Free His Inspiration by Ava Lore

 
     
    His Inspiration: The Billionaire's Muse
     
    Ava Lore
     
    Part III
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    Dubrovnik, it turns out, is in Croatia. I did not know this. I
didn't even really know where Croatia was. I only stopped long enough at my
apartment to grab my passport before running back down the stairs and throwing
myself into the car. Malcolm smiled to see me frantically buckling up and
throwing my hair out of my face. My little blue book, unstamped but for a trip
to Barbados I'd taken with Felicia last fall, sat in my hand, its slick cover
slightly slippery with the nervous sweat that I didn't want to acknowledge was
seeping from my palm.
    “You didn't pick up clothes,” Malcolm said. “Good.”
    “You told me not to,” I said. I would do anything he asked of
me, frankly, as long as he didn't ask me about the scars beneath my tattoos. I
was happy to go wherever he wanted. I was happy to run away from the feelings
he had stirred in me. Very mature, I know, but sometimes you have to run away
so you can live to run away another day.
    “I did,” he mused as the car pulled away from the curb and
jetted into the city streets. “I just didn't quite expect you to obey.”
    I scowled at him. “I'm not obeying, I'm taking your suggestion.
Although I don't know what I'm going to wear in Dubrovnik.”
    “You will wear what I dress you in,” he replied. “I require it
for my art.”
    I suspected that he actually did not require it for his art, but
I wasn't really going to argue with him. I didn't want to ruin the illusion
that we were lovers jetting off to a romantic getaway, leaving behind the hustle
and bustle of the city to lose ourselves in each other's arms.
    Then Malcolm did his part to continue the illusion by reaching
over, unbuckling my seatbelt, and pulling me into his lap. He spread my thighs
over his hips and buried his hands in my hair, drawing my lips down to his.
    I sighed, letting the warmth of our attraction chase away the
cold that had settled in my gut. His lips and hands traveled over my body, here
and there until I was gasping and sighing at his touch, my pussy rubbing
against the bulge of his cock in his jeans. I still hadn't given him an orgasm,
except for one messy handjob beneath a restaurant table, and I wanted to give
something back to him. The car seemed like as good a place as any, squeezing it
in before we clambered onto a plane. I didn't know if we were taking a
commercial flight or a private flight. I didn't know anything.
    I didn't want to know anything. I wanted to forget. I wanted to
lose myself in the moment with him. Glancing over my shoulder, I checked to
make sure the privacy window was up between the back seat and the driver's
seat. It was. I slid out of Malcolm's lap and wedged myself into the space
between the driver's seat and his hips. He gazed down at me, his dark eyes
growing wider and darker with desire.
    I smoothed my hands over his thighs. I wanted him naked. I
wanted to see him. Reaching out, I began to work the button of his pants, my
mouth watering in anticipation.
    His hands closed around my wrists.
    “Stop,” he said.
    Seriously? He was asking me to stop? I almost flashed him a sly
glance and kept going, but remembering how he stopped immediately for me gave
me pause. I raised my eyes to his, trying to gauge how serious he was.
    A muscle leaped in his jaw as he stared down at me, but his
hands were firm on my wrists. Warm and large. I wanted to curl up in the palm
of his hand and let him warm me through and through.
    “Why?” I asked. “Don't you want me to?”
    He used my wrists to draw me up and set me on the seat beside
him. “I don't know,” he said after a moment.
    Stung, I scooted away from him, the leather of the back seat
making it easy. I wished it weren't so easy. Again the distance, again the
strangeness from him. Malcolm Ward intrigued and frustrated me. I wanted
nothing more than to peel away his layers and figure out what made him tick,
but for every