Miss Perfect swallowed her bite of fruit just as a sliver of juice trickled down her chin.Theodore did not think, he only reacted on impulse.He reached out, wiping the juice up with his thumb, immediately sticking his finger in his mouth afterward.He could taste the sweetness of the pineapple mixed with the faint taste ofher.Or more aptly, her sweat, since it was damn hot in the room.
Some dark hair spilled out of her messy updo, falling over her shoulder, and the heavy scent of vanilla and spice filled his lungs.
Her gazeglowed,for the faintest moment.Like a golden moon in the night sky, like a shimmer of glitter in the darkness.
“Anything?”she whispered, leaning into his space.Her crimson-stained lips ghosted over his as if she was afraid, but of what, Theo had no clue.
What could she be afraid of?What does a woman like Miss Perfect have to fear?
But something about that vulnerability, Miss Perfect’s faint hesitation, called to him.He wanted to hear her say the words, but he got the feeling the permission she needed washispermission.His assurance.And that resonated with Theo deeper than anything else.For he knew what it was to want, to crave.To want to take a leap of faith and plunge headfirst.
As Theo gazed up at the object of his current fixation from beneath his mask, he held her gaze steady.He’d never felt so powerful in his life.
“Anything, Princess,” he whispered as he closed the remaining distance between them and crushed his mouth against hers.
CHAPTER3
Zorro’s lipsmoved slowly against hers, carefully at first.His kiss was almost hesitant, but bold at the same time.Like he was unsure of such a forward move, perhaps even unsure if she would respond, but he’d taken the shot anyway because he couldn’t bearnotto know.And as his lips curiously danced along hers, she could not help but respond in unison.
Calliope had kissed many men—and even some women—and plenty of her patrons had written about, sang about, or illustrated sentiments about the perfect kiss.But Calliope had never felt a perfect kiss before.Not until this moment as her masked prince’s warm, smooth lips settled everything around her.
And so she did not fight the fire inside of her that threatened to burn, to consume, either.It’d been too long since Calliope had felt such a spark.
The softest sound escaped his throat as his tongue slid into her mouth without hesitation, the strokes slow and deliberate, reverent almost.
With every caress of his tongue and soft motion of his silken lips, Calliope felt herself slipping.The lines between want and need felt as if they were being stretched taut, and the lines were going to snap.She knew she was playing with fire, but Calliopemissedfire.She missed its warmth, its intensity.She missed dancing in the flames.For such was the life of a muse—always sparking, always igniting someone’s passion—until, of course, the fire burned down to embers, unable to sustain its heat any longer.Or died, altogether.
Calliope’s shoulders loosened and she felt the faintest heat on her neck, her flesh.In her blood.Her charming Zorro settled his hand against her throbbing vein, his palm hot, the touch smooth.She could not help but feel overwhelmed by him.By his kiss, his touch, his earthy, spicy cologne.For the moment, there was pure bliss.There was only them, in this moment, existing inside time itself as well as outside of it.Her insides heated like a fire and that familiar jolt, thatsparkshe’d longed to feel again, returned with renewed vigor, rising from the ashes like a phoenixas the air thinned around her.
Who is this man?Where has he been hiding?
The mysterious masked stranger continued his torturously slow, seductive kiss, gently sucking her bottom lip before grazing his tongue over it.The act, however small it was, was full of untapped desire.A deep sound escaped him, something akin to a deep whispered moan, like a desperate prayer.In that one swift motion, that faint caress of his tongue as he kissed her bottom lip, she could feeleverythingbubbling beneath the surface.Everything this perfect man kept buried.His determination, his passion, his drive.
And all at once, the spark flourished, the rush of flames catching on the brittle remnants of the dried leaves and wood Calliope had strewn over her broken, coffined heart.
Flashes of color flooded her vision.Bursts of bright, victorious red, fading into deep, dark shades of green, like a forest on fire.She settled her hand on his neck, feeling his racing pulse beneath her fingertips.
Did he feel it, too?This spark?This undeniablefire?
Did he understand what power those words held for her?
Anything you want.Anything, Princess.
Calliope had never truly seen herself as a figure of royalty, and though many men had called her Princess—or kitten or baby, and even sweetheart—there was an offering in the way her perfect stranger spoke such devotion.
Oh, Zorro...you do not understand the words you speak.
Calliope knew he did not understand.How could he?For starters, he was drunk—as was she—but he was also a human.And humans rarely understood the depth of their words and promises, Calliope had learned.
He’s no different than the other men I’ve entertained,Calliope thought, trying to combat the ease of which she felt to fall into this man and give him everything he desired.
Whatever that may be.She wasn’t sure what he truly desired because she could not see it in her mind’s eye the way she usually could with the people she inspired.The sparkalwaysknew what a man or woman needed from her to thrive, and perhaps if Calliope had not been so lost in the perfection of his kiss and the sweet taste of pineapple on his tongue along with the haze of the alcohol she’d consumed, she may have realized how important that little fact was.
Because a muse’s purpose was to inspire those who would change the world—with the help of her patronage, of course.
But there was only one person who could truly inspire a muse, one person who could change their immortal fate, and they would be blind to their deepest desire, because their truest desire would be theirmate.
Their divined mate, of course.
