Becoming His Muse, Part Three by KC Martin

Author:KC Martin [Martin, KC]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-05-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Logan crossed a line yesterday, and he took me with him. I am shaken up and split open. I have given him everything. He has taken it all. I have handed myself to him body and soul. If I thought I wanted to see stars when this affair began, I have reached the point where nebulae are exploding inside of me.

I have changed. Logan has changed me. I have changed him. The worlds we inhabit are changing because of our passionate, erotic collisions. And we have built a world between us. A secret world, but a world nonetheless.

Ruby senses the change. “It’s love, isn’t it?”

“It can’t be,” I say. There’s no room for love in the world we’ve created. Or is there? Because if what I’m feeling isn’t love, it has to be something beyond, something that encompasses love and lust and inspiration and evolution and everything else. I’ve stepped over some edge inside myself and I know there’s no turning back.

The canvas knows it, too. The brushes and paints channel this change. I let myself be an instrument for the starfire coursing through my veins. Whatever it is that’s between us, it’s cracked me wide open.

***

The following Sunday, Logan sends me a text while I’m waiting across from the Steady Drip.

Bad news. The Aston won’t start. It’s getting towed to the shop.

My heart sinks. A weekend without him? I can’t do it. I need him. Like a bee needs a flower, like a plant needs rain. Like an addict needs a fix. He is my drug of choice.

I will be forced to start sneaking into his apartment again. I feel butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it. I send him a text.

I’m coming to you.

Cheekily, he writes back, And with me I hope?…

That’s exactly what happens. Twice. I feel ravaged up and down and inside out by the time I return to my dorm room Sunday evening.

I start to consider this another form of art, this sneaking in and out of Logan’s apartment. I get good at slipping through the shadows to the parking garage door, tiptoeing up and down the stairs, and skittering back to my dorm at all hours of the night and morning.

By the middle of the term, my fatigue and stress have mounted considerably, but so has my tolerance for mind-blowing pleasure. My friends wonder why they don’t see me much anymore. I tell them I’m really focused on my artwork and studies, which I am, but Ruby and Jonathan know the full story of my obsession. They’re far more concerned with their own drama though, and I’m left to my illicit indulgences.

Weeks fly by and soon it’s time for my next project consultation with Dr. T. I pick up a latte for myself and bring him a mocha, which I know is his favorite. We’re sipping our coffees and chatting about setting up the details for the art show’s opening night, when he casually says,

“Someone told me they saw you over by the faculty apartments.

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