Muse

Chapter 8 Mavi

Mavi

I pick my outfit for the day before I even consider the print, and that right there is the tell I'm not especially interested in examining too closely right now.

The print is for Noemi, a piece from my last series she bought at studio price because she's been ride-or-die since my first gallery night.

She's been asking me to bring it over for weeks so we can figure out where to hang it in her office, but this morning I woke up and decided the matting was fine while the pants suddenly felt far more important.

And I’ve found the perfect ones, the waistband teasing the sharp cut of my pelvis and the soft skin just below it.

I bought them with cam money two months ago and I've only worn them once on stream.

They're not performance pants. They don't read on camera the way the blush sets do.

They're in-person pants, the kind that only work when someone is close enough to watch the fabric move against skin.

And I know exactly who I want that close.

The cropped top pairs with them perfectly, fitted and just sheer enough that the right light turns the whole look into an invitation.

I keep the gloss on my lips but skip the full editorial face.

Something that says I woke up like this, even though I've been standing in front of this mirror for twenty minutes adjusting the way the top falls across my ribs.

I know he's a famous photographer now, thanks to Noemi, but that's all I know. Still, the timing feels right. I'll be coming home from her office right around the time he’s coming home, and the hallway between our doors is only six feet wide. I intend to use every inch of it.

The person looking back at me in the mirror looks good enough to stop traffic. The Alpha next door is going to swallow his tongue when he sees me.

I wrap the print in brown paper, tuck it under my arm, and head out.

Noemi’s office sits on the third floor of the fine arts building, thick with the smell of turpentine, charcoal, and that same institutional coffee every art department seems obligated to brew.

Students do double-takes as I walk through and I enjoy every single glance.

I’m sure some of them might actually recognize me, either from modeling or my late-night videos. The looking has always been the point.

Noemi spots me coming down the hall, her eyebrow lifting before I even reach her door. She leans against the frame with a mug in her hand and the exact expression she wears when she's already figured something out and is simply waiting for me to catch up.

“You look like you're about to end someone’s whole life,” she muses.

“I brought your print.”

“Uh huh. In that outfit. At two in the afternoon. On a Tuesday.” She takes the wrapped piece from me and steps aside to let me in. “This is about the Hollis Alpha.”

“This is about your print.”

“Mavi. You're wearing the in-person pants.”

I ignore the statement as we unwrap the print and hold it against three different walls while she makes a case for each one.

The piece looks good in here. The warm tones settle nicely against her cluttered bookshelves and the chaos of the office makes the composition feel grounded instead of precious.

We settle on the wall behind her desk where the afternoon light hits it without glare.

I hold it in place while she marks the spot with a pencil.

“So, did you research him?” she asks while fishing a nail out of her desk drawer.

“No.”

She stops and looks at me. “You always research them. You ran a reverse image search on Juno before the second date.”

“That was basic due diligence.”

“You researched the bartender you hooked up with at my birthday.”

“Also due diligence.”

“Mavi.” She finds the nail and points it at me. “You research every Alpha you get within ten feet of. The fact that you haven't looked this one up means you're either being reckless or you're already so far gone that you don't want to find a reason to stop.”

I hold the print level while Noemi hammers the nail in with the bottom of her mug because she can't find her hammer. She glances at me mid-swing and the words tumble out like she's been holding them back.

“I looked him up for you. Sai Hollis. Twenty-eight. Award-winning photographer, published in basically every major fashion magazine on the planet, three International Photography Awards, two Hasselblad nominations.” She pauses.

“He shoots editorial, Mavi. Models. I'm surprised you've never crossed paths given the modeling work you do.”

I wonder if he's ever been behind a camera at a shoot I walked into.

Whether he's ever watched me work under professional lighting before he started watching me through the screen. Maybe he’s even watched me through the bedroom window I leave open, begging for him to do something about the distance between us.

The possibility sends a slow, unwelcome heat curling low in my belly, something that feels less like curiosity and more like my body deciding it already knows the answer.

“You have that look,” Noemi says.

“What look?”

“The one where you have decided you want something and God help anyone in the way.” She sets the mug down, leans against her desk, and crosses her arms. “Just be safe. I have heard things about what that family does to Omegas they do not like.”

“I just want to play, Noe. Not marry him.”

She studies me for a long moment, the kind of look I cannot bullshit my way past, and then she laughs. “Fuck. You are already gone, are you not?”

“I am not gone. I am interested. There is a difference.”

“There really isn’t. Not with you.” She pulls me into a hug that smells like charcoal and terrible coffee. “Be careful. I mean it. Not the careful where you nod at me and then do whatever you want. Actually careful.”

“I am always careful.”

“You are never careful. You are just good at landing on your feet.” She squeezes me once and lets go. “Now, get out of my office before your scent makes my students lose their minds.”

My nose scrunches up in protest but she’s not wrong. It’s unusually sweet and starting to coat everything in this room. Just the anticipation of meeting up with Sai is making my body act out. I can’t be sure if I love or hate it.

The ride home becomes twenty minutes of pressing my thighs together and failing to think about anything except Sai Hollis.

The sandalwood fantasy I’ve been running on a loop since last night keeps resurfacing, his throat under my mouth, his pulse hammering against my lips and every stop makes the situation worse.

By the time I reach my station, I’m walking the three blocks home with a stride that has less to do with confidence and more to do with the fact that slowing down would mean acknowledging how wet I’m getting.

I refuse to acknowledge that on a public sidewalk.

Blowing out a heavy breath, I jog up the stairs, needing some momentum only to find him in the hallway when I open the door.

He’s standing at his door with keys in hand, silk shirt buttoned to the throat and sleeves rolled to the forearm, looking like an advertisement for something expensive and devastating. I have about four seconds to arrange my face into something more neutral before he turns around.

Our eyes meet and I watch his reaction happen in real time: pupils blowing wide, nostrils flaring as my scent hits him at close range, and his hand clenching around his keys until his knuckles lighten a fraction. His jaw locks as his breathing shallows, his entire body going still.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something and nothing comes out, just his lips parting around a word that never makes it. He is so beautiful standing there unable to function that something in my chest tightens in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“Afternoon, neighbor.” I muse, absolutely enthralled by this version of Sai. I expected my fantasy to be dashed, for him to suddenly be the dominant version of an Alpha I didn’t want. But it’s almost like he’s made for me, this shy, awkward Alpha unable to find his voice in front of an Omega.

His mouth tries again and manages “hi” in a voice so low and rough and scraped raw that the sound of it sends heat straight down my spine and pools it between my hips.

The plan was to walk past, leave the scent, and let him ache for however long until he broke on his own and came to me. That’s how this was supposed to work. Patient. Strategic. The long game where I stay in control.

Two steps past him and his scent hits me full in the chest, my body reacting before my mind can stop it.

Slick gathers along my inner thighs, drenching the thong, the suddenness so sharp I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

My own scent thickens in the air without permission, his scent responding in tandem.

Sandalwood crashes into me, so deeply masculine that my knees go soft for half a second before I lock them.

It fills my lungs, coats the inside of my mouth, and sinks straight through my skin to settle low in my belly.

I’m getting wet, not the slow build I can usually control but something much worse.

The thin fabric of my pants is going to be a problem very soon if I don’t keep walking.

Keep it moving Mavi. You’re in control, I remind myself, though it doesn’t feel like it.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around and put my mouth on that man’s throat, to taste the salt of his skin, to feel the way the sandalwood would concentrate at his pulse point, to hear the same low bitten desperate sound he makes through the wall when he comes, only this time right against my lips.

This wasn’t the plan but I’ve never caught this version of his scent up close. When I turn around Sai is still standing there, frozen, his eyes locked on me with the look of someone who already knows what’s about to happen to him and has stopped running.

My feet carry me back to him, both hands landing on his chest as I push him backward into the wall beside his door.

His back hits the plaster with a loud thud.

The sound he makes is louder, a low punched-out grunt that vibrates through my palms where they press flat against warm silk.

Underneath the shirt his chest is hard and broad, his heart slamming so fast I can feel it against my skin.

Get control, Mavi. This isn’t the plan.

I swallow carefully, waiting for Sai to be just like every other Alpha but he doesn’t move. In fact, his hands stay at his sides, something dangerously close to submission lingering in his expression.

There’s no way.

Curious, I rise onto my toes, close the last inch, and take his mouth. The kiss is hard and demanding, Sai making a broken sound against my lips, the same raw desperate noise I have only ever heard through drywall.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, trembling with the effort of not touching me. The realization burns through me, this six-two Alpha who could pin me to any surface in this hallway has his hands at his sides because he does not know if he is allowed.

“Touch,” I murmur against his mouth.

His hands find my waist instantly, just holding like someone who has been told he can have something precious.

His tongue slides against mine, the Alpha tasting like sandalwood, coffee, and something purely him, better than every filthy version I built in the dark last night.

A small involuntary sound slips out of me and he swallows it like it belongs to him.

Heat pours through me so fast my head spins.

My scent sweetens without permission, my body clenching hard as slick floods out of me, soaking through my pants and running down my inner thigh in seconds.

I rock my hips forward, grinding against the thick line of his cock where it strains against my belly, desperate for friction, for more of him.

His hands stay on my waist, still not moving anywhere I haven’t told them to go. This Alpha waited. This Alpha obeyed and it’s making me lose my fucking mind.

My fingers dig into the front of his silk shirt, twisting the fabric as I kiss him deeper, chasing the taste of him.

Another rush of slick pulses out of me, pulling a whimper from my lips, a small, needy sound I didn’t mean to make.

The sound breaks through the haze and horror flashes through me.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to lose control like this.

I pull back just far enough to see his face. His eyes are blown wide, lips wet and glossy from my mouth, breathing ragged. He looks completely undone.

Take control, Mavi.

Clearing my throat, trying not to draw attention to my ruined pants, I throw on the smile I put on for the camera, resuming my composure. “Such a good boy for me, weren’t you?” I purr, patting his chest a little.

His whole body shudders at the words like I struck him.

I take one step back, then another, his fingers dragging across my skin like he physically cannot make them let go.

Each inch of lost contact pulls a broken sound out of his throat.

The hallway air hits the soaked fabric between my thighs and the cold contrast against the heat makes me shiver.

“See you soon, Sai.”

My voice cracks on his name. I watch his face change when he hears it, the surrender in his eyes shifting into something closer to wonder.

I rush toward my door, holding back another whine.

I open my door and close it without looking back, leaning against it in the next moment, my hand flying over my mouth.

A lower, needier whine pulls from my throat as another gush of slick fills my pants, a small patch of wetness at the front growing.

“Fuck,” I whisper behind my hand.

None of this was part of the plan but I can’t find the reason to care. The thing my brain keeps circling back to is simple. His hands did not move until I said touch. And when I said good boy, he shuddered like I had given him something no one had ever given him before.

I stare at my wrecked reflection in the mirror across from me and I know with absolute certainty that I am going to knock on that man’s door, and when he opens it I am going to find out exactly how far that obedience goes.

But that is a problem for future Mavi. Right now, I need to change my pants.