Becoming His Muse, Complete Set by KC Martin

at a loss for words.
    I watch him as he crosses the threshold into the studio. He has a sexy sloping stride, as if he has all the time in the world to get where he’s going and he intends to savor every moment of the getting there. He takes in the visual details of the studio while I work to slow down my breathing, get over my initial shock at his presence, and gather my wits. The studio is my territory, I’m at home here, so I rally my confidence and force myself to see him not as some larger than life hero but as a man, a writer, who happens to be visiting me, a painter in her studio. I try to make small talk.
    “Have you settled into your new office?”
    “I have. Feels like home already. You should drop by.”
    Probably not a good idea. I clear my throat. “So how are your classes?”
    “A handful of promising students, I guess. But the one I’m most intrigued by isn’t a writing student at all.” His green gaze holds mine.
    I turn away, my nervousness returning, and busy myself by gathering up my sketches.
    “Don’t,” he says, coming toward me. He glances at the newsprint pages on the easel, the charcoal, the empty podium.
    “Can I draw you?” he says. For a second he looks like a little kid with a new toy.
    I’m surprised again but for a different reason.
    “ Can you?” I say, wondering if he’s even capable of drawing.
    “I’d like to try. Would you go up there and pose for me?”
    He gestures to the podium and stool still draped with the blankets I’d brought out for Jenny.
    Refusing to give up my reclaimed confidence, I shrug. I’m done with my drawing, so why not? I’m honestly curious to know if he can create anything more than stick figures.
    I climb up and perch on the stool as he selects a rod of charcoal. He stares at my face and my hair for several minutes. I feel self-conscious under his gaze but I also kind of like it.
    “Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?” he asks.
    I laugh and start to descend from my perch. “Ah, this is just another seduction technique, silly me for believing you were serious.”
    “I am serious.”
    I stare him down, at home and in control in the familiar environment of the studio. “Then draw me with my clothes on.”
    “Fine.” He starts sketching so I sit back down and wait. He studies me, studies the page, me again, back and forth as he translates something of the third dimension into the second.
    “It’s just not as interesting. But you know that,” he says, still drawing and looking, gathering details, recreating them on the page. “I know you go to great lengths to get your live naked models. You’ll even suffer through literary readings. Oh, the agony.”
    I smile. “Yes, you’re right.”
    “And you know how frustrating it is when a model doesn’t want to undress. After all, you’re only trying to honor the beauty of the human body, capture its transience on paper or canvas, interact with the wonder of being human. But there’s nothing you can do about the fact that some people are prudes, just don’t get the wonder of the human form.”
    I frown. “Okay. You’ve made your point.”
    As a writer, he understands something of art and art making. I’m a hypocrite if I don’t play by my own rules. I‘m nervous though. Shy. I always tell my models to relax, to not feel shy. But I’m always the artist, behind the easel, not the model. Words and feelings are different things. Easier said than done, as the saying goes.
    I take a deep breath, unbutton my sweater, and slide my arms out of my sleeves. Logan smiles, tears off a page and starts on another. I feel heat rising on the skin of my back, and under my arms as I pull my T-shirt over my head. I readjust myself on the stool in just my bra and jeans.
    Logan frowns. “That’s it?” He shakes his head. “If you’re not going to go all the way you might as well put everything back on.”
    It’s a challenge and a rejection all in one. No way to win. I blush from head to toe,