemed right fine. The rambling homestead edged with ferns bravely curling out of the snow wasn’t as grand as the Hunters’ house, but the view it faced was every bit as pretty, especially with the prime Angus making bold black dots against the white field.

  But compared to the woman inside, now the silvered cedar logs and slightly warped roofline seemed homely instead of just homey.

  His jaw tightened. This wasn’t Hollywood-style, computer-generated fakery. This was a real working ranch. And he was a real working rancher. And neither were without their scars.

  He touched his cheekbone though he couldn’t feel the old cut through his calluses. Danielle had once said his partly blinded eye made him look broken-bottle mean. In reality, he’d been working with sheet metal—no, not working, playing—and the edge had slashed him.

  Now he had a living, breathing piece of art in his bathroom. He rather suspected she had more sharp edges than she’d shown him yet.

  Danielle had always wanted a second bath. That seemed silly to him—who was going to use it?—but now he wished Adelyn wasn’t standing in arms reach of his personal towel, wrapping her fingers around his soap, which was only boring man soap since Danielle left.

  And the only reason he was thinking of his ex was because he was ticking off on his fingers how many months had passed since he’d fallen into bed with someone other than himself.

  At the front door, he braced his hand on the coat hanger made out of an old horseshoe and kicked off his boots—he’d need his bare toes to complete his calculations—as if he could kick the wistful wishes out of his head.

  Not likely.

  He stood in the entry next to Wolly, both of them staring down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Josh had left Adelyn a clean T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. His own, of course; he had nothing else to give her.

  “I’m back,” he called. Not too loud. Didn’t want to seem like he thought she would care, but he didn’t want to scare her either.

  “Josh?”

  Wolly pricked his ears, and Josh almost thought his did the same. It was the first time she had said his name aloud, and the single syllable—even partly muffled by the doorway between them—reverberated in his body like a hammer strike on an anvil.

  Her voice continued, getting a little louder. “I was wondering...”

  She stepped out from the master bedroom. Light from his bedroom poured through the doorway and turned the air around her damp skin into a misty halo.

  And apparently sucked all the moisture from his mouth. He swallowed hard against his tight throat.

  She hadn’t used the towel he left out for her. She had wrapped herself in his towel, which had seemingly shrunk since his last use. It strained across her breasts and barely skimmed her lush thighs. Against the pale fluff of cotton, her dusky skin looked like some rich, sweet, decadent, caramel coffee drink that no cowboy should drink.

  But he was so damn thirsty.

  She held her hand out toward him. “I need you for a moment, Josh.”

  Considering the way his cock was pounding a countdown on his zipper, a moment was about all she’d get from him. But he could not resist, not with the scent of her water-warmed body drifting toward him. He padded down the hall, his steps silent on the smooth old wood.

  Her green gaze teased him beneath her dark lashes, but she did not lower her hand. “Here.” She backed into the bedroom. He followed as if a rein stretched between them.

  She turned to
the bed, drenched in snow-bounced sun from the window and big skylight. His entire body shook with disbelief. Was he dreaming?

  She lifted something and faced him again. “Can you do this for me?”

  He would do anything. With difficulty, he fastened his gaze on the satchel and the small pot she withdrew from the interior. “What...” He cleared his throat. “What is it?”

  “For my wrists.”

  He walked his gaze up her skin. Of course. The blood-streaked bandages. He should have done something about them before. Focus, damn it. He drew a steadying breath, but the fragrance of her made his head spin.

  “Let me wash my hands.” His voice was still a little rough.

  He walked past her, ignoring her surprised look, and headed for the bathroom. He shut the door behind him.

  After turning on the water—cold—he leaned with his hands braced on the sink. He couldn’t see anything in the moisture-clouded mirror except a vague outline of his face. Almost like he hadn’t been able to see, hear or think clearly since he’d found her. Was he that hard up?

  He reached down to adjust himself through his jeans. Hell yeah, he was that hard.

  He could probably scramble out through the bathroom window, but she needed his help and he’d never been the sort to run away. By the time he finished washing his hands and splashing cold water down the back of his neck, the mirror had cleared. He looked like a man with a mission.

  When he returned to the bedroom, Adelyn was sitting in the middle of the bed. The only bed in the house. His bed. Against the red tartan flannel of the thick comforter, her skin glowed. With her legs curled under her, the towel hitched even higher on her thighs. A dark triangle of space between the bridged edge of the towel and her skin centered directly over what would be her other dark triangle.

  So much for the cold water.

  “Let’s see those wrists.” If he did this quickly, he might get out with dignity intact.

  She held out both wrists at once, and the knot of the towel between her breasts slackened. Not enough to fall open, but enough.

  He refused to watch the slow loosening. He grabbed the pot from the satchel and popped the cork top out. Instead of the oily reek of bag balm, the scent of flowers—not too sweet, but wild, like meadow flowers—filtered through the room.

  He frowned. “You need something strong for these abrasions.”

  She waited with her hands outthrust. “Trust me, this is strong.”

  If he told her to scoot closer to him, the movement might undo her towel, so he crooked one knee onto the bed beside her.

  But he kept one foot on the floor behind him.

  He scooped the satiny-smooth salve onto two fingers. Gingerly, he took her hand in his and rubbed the salve around one wrist. God, her skin was so softer. Not a single rough spot of hard work on her hands, and her wrists were as delicate as a newborn foal’s fetlock, slender tendons sliding under his thumb.

  “Who hurt you?” He tried to keep his voice as gentle as his touch though a fury tightened his throat.

  “It’s not important.”

  “It is to me.” He raised his gaze to hers. “No man should treat you like this.”

  “What makes you think it was a man?” When he paused in his gentle massage, she gave him a half-quirk of a smile. “So tell me, Josh, how would you treat me?”

  She rotated her hands under his to wrap her fingers around his wrists in loose manacles. Though she left no marks like the scorched lines around her wrists, her touch heated his skin, and despite her delicate build, he did not think he could break her hold. Not that he wanted to be freed.

  With the barest tug, she pulled him forward so both his knees were on the bed. As his foot left the floor, he felt like he was falling, not onto the sunny bed but somewhere deeper, darker.

  His fingers tingled from the salve, and he wondered what was in it. That tingle was spreading all through his body.

  When he opened his mouth to answer—though he wasn’t sure what answer he would have given—she reached up to settle her forefinger over his bottom lip. The scent of wildflowers made his head spin. His mouth heated at the touch of her skin and the sweet salve.

  “Don’t tell me,” she murmured. “Show me.”

  “Adelyn...”

  “No more names.” She shifted to her knees to face him, shoving aside the satchel. The motion dislodged the knot of the towel—just as he had known it would—and the fabric unspooled around her.

  He inhaled sharply at the unveiling, but he had only a glimpse of her curved hips and dark-peaked breasts before she leaned in and kissed him.

  Her mouth slanted across his, and the tingle of the salve jolted all the way through him. Unbalanced on the bulk of the comforter below them, she rocked into him. He gripped her shoulders to steady her, and the warmth of her skin under his palms made his fingers clench reflexively. To hold her like he’d never let go.

  He forced himself to gentle his grip, and he slid one hand upward, into her hair. With a groan, he found the black strands even more silky than he had imagined. Anchored in her hair, he tipped her head and deepened the kiss.

  For a second, she stiffened, as if surprised, but then she widened her mouth to accommodate him. Her tongue teased his with matching fervor.

  Whatever was in that salve—the heat and the shiver—seemed to spread with the invisible curls of the perfume until his senses were awash. He tasted the sunlight in her, and the darkness, and it threatened to sweep away that last of his sense. He could only cling to her and the long, slowly sinking kisses.

  She laughed against his mouth. “Bend me like your soft metals. Shape me to your dreams.”

  A dream. That explained it all. A fever dream, he was so hot with wanting her. His whole body tightened as if from a sunburn, as if he stood too close to his forge.

  But it wasn’t a dream, he knew that. She was real, a real woman in his arms. He tried to pull back, to push some fresh air between them, and they both gasped as their lips separated.

  The space only gave her room to slide her hands up inside his shirt. The pearl snaps popped one after the other, from navel to neck. Air rushed across his bare chest—like oxygen into a fire—and set his blood raging.

  She surged up against him again. If he hadn’t braced himself, they would have both tumbled to the bed. Her stiffened nipples thrust against his chest. Unbidden, his fingers curved to match the outer arc of her breasts. A perfect handful for his wide palm. He groaned and took her mouth in a hard kiss.

  When he lifted his head, he thought he was tearing himself apart. “Adelyn,” he whispered.

  “Josh,” she answered. For a heartbeat, he thought he heard a note of mockery. Or was that desperation? He had always done better reading the animals with their basic needs, the land with its regular cycles. Women were a mystery.

  He let his hands slide down to her hips, to hold her back since he couldn’t grab her wounded wrists. He couldn’t help but notice, despite his good intentions, that unlike the dark wealth of her hair, down lower she was smooth, without even a shadow to hide the dusky plump flesh. “Whatever happened to you, this isn’t the way to forget or to pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “You said this was a place to get away,” she reminded him.

  She trailed her fingertips down his chest and raked lightly over his nipples. His sharp breath sucked in his belly, leaving a gap behind his belt buckle.

  With one flick, she released the copper buckle. The etched metal swung open like a welcoming gate, and she unzipped his jeans.

  Any last ounce of willpower he had was lost with the whisper of her fingers against his straining flesh. Long hours in the saddle were more comfortable without underwear seams that might chafe in sensitive places, but that common sense wardrobe choice left him no extra layers of defense now.

  “Adelyn...” This time her name was not a protest but an enticement.

  “Do you have a muse, Josh?”

  “A what?” His voice was thick, like his co
ck swelling toward her.

  “A muse. An inspiration. Something that...” She slipped her hand into the front of his jeans. “Something that arouses you.”

  “A muse...” His grasp tightened on her hips, and he shuddered as she wrapped her fingers loosely around him. “You.”

  “Yes.” She tipped toward him with a sigh and set her lips to his. Her tongue traced the inner curve of his mouth, and his hips jerked in eager response.

  When she lifted her mouth, they were both panting, and his cock was a branding iron in her hand, hot and hard.

  She let her fingers slip away. “Take off your clothes.”

  He rocked off the bed and shucked his jeans, letting the shirt slide off his shoulders. But when she reached for him, he eluded her. He swept the comforter back, pushing up the flannel into a thick nest. “First things first. Lie back.”

  She stared at him, her green eyes half lidded.

  He hooked one arm behind the small of her back, looming over her, and gave her a slow smile. “I’m feeling inspired.”

  Chapter 5

  Adelyn hesitated. A musetta teased and stimulated, and then, often enough, a musetta vanished without a trace. But had any musetta ever just laid back and indulged?

  The thought was tempting. More tempting yet was the shine of desire and determination in Josh’s many-colored eyes. He wanted her, but he wanted something more. Too bad he didn’t know a musetta couldn’t give it all. Inspiration alone didn’t have the power to deliver.

  A part of her rebelled. Maybe she had never been able to create anything of her own, but he was offering to inspire her. What would that look like? Well, it looked like a very intent cowboy. But what would it feel like?

  She relaxed into the curve of his arm. With the same strength that had lifted her onto the horse, he eased her back onto the hillocks of the bed coverings. The contrast between the cool fabric and his hot skin made her shiver with delight.

  He leaned down to kiss her and she buried her fingers in his golden hair. A fairy princess of the kind the humans preferred might dream of possessing such thick, waving locks. But he reached up to untangle her and stretched her arms over her head, making her arch.