Capturing the Muse

by Madison Avery

  When an especially amorous piece began, Atticus leaned in towards her. "Would you dance with me?"

  Molly looked around. They were hidden, high up, and away from the masses. There was no one to see and no reason to censor their behavior. She bit her lip and looked up into hazel eyes. He was already standing, his hand out, offering it to her. Molly let her hand skim over his fingers before she hauled herself to her feet, stepping away from her chair.

  All at once, Atticus was there. He urged Molly closer, silently commanding her to press against him as he slid his hand over her bare back, down to the small where he held steady. Slowly he began to move. Tiny steps back and forth, guiding Molly to match his actions. Her eyes fluttered closed, letting the music, and Atticus, wash over her. Gently, he pressed his lips to her temple, lingering. Then he held her hand up and rested it against his heart, holding it there. The pulse beneath, entrancing.

  Molly shocked herself out of the story, desperate for air. She swallowed thickly, chest heaving, as beads of sweat glistened on her skin. She was overwhelmed by the moment but wasn't ready to let go of it. Molly was desperate for more. Typing with a ferocious burn, Molly evolved the story. It might have been her and Atticus' most alluring scene yet, and she hungered to increase the intensity of it. She wanted it all.

  The evening had played out, becoming everything Molly ever wanted. The symphony was on her “most desired” list, and Atticus had delivered it to her. But there was more Molly wanted from him. From the night. Molly wanted to be loved.

  As Atticus pushed opened the door to the hotel room they'd stay in, she was eager. Her feet stung from the heels she'd worn and she was quick to kick them from her feet. Atticus undid the tiny clasp that held his bowtie in place, pulling it free. He then unbuttoned his collar, freeing his shirt from his black pants.

  He'd presented Molly with his jacket when they took to the streets, walking in the starry night. It had been brisk, and Molly shivered, not just from the cold, but from the music that still pulsed through her. Now, it fell from her shoulders, was folded neatly and slung over the back of a chair.

  She stood in the middle of the grand space, larger than any apartment or house she'd ever lived in. Decorated with paintings, striking rugs, and ornate furniture, it was a look fit for a castle. And Molly felt like a princess.

  "Come here," he said.

  At his strong and commanding tone, Molly melted a little. She moved slowly towards him, closing the distance. She expected him to say something else. When she was within reach, he took her into his arms, encompassing her. Atticus held Molly close, breathed her in, gazing into her eyes. Molly reached up, putting her palm to his cheek, but didn't hold it there for long. She let her fingers dance down his face, his neck, and then to the buttons on his shirt. Unsteadily, she worked her way down the length, revealing his chest. Molly placed her hand to where he had put it earlier, over his heart. The beats were erratic, allowing her to feel a hint of what she was doing to him. How she excited him.

  "Kiss me," she breathed, giving him a command of her own.

  Atticus was all-too-willing to oblige. He wasted no time pressing his lips against hers. It was soft and supple at first, but became firmer, persistent. He took her bottom lip and nibbled at it, sucking with a tender motion. For Molly, it didn't last long enough as he pulled back to slide his arms from around her neck and down her back. Tenderly, he gave her bottom a little squeeze, pulling her against his stiffness. Like the beat of his heart, the feel of his erection was proof of how undone he was becoming.

  She stepped a tiny foot back and reached down, feeling Atticus further. Her hand began to stroke him. Catching him off guard, she boldly dropped her hand into his pants and palmed him. Atticus cleared his throat with a hoarse groan.

  "Wait," Atticus said, stilling her hand.

  Molly was confused. She wanted to do this for him, to satisfy him. Only, he wouldn't let her. He pulled her hand free and gripped it tightly. Her frown was evident as he leaned in and took it away with another kiss.

  "I want to worship you. To decorate your entire body with my kisses. To trace every one of your curves with my hands. To..."

  "Yes," Molly moaned. Take me, she wanted to say, but couldn't. She was affected so strongly by his words, she had managed all she could say. Anything else that might have passed through her lips would be indecipherable.

  Atticus helped Molly free of the confines of her dress. Though it was exquisite, she was thankful to be released from the yards of fabric that stood between them. She meant to help him remove the rest of his suit, but whenever she offered a helping hand, Atticus batted it away with an earnest smile.

  When they were bare to each other, Atticus guided her to the bed. He laid her down on her back and proceeded to do as he'd promised, sensually peppering her skin with kisses, rubbing his hands over every inch of exposed skin. He teased her pert nipples with his fingers, only to swirl his tongue around their firmness. Gently he pulled them into his mouth, one at a time, sucking and nibbling. Molly gripped the sheets, fisted them as the sensation warmed her core. And when Atticus’ fingers slipped down to her most delicate area, she was wet, lusting after him.

  She wheezed, impulsively, as his warm fingers circled her clit and slid inside. Arching her back, she forced herself closer, deepening the movements he made. Atticus teased and pleasured her. He caught her breast in his hand, pinching her nipple slightly, heightening her senses, pushing her closer to the edge.

  But he didn't let her fall. Not right away. He made her wait. Atticus seized her in another embrace, forcing her legs around his torso. He was deliberate in his actions as he lingered, then gradually pushed himself inside her. Leisurely at first, relishing the moment as she trembled beneath him. Each inch of him caused another deeper reaction, until he felt her clench around him completely, his erection buried inside of her. Atticus waited until he was certain she was ready for more before moving his hips, increasing his speed.

  Molly was unhinged, and she felt the buildup of pressure aching between her legs. It was almost unbearable but was the most enchanting sensation. It clouded her vision. Dizzying her head. And she pinched her eyes shut, readying herself for the ultimate release. She moaned a little louder as her entire body became rigid and firm. She fisted the sheets into her hands tighter and was brought to orgasm. At the last second, Molly's eyes sprung open. She wanted to see him. To see his face when he saw and felt all the effects he had on her. She wasn't the only one consumed by their passion...

  * * *

  Molly came out of the scene buzzing with electricity. Her entire body felt alive, hot blood racing through her veins. She smiled wide at what she and Atticus had written. It was everything she could have wanted and more. She had been brought to the brink, pushed over the edge, and devoured in all the ways a woman should be. But at that moment, she felt a pang of sadness.

  She knew it wasn't real. And that killed her. She hadn't actually made love to Atticus. Not really. For the first time, she realized what she could never truly have with him.

  "You can have it, Molly. All of it. You just have to make a choice."

  For once, she cursed the fact that Atticus was always there, swimming in her thoughts, injecting himself into the forefront of her brain.

  "What choice?"

  But, of course, she knew what he was going to say before he had a chance to utter the words.

  "No. No I won't choose." Molly frowned. "I don't want to. Don't make me choose."

  The whisper of Atticus was loud, as though he were truly standing in the room with her. "You can't have it all, Molly. You can’t spend your time with me, but waste your life with him. It's not fair to you, and I can't—"

  "Yes, you can, Atticus. You can stay. You can be with me. I need you."

  "No. You need the idea of me, to believe that I'm real. But, Molly, I'm not."

  Her eyes welled with tears, but she fought against shedding them.

  "It's either him or me, Molly. I can't keep being t
he diversion you use to escape. Not when I want you all to myself."

  Molly was conflicted by what he was saying. She had thought their written exploits were enough. That she could spend time with one foot on either side of the real and the truly unreal.

  "Think about it, Molly. For me..." His voice began to fade.

  "No, wait! Don't go!" she cried.

  She heard the rumble of his laughter. "I may disappear, but I am never truly gone. Not unless you release me."

  "Atticus!" she yelled, her voice echoing through the empty room. He wasn't going to answer. For now, he was tucked away, waiting in the shadows for when she'd either made up her mind or let go of him completely. Neither choice, to Molly, seemed like the right one.

  She took the time to reread what she had written, reliving the perfect moments she and Atticus had together until her heart ached.

  Molly then closed the laptop, sliding it under her bed, hidden away. She slept restlessly, hoping Atticus would come to her like he sometimes did, in her dreams. He never did. And she felt Ryan stumble to bed, thankful that he didn't disturb her. Molly didn't think she could put on a brave face for him. She felt broken into pieces and wasn't sure how she'd manage to bring them back together.

  * * *

  Two days later, Molly sat at the kitchen table, watching Ryan shovel soggy cereal into his mouth. She hadn't been the same since that night, and contemplated what she planned to do. She had fallen in love with the idea of the perfect man.

  "Why do you love me?"

  Ryan looked up from his meal. He scratched his head. "What do you mean?"

  "It's a simple question. Why do you love me?"

  Molly couldn't remember why she loved Ryan, or what had brought them together. It had been so long, the past vague and unclear, overshadowed by a million emotions that took precedence.

  "Well, you look good naked." He laughed. "And you're a good cook. You take care of me. And put up with my shit."

  "Right. Okay. That's good. Anything else?" Molly was saddened by his answers so far.

  "What's this about?"

  It was probably a good thing he hadn't been drinking, or the conversation might have taken a dramatic turn. But for now, Ryan was calm.

  "I just... I'm not sure I'm... Doesn't it feel like something's missing?" Like your attentiveness, she thought, but didn't dare say it.

  "Um. I'm not sure." Ryan looked at the clock. "I need to head to work."

  But she didn't feel like the conversation was over. "Call in sick. Stay with me. Let's spend the day together."

  He might have thought about it—for a second, maybe—but to her disappointment, he said, "Is this about flowers?"

  "What?"

  "Flowers, do you want them? Are you trying to tell me something?"

  She shook her head. "No. This isn't about flowers. Nevermind."

  Ryan stood from the table, leaned in and kissed Molly on the cheek. She was still staring at the empty chair five minutes later. He couldn't even tell her, for real, why he loved her. The words that should have been easy hadn't come. It created a hole in her heart, a void, because it pushed her one step closer to realizing something. She couldn't imagine spending the rest of her life with someone who couldn't even use any number of descriptive words to prove to her he cared. Not one.

  * * *

  Molly went more than a week without materializing Atticus. She hadn't made up her mind about her future. Fear of being alone held her firmly in place. She wasn't sure if she had the courage to pack her bags, even if she wanted to. Molly also didn't know if she would ever be content with a life of having Atticus only inside her or written in the stories they created. Certain that would never be enough. And to her, when she thought about it, that was her still ending up alone.

  Instead, she poured her attention into her work. It was the only thing, other than Atticus, she loved. There was something enchanting about working in a library, the answers to the world's questions at your fingertips. All that knowledge eager to be soaked up. She often spent her free time flipping through the pages, feeling the old musty bindings, inhaling their archaic prose.

  She had the entire library mapped out, memorized. Molly could close her eyes and help just about anyone find just about any book. She also was eager to peruse the catalogs they got in the mail, deciding what new novels, or works of nonfiction, should be added to their ever-growing collection.

  "Molly?"

  Setting down the book she was holding, Molly turned to see one of the other librarians standing next to a tall, handsome man.

  Her heart stopped.

  Though not exactly, his features were similar to Atticus'. It was as though he was there, standing in front of her, having aged a few years since the last time she saw him. Blinking rapidly, she tried and failed to make the figment disappear. She wondered if she'd had a few too many cups of coffee, or accidentally taken one of the pills that Ryan sometimes used to get high when things were particularly bad for him.

  "Molly?"

  She shook her head and looked from the librarian to the man. He was still there. Molly resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.

  "Yeah. Sorry. Day dreaming." And having a heart attack, she thought.

  "Can you help this gentleman? He's looking for 'A Dream within a Dream'."

  How ironic, she thought with a laugh. "Yeah. Of course."

  "You're in good hands. Molly is the best. I'm sorry I couldn't help. My expertise is more geared towards romance." The librarian swept her eyes over the length of the man seductively and blushed a little when she caught Molly noticing her appraisal of him.

  "Thank you, ma'am," the man said, and then turned his attention towards Molly. "So, I'm in good hands?"

  "The best. I promise. Why don't you follow me?"

  Molly stepped from her cart of books and began to head down one of the towering aisles. She maneuvered her way through the stacks, occasionally looking back just to make sure the man was still there. Still real.

  A few seconds later, Molly stopped deep in the back of the library. The poetry section often went unnoticed. Most of the patrons settled on best sellers of fiction rather than something written by someone long since dead. Molly enjoyed reading it though, and she was very familiar with the author of the particular poem she was enlisted to find.

  Her fingers dragged across the worn bindings until she plucked a heavy book from the shelf and held it out to the man.

  "You have it. The complete works." He looked at the book and then at Molly, amazement in his eyes, as he took it from her. When his hand brushed against hers, it was as though an ember inside Molly had sparked, smoldering.

  "It's a great read if you have the patience."

  He smiled at her. "No, it's an incredible read. So serious and dark. I've lost my copy somehow. The bookstore in town didn't have it in stock."

  "Well, if you sign up for a library card, it can be all yours, for a week."

  This caused him to laugh. "That's it? Only a week? Preposterous! Who do I talk to get an extension?"

  Molly laughed, the feeling almost odd as it spread over her, that ember, beginning to flame. "I don't think we offer those. You have to come back and check it out again."

  "Well, rest assured, Molly, I will be back. Plenty of times, then. It will take me a few weeks, at least, to get through this again. I trust you'll be around, in case I need help finding anything else?"

  Molly nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah. Of course, I will be."

  "Excellent. Well, I'll let you get back to work."

  Without another word, the man took the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe and disappeared into the labyrinth of dusty books and best sellers. Molly rushed to the end of the aisle, just to grab one more look. Just to make sure he was still real. But he was gone.

  She pressed her back against a shelf, hand over her heart as she breathed in deeply, counting backward in her head, eyes pinched tightly closed. She had an entirely new feeling flaring inside her. It swallowed a bit of th
e uncertainty she always felt. It absorbed a bit of the lacking self-esteem that often held her back, because she was pretty sure he had flirted with her. It had been a while. A long while. But she was positive she could recognize the gesture. For the first time in forever, especially since Atticus left, there was hope, no matter how small the glimmer of it was.

  Lighter on her feet, Molly all but skipped through the door of her house. The gray cloud that had settled over her had begun to lift, or so she thought. The living room was turned upside down. Couch toppled over, books strewn across the floor and the small coffee table broken in two. Molly's heart began to race, for an entirely different reason than it had before, as she edged further into the chaotic mess.

  The kitchen was in disarray. Cupboards open, contents were strewn about. Dishes shattered against the wooden floor. On the table, a bouquet of flowers rested, an unusual sight. Molly had begun to pull out her cell, to call the police to report a robbery, when she heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

  Ryan came into view and she could tell, without a doubt that he had been drinking. His features turned harsh when he saw her. Only, he hadn't come alone.

  Cradled in his arms were her computer and the countless notebooks she had hidden under her bed, filled with her and Atticus' many trysts.

  "Where-where did you get those?" She admitted the hiding spot wasn't creative. But Ryan never had a need to look under the bed. Ever. He didn't pick up his clothes from the floor, or sweep the dust bunnies from the corners. He'd never once picked up a rag to help her clean on a Saturday morning when she wore her hair in a ponytail and scrubbed their house from top to bottom. He'd spent that time in his recliner, a beer in his hand, and the TV blaring.

  "Does it matter?"

  It didn't. Not really. She already knew the answer.

  He walked past her and dumped the load onto the table. She turned, just in time to see him sweep his arm over the surface and send her romance to the floor. The laptop fell with a crunch. He stomped on the books with his boot covered heel.