Chapter 7: The Muse's Revenge
David stared at the blinking cursor. It mocked him, a tiny, relentless pulse against the blank white screen of his manuscript. The words, usually so fluid, had solidified into a concrete block in his mind. All he could see was the taut curve of Dede’s back, the way her hips had flared under his hands, the desperate, whimpering sounds she’d made when he’d finally let go. He’d used her, hard and without tenderness, a vessel for his frustration. And she’d welcomed it, arching into every thrust like a victory.
He rubbed his eyes, the phantom scent of her lavender soap clinging to his skin despite a scalding shower. The photo of Lexi on his desk—a candid shot from a beach trip years ago, her smile effortless—seemed to accuse him. What are you doing?
The click of his office door opening was soft, but in the silent house, it sounded like a gunshot.
He spun in his chair. Dede stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. She wore only one of his white dress shirts, the tails hitting her mid-thigh. The top buttons were undone, revealing the shadowed valley between her breasts. Her strawberry curls were a wild halo around her face. She leaned against the frame, a glass of amber liquid in her hand—his Scotch.
“You left this on my counter,” she said, her voice a husky purr. She took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his.
“I’m working,” he said, the words gruff. He gestured vaguely at the dead screen.
“Mm. Doesn’t look like it.” She padded into the room on bare feet, the shirt shifting with her movements. She set the glass on his desk, right on top of a stack of notes. “You seemed… distracted earlier. When you rushed out.” She traced a finger along the edge of the desk, coming to stand beside his chair. “I thought you might need a break.”
He could feel the heat radiating from her. His shirt on her body was an intimacy more profound than sex. It was a claim. “Dede, this isn’t a good time.”
“There’s never a good time, David.” She said it lightly, but her gaze was sharp. “You’ll always have a chapter to write, or Lexi to worry about, or a ghost to outrun.” She placed her hands on the arms of his chair, caging him in. Her scent enveloped him. “But I’m here. Now.”
His control, worn thin from days of creative drought and lingering guilt, frayed completely. A hot, possessive anger surged—not at her, but at himself, at the situation, at the fucking blinking cursor. “Get out,” he growled, the command low and venomous.
She didn’t flinch. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. Her eyes dropped to his lap, where his body was already betraying him, a thick, undeniable ridge pressing against his zipper.
“Make me,” she whispered.
In a single, fluid motion, she sank to her knees on the Persian rug. Before he could process it, her hands were at his belt. The leather slid free with a whisper. The button of his jeans popped open. The zipper’s rasp was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Dede—” His protest was strangled.
“Shhh,” she murmured, her breath warm through the fabric. “Just feel.”
She didn’t tease. She pulled him out, his cock springing free, already fully hard and thick. Her eyes glinted with something like triumph in the dim light. “My god,” she breathed, wrapping her fingers around the base. She didn’t stroke him. She just held him, solid and heavy in her grip. “I dreamed about this. All day.”
Then she took him into her mouth.
The heat was instantaneous, shocking. She swallowed him deep, her throat working around the head of his cock with practiced, obscene ease. There was no tentative exploration, no gentle buildup. She took control, bobbing her head with a fierce, hungry rhythm, one hand working his shaft while the other cupped his balls, rolling them gently. The wet, sucking sounds filled the office, vulgar and undeniable.
David’s head fell back against the chair. A ragged groan tore from his chest. His hands came up, tangling in her mass of curls, not guiding her, but holding on as his hips jerked upward, fucking her mouth on instinct. He was powerless. She’d dismantled him with ruthless efficiency.
“You like that, don’t you?” she panted, pulling off for a moment, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip. “You like me on my knees for you.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She dove back down, taking him deeper, gagging slightly before relaxing her throat to accommodate him.
It was filthy. It was raw. It was exactly what the coiled tension in his gut demanded. He watched, mesmerized, as her lips stretched around his girth, as her cheeks hollowed. The sight of her, on her knees in his shirt, her ass visible beneath the hem, willingly choking on him, shattered the last of his resistance. This wasn’t about connection. It was about possession, about using this beautiful, willing thing to blot out the noise in his head.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Just like that. Take it.”
She moaned around him, the vibration coursing through his cock. Her free hand slipped between her own legs, under the shirt. He could see the frantic motion of her arm, could hear the slick sounds of her fingers working her own clit. She was getting off on this, on her own submission, on her power to reduce him to a mindless animal.
It couldn’t last. The pressure built, a hot, urgent coil in his abdomen. “Dede… I’m gonna—” he warned, his voice a harsh guttural rasp.
She locked her eyes with his, a challenge blazing in their green depths. She took him all the way to the hilt, her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base, and held still.
With a roar that felt ripped from his soul, David came. He pulsed violently down her throat, his body seizing, his vision whitening at the edges. She swallowed, once, twice, a continuous, eager motion, milking him until he was spent, until he was soft and trembling in her mouth.
She pulled off slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A smug, satisfied smile played on her lips. She rested her cheek on his thigh, catching her breath. “See?” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “You just needed to stop thinking.”
He was still gasping, the aftershocks rolling through him. He looked down at her, this stunning creature kneeling in surrender, and felt not tenderness, but a dark, cavernous hunger. She had won this round. She had taken his control and used it against him. And he had let her.
With a sudden, rough movement, he hauled her up by her arms. He spun her around, bending her over the cluttered surface of his desk. Papers scattered. The Scotch glass toppled, spilling golden liquid across the wood. He pushed the shirt up her back, exposing the full, perfect curve of her ass.
He didn’t prepare her. He wasn’t gentle. He spat on his fingers, pushed them into her, finding her already soaked and clenching. A low, desperate sound escaped her.
“Is this what you want?” he snarled, aligning himself at her entrance.
“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “God, yes. Fuck me, David. Claim it.”
He drove into her in one brutal, deep stroke. She cried out, a sharp sound of pleasure-pain, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk. She was impossibly tight, a slick, hot vise around his already-hardening cock. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming her into the edge of the desk, each impact jolting through both of them. There was no romance here, no whispered sweet nothings. This was a transaction. A fuck. A way to exorcise the demons screaming in his head.
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, sure to leave bruises. He wanted to mark her. To prove she was here, that this was real, that he could still feel something beyond the hollow ache of failure. Her cries grew louder, raw and unfiltered.
“Harder,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
He obliged, pounding into her with a force that shook the desk. The sound of their bodies meeting, skin on skin, was animalistic. Her curls shook with each thrust. He leaned over her, his mouth at her ear. “You want to be my wife?” he growled, the words foul and thrilling in the heat of the moment. “You want this every night? This cock in your tight little cunt?”
“Yes!” she screamed, her climax ripping through her, her body clamping down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses.
He followed her over, his own release a hot, mindless rush, pouring into her with a guttural shout. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the ruined papers, both of them slick with sweat and breathless.
For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing. The room smelled of sex and spilled alcohol.
Slowly, he pulled out. He righted himself, his body humming with a vacant exhaustion. Dede straightened up, the shirt falling back into place. She turned to face him, her face flushed, her lips swollen. She looked utterly claimed, utterly victorious.
She reached for his hand, brought it to her mouth, and kissed his palm. “Next time,” she said softly, echoing his lie from the morning, “stay for coffee.”
She walked out of the office, leaving the door open behind her. David stood amidst the wreckage of his desk, his mind blank. The cursor on the screen still blinked, oblivious.
Across town, the fluorescent lights of Mario’s Pizza hummed with a greasy, unwavering glare. Lexi pushed a slice around her plate, the cheese congealing into a rubbery mass. Bree’s chatter washed over her, a cheerful stream she couldn’t navigate.
“So then Rylee said the funniest thing about his bio teacher—” Bree stopped, nudging her foot under the table. “Hello? Earth to Lexi.”
“Sorry,” Lexi muttered, finally looking up. “Just… tired.”
“He’s not here, you know,” Bree said gently, dipping a breadstick in rancher dressing. “Rylee said Ace has been MIA. Working extra hours at the garage or something.”
Lexi’s heart clenched. I don’t need another goddamn burden. The words were on a loop in her mind. “I’m not looking for him.”
“Could have fooled me,” Rylee said, sliding into the booth beside Bree. He smelled of gasoline and cheap body spray. He stole a pepperoni from Bree’s plate. “He’s a ghost when he wants to be. Especially when he’s messed up.”
“He’s not messed up because of me,” Lexi said defensively.
Rylee gave her a long look. “Isn’t he?” He shrugged. “Look, Ace’s life is… complicated. His mom’s boyfriend is a piece of work. Ace checks on his brother and sister like a hawk. It’s a lot. He doesn’t let people in. The fact that you’re even on his radar is kinda huge.” He took a bite of the stolen pepperoni. “And kinda dangerous. For both of you.”
Before Lexi could respond, the bell over the pizza shop door jangled. A gust of cold air swept in, followed by Ace.
He looked like hell. Dark circles bruising under his eyes, his knuckles raw and scraped, his denim jacket dusted with what looked like drywall powder. His gaze scanned the room, landning on their booth. For a fractured second, his eyes met Lexi’s. The jolt was physical, a live wire sparking in the space between them. Then his expression shuttered, colder than the wind outside. He looked at Rylee.
“Hey,” Ace said, his voice gravelly. “Need to talk.”
Rylee stood up, his playful demeanor gone. “What’s up?”
Ace jerked his head towards the door. “Outside. Now.”
Rylee shot an apologetic glance at Bree and followed Ace out into the frigid evening. Through the fogged glass, Lexi saw them talking, Ace’s gestures sharp, Rylee listening intently, his face growing solemn. Ace pulled an envelope from his jacket, thrust it into Rylee’s hands. Rylee nodded, clapping a hand on Ace’s shoulder, a gesture Ace seemed to tolerate more than accept.
Then, as suddenly as he’d arrived, Ace turned and walked away, disappearing into the gathering dusk without a backward glance.
Rylee came back in, the envelope vanished. He slid back into the booth, his face uncharacteristically grim.
“What was that?” Bree asked, her voice hushed.
“His sister,” Rylee said quietly. “She left a note at his place. Things are getting worse at home. He… he wanted me to hold onto some money for her. In case she needs to run.” He looked directly at Lexi. “See? Grenade. And the pin’s been pulled for a long time.”
Lexi stared at the empty spot where Ace had stood. The hurt from his rejection was still there, a sharp ache in her chest. But now it was layered with a dawning, chilling understanding. It wasn’t about her. It was about survival. His own, and that of the people he loved.
She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. She thought of her father, probably alone in his study with his own demons. She thought of Ace, carrying the world on shoulders that were still just a teenager’s. A quiet, fierce resolve solidified within her.
He could call himself a grenade. He could push her away. But she had seen the torment in his eyes when he’d told her to leave him alone. That hadn’t been indifference. It had been a plea.
She stood up, grabbing her coat. “I need to go.”
“Lexi—” Bree started.
“I’ll call you,” Lexi said, already moving towards the door. She just needed some time to herself.
The walk home from Mario’s was a blur of cold air and sharp thoughts. Lexi let herself into the quiet, cavernous house, the silence a stark contrast to the noise in her head. She climbed the stairs, each step heavy, and shut her bedroom door behind her with a soft, definitive click. The lock turned with a satisfying snick.
She didn’t turn on the light. She slid down the back of the door onto the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. The dark room was a relief. Here, she could finally let the feeling out—not sadness, but a furious, burning frustration. He wasn’t a grenade; he was a fortress, and she was tired of staring at the walls.
Downstairs, David listened to the distant sound of Lexi’s door closing. The finality of it echoed through the empty halls. He stood in the middle of his pristine, silent kitchen, the ghost of Dede’s hands still on his skin, the taste of her still in his mouth. The shame was a cold, heavy stone in his gut. He had fucked his neighbor over his own desk while his daughter sat in a pizza shop. The manuscript was dead. He was a cliché.
He grabbed his jacket. He had to end it. Now. Before it slithered any deeper into his life.
The path to Dede’s bungalow was only fifty feet, but it felt like crossing a minefield. His knuckles rapped against her door, the sound too loud in the twilight.
The door opened almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting. She was dressed for a workout, or perhaps had just finished one. Skin-tight black yoga pants clung to every curve of her hips and ass, and a loose, grey crop top ended just below her ribs, revealing a smooth strip of toned stomach. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her collarbones. Her hair was piled in a messy knot, tendrils sticking to her neck.
“David,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. She didn’t look surprised.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended.
“Of course.” She stepped back, swinging the door wide. The cozy, candlelit interior from the other night was gone, replaced by the ordinary clutter of a lived-in space. A yoga mat was unrolled on the floor. “Come in. I was just cooling down.”
He stayed on the threshold, the words of dismissal ready on his tongue. This was a mistake. It can’t happen again. He looked at her. The pants hugged the full, perfect swell of her ass. The crop top gaped slightly as she leaned against the doorframe, offering a shadowed glimpse of the curve of her breast. The memory of her on her knees, the wet heat of her mouth, the desperate clutch of her body, surged through him with a physical force that wiped his mind clean.
His resolve didn’t break. It evaporated.
In two long strides he was inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a heel. The thud echoed through the small living room.
“David?” she said, her eyes widening, not with fear, but with predatory recognition.
He didn’t speak. He grabbed her by the back of the neck, his large hand engulfing the delicate column of it. His grip wasn’t tender; it was a claim, an anchor. A shocked gasp escaped her, followed by a low, eager moan. He marched her backwards, her shoulders connecting with the wall beside the family portraits. The frames rattled.
“You can’t stay away,” she breathed, her voice triumphant.
He crushed his mouth to hers, the kiss a brutal clash of teeth and tongue. It was nothing like before. There was no seduction, no clever game. This was pure, undiluted need, a furious expunging of his own self-loathing. He shoved her crop top up, exposing her breasts, and took a stiff nipple into his mouth, biting down just enough to make her cry out.
“You want to talk?” he growled against her skin, his free hand yanking at the waistband of her yoga pants. “Then talk.”
“Fuck you,” she panted, writhing against him, helping him drag the tight fabric down over her hips. “Just fuck me. Stop thinking.”
He spun her around to face the wall, pushing her hard against the plaster. He pulled her pants and underwear down to her knees in one rough motion. He unzipped his own jeans, freeing his cock, already thick and raging hard. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and positioned the broad head at her entrance. She was wet, so wet, her body already yielding.
He drove into her in one savage, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure, her hands slapping flat against the wall for purchase. “Yes! God, yes!”
He set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each impact driving her into the wall. He kept his hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place, his other hand gripping the generous swell of her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of their bodies meeting, her choked cries, his own ragged grunts. The portrait of some stern-faced ancestor watched them with painted indifference.
“This what you wanted?” he snarled, his breath hot against her ear. “This what you’ve been angling for since you moved in next door? My cock in your greedy little cunt?”
“Yes!” she sobbed, pushing back against him with equal ferocity. “It’s mine. Give it to me.”
He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, every thrust an attempt to purge the image of Lexi’s lonely door closing, to obliterate the blank screen of his manuscript, to feel something besides the yawning emptiness. Her tight heat clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper. He felt her body begin to tighten, her inner muscles fluttering around his length.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come on my cock.”
As if obeying, her climax ripped through her, a series of violent, shuddering convulsions that squeezed him unbearably tight. Her scream was muffled against the wall. The sensation tore his own control apart. With a final, deep plunge, he let go, his orgasm erupting from him in hot, pulsing jets deep inside her.
He stayed there for a long moment, slumped over her, both of them gasping, pinned together by sweat and spent passion. The cool air from the still-open door kissed his back.
Slowly, he pulled out. A slick trail followed him. He turned her around. Her face was flushed, her lips bruised from his kiss, her eyes glazed and victorious. She looked utterly ravaged, utterly satisfied.
He tucked himself away, zipped his jeans. The cold stone of shame returned, heavier now. He’d come to end it. He’d come inside her instead.
She read his face, the conflict there. With a soft, knowing smile, she stepped out of the tangle of her pants. She walked, naked from the waist down, to the small kitchenette. She filled a coffee pot with water, her movements deliberately calm, domestic.
“I meant what I said last time,” she said, not looking at him. The coffee grinder whirred, shattering the silence. “Stay for coffee.”
David looked at the locked door of his own house, visible through her window. He thought of Lexi, alone in her room. He thought of the empty desk, the unwritten words. He looked at Dede, her strong back, her knowing smile, the undeniable, messy reality of her.
He was so tired of being alone.
“Alright,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ll stay for coffee.”