Becoming His Muse, Part Two by KC Martin

do that,” says Logan, pressing his thumb against my bottom lip to separate it from my teeth. I open my mouth to bite his thumb.
    “Maybe I am,” I say with a mock pout. “Maybe I need a spanking.”
    Logan’s eyes flash and honestly I have no idea where that thought came from. I’m rather surprised I said that, though the look in his eyes is proving worth the risk. I take his thumb further into my mouth and start sucking.
    “Maybe you do,” he whispers hoarsely. He hooks his thumb against my bottom teeth and draws me closer to him. At the same time, he leans in until his lips are a few inches from mine. I smell his wine-scented breath. My tongue is still dancing around his thumb as he withdraws it. My tongue follows and he catches it with his lips, drawing it into his mouth, where it tastes his wine, his breath, his desire. The kiss is long and deep and hungry. His hand, with its damp thumb, is in my hair, at the back of my head, grabbing tightly. We kiss madly, deeply. I’m afraid I’m going to tip my wine glass. I try to pull away. He lets me. His breathing is heavy and ragged. His hand falls from my hair.
    “Ava, what am I going to do with you?” he whispers softly as he shakes his head.
    I take a deep gulp of my wine before setting it on the coffee table. Then I curl my knees under myself so that I’m slightly higher than he is on the couch. I tousle up my hair, finishing the job he started, and then I lower my lids so they are heavy over my brown eyes and I lick my lips, tasting wine again. I match his intense green gaze, and without blinking say,
    “Everything. Logan, I want you to do everything .”
    I tilt my head down to kiss him, but my words seem to have had a strange effect. He slips away from me, setting his glass on the coffee table now, which he’s now pushing away from the couch, carefully, so as not to spill the wine.
    “Don’t move,” he says to me, and then he leaves the room. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong, gone too far, been too bold. I think the keeping of secrets, the sneaking around, the small lies, have made me feel more daring. I thought he might like that. I thought that might be appropriate for a muse. Maybe I was wrong.
    He’s back now, without his shirt. He slaps a small packet on the pushed away coffee table. I glance at the foil square, make out 3 little letters penned on the side. I smile.
    “Now what were you saying you want me to do,” he growls as he tugs at his belt.
    I look up at him, feeling a little more timid. “Anything?” I gulp. “Everything.”
    His green eyes are dark and sexy and there’s a look in them like a fire that refuses to be extinguished. He walks over, stands in front of me. I kiss his taut belly as I start to pull his pants from his hips, but he grabs my hands, lifts them away, and pushes my wrists against my shoulders, which tips me off balance.
    “Lean back,” he says. Then he bends over to kiss me, urging me backward until I’m lying on the couch lengthwise and he’s on top of me. He’s kissing me like we’re high school teens afraid to go past first base. Only we’re not, on both counts. I feel his hard length through the denim he wouldn’t let me remove. My exercise clothes are softer, easier to slip under, and soon we’re at second base. I arch my back so he can undo my bra and I feel it slip away. He rolls my nipples between his fingers roughly and then roams lower, to my waistband. Twisting his wrist, he’s under the stretchy fabric and wriggling beneath the bit of lace blocking third base. His fingers slip and slide because as soon as I saw him with his shirt off I’ve been wet and aching for a home run.
    All this time he’s kissing me relentlessly. My lips are swollen and getting raw but I don’t want him to stop. It’s a crazy feeling, all this desire. His fingers plunge into me. I moan and arch my back. My fingers rake across his shoulders and down. I grind against his fingers and push into his teasing