The Chalet Muse

I knew the mountain air was doing something to her the moment she shed her robe. The chalet's firelight caught the curve of her shoulder, and Lena, my model for the weekend, turned to me with a smile that was pure mischief.

"You're staring, Marcus."

"I'm working," I said, but my charcoal pencil hung useless in my fingers. "The light's perfect."

She laughed, low and knowing. "The light's been perfect for an hour. You haven't drawn a single line."

She had me there. We'd been friends for years, ever since art school, and this was supposed to be a working retreat. But something had shifted between us during the drive up here — the way she'd hummed along to the radio, the way her hand had brushed my thigh when she reached for her coffee.

Now she stood naked before me, all pale skin and dark hair, and I was completely undone.

"I think you need a break," she said, walking toward me slowly. "Artist's block."

I swallowed hard as she stopped between my knees. "Something like that."

She took the pencil from my hand and tossed it aside. Then she straddled my lap, and I felt the heat of her through my jeans, the softness of her thighs against my hips.

"This isn't very professional," I managed.

"Fuck professional." She ground against me, and I groaned. "I've wanted this since the gallery opening. Watching you talk about your work, all intense and passionate. I kept thinking about what you'd be like in bed."

"Lena—"

"Don't talk." She kissed me, deep and demanding, and I forgot every objection I had.

My hands found her hips, then slid up her ribs. She was warm everywhere, soft and firm in all the right places. When I cupped her breasts, she gasped against my mouth.

"You have no idea," she whispered, "how long I've imagined those hands on me."

I rolled my thumb across her nipple, and she arched into me. "Show me."

She reached down, fumbling with my jeans, and I helped her push them down. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, and she wrapped her fingers around it with a satisfied hum.

"God, you're thick." She stroked me slowly, teasingly. "I want you inside me."

"Then take me."

She rose up, positioned herself, and sank down. We both groaned at the sensation — her tight heat surrounding me, the perfect fit of our bodies. She began to move, slow and deliberate, riding me with a rhythm that drove me mad.

"Yes," she breathed. "Right there."

I gripped her hips, guiding her movements, watching her face as pleasure washed over her. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted, and she looked so beautiful I couldn't look away.

"You feel incredible," I told her.

She smiled, wicked. "I know."

We fell into a rhythm, her hips rocking against mine, my hands roaming her body. The fire crackled beside us, and the wind howled outside, but all I could hear was her breathing, her soft moans, the creak of the old wooden floor as she rode me harder.

"Marcus," she gasped. "I'm close."

"Not yet." I flipped her onto her back, never leaving her, and drove into her with deep, powerful strokes. "I want to watch you come apart."

She cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Fuck, yes. Like that."

I angled my hips, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I lost myself in the slick heat of her.

"Come for me," I commanded.

She shattered. Her body clenched around me, wave after wave of pleasure rippling through her, and the feeling of her orgasm pushed me over the edge. I buried myself deep and came with a groan, spilling into her as she shuddered beneath me.

We stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard. Finally, she laughed, soft and breathless.

"Best. Artist's retreat. Ever."

I kissed her forehead. "We haven't even had dinner yet."

She grinned, wicked again. "Good thing we have all weekend."

---

Morning light streamed through the chalet windows. I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Lena humming in the kitchen. She was wearing one of my shirts, nothing else, and the sight of her bare legs made me smile.

"Morning," she said, catching my eye. She handed me a mug, and her fingers lingered on mine.

"Morning."

She sat across from me at the small table, watching me over the rim of her cup. There was a new ease between us, a warmth that hadn't been there before.

"So," she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "What are we painting today?"

I looked at her — at the way the light caught her hair, the hint of a hickey on her neck, the secret smile she was trying to hide.

"I think I need a few more studies first."

She laughed, low and knowing. "I thought you might."

CATEGORIES: [Aphrodisiac, Artist, Model, Chalet, Just the Two of Us, Morning Sex]