“Who said anything about leaving?” she queried.
“No one. I see there’s no answer about my evil clutches though, hmm?”
She harrumphs softly, but he hears it as she turns back to face the wall.
“Did you enjoy our afternoon together, Gemma?” he finds himself asking her, seemingly out of nowhere. He strokes the paintbrush down the canvas, creating the curve of both her back and hip, making them appear seamless.
“I think you know I did,” she whispers so faintly that he almost doesn’t catch it.
“Then, why are you acting so ashamed?”
He dips the brush into the color before bringing it back to the material. He isn’t here to create a masterpiece. He is using this time to show Gemma how Chantel felt as she sat there in pose.
“I’m not ashamed, and I’m not here to answer your questions. You’re here to answer mine.”
Phillipe finds himself holding back a smile at her pretentiousness. “Well, maybe you should ask me some.”
He turns and puts the paintbrush down on the table beside him, watching as she shifts slightly in her position. Is she uncomfortable or aroused?
Either way, he takes selfish delight in telling her, “Try not to move, please.”
She blows out a deep breath. “When did you ask Chantel to move into the chateau with you?”
Phillipe was waiting for a question, but somehow, he didn’t expect it to be that one.
“Why would you just assume I asked her? Unless, you already know better.”
Silence, thick and tense, stretches out between them.
“Well, with the way you talk about her and the way she writes about you, it automatically makes me think you asked her.”
Phillipe steps around the easel. He walks over to the perceptive Gemma and crouches down behind her. He must have been quieter than he thought because she flinches when the back of his finger traces down her naked spine.
Without moving so much as an inch, he confesses, “I didn’t ask. I begged.” He stands, walks over to the journal, and taps the cover. “But this, you already knew.”
***
Tonight, when I arrived at the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux, my uncle led me down to the dressing rooms, and I was greeted by the music conductor who would be up front tonight.
I was nervous about playing this evening. It was not because there would be an audience but because he was going to be there. Tonight, Phillipe was going to watch me play with the local orchestra, and I wanted it to be perfect for him.
I was led to the stage door to start the warm up.
One of the other violinists I was going to be playing alongside for the opening piece told me, “I’m so excited to play with you tonight. I think you’re amazing. To be able to play in such a way and be completely...” She paused as I smiled in her direction. She too was American.
“Blind? It’s okay. You can say it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not very polite for me to point out something so obvious. I’m sure you get sick of it. When they told us who was going to be playing here tonight, I was thrilled. I know all about you. You inspired me to play.” The girl giggled. “Sorry. I went a little crazy there, didn’t I? I’m Jessica. I’ll be playing second chair violin.”
I liked Jessica immediately. She showed me to my seat, and I began warming up.
Running through the usual warm-up exercises, I felt the music as it flowed through my fingers and vibrated through my ear. It made its way into my heart, and as silly as it sounds, it touched me deep down into my soul.
Thirty minutes later, the orchestra was introduced, and I heard my name along with Jessica’s and two others mentioned. We each stood, and applause filled the room as we made our way—me with the assistance of Jessica—to the center of the stage.
The audience hushed and waited in complete silence.
I felt the warmth of the spotlight as it moved to focus on the four of us. This evening, we were going to be playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and lifted Diva to my shoulder.
That was when it happened. I felt him.
Somehow, I knew exactly where he was in reference to me. Like a compass being pulled north, I found myself pivoting toward the left, and I opened my eyes. I knew that was where he was. I knew he was sitting up there.
Closing my eyes once again, I listened as the basso continuo started, and I swayed slightly as I let the wave crash down over me.
***
“So, you asked her the night you went to see her play?” I ask, knowing he has moved back behind the easel now.
He seems further away each time he speaks.
“Yes. What can I say? The moment I went and saw her play, I knew.”
His voice fades out toward the end of his thought, but I’m not letting him get away with it that easily. I need to know exactly what he means.
“You knew what?” I press, finding courage in the darkness I am now inhabiting.
Not having to face him when asking such personal and probing questions makes me bolder. It makes it easier to dig deeper into the heart of a man who I know is wounded. It makes me ruthless in my pursuit of his story. This story is so provocative that it has captured the attention of the whole world. That’s when, I hear him confirm what I already suspect.
“I knew I had to keep her.”
***
She is mesmerizing, he thought as he watched the spotlight move in and focus on the four musicians now at the front of the orchestra.
After she had told him she was playing tonight, she had invited him to come, and he had bought a box seat. There was no way he was going to miss out on this.
So, here he was. For some reason, he held his breath when she stood and closed her eyes. She raised her beloved Diva to her left shoulder, and that was when it happened. She opened her eyes, turned her head, and looked up right at him.
Phillipe felt his breath leave his body on a sigh while his chest ached and tightened with the knowledge that she somehow knew. She felt him inside her very being, proving that theirs was a connection he couldn’t explain to anyone.
She smiled slightly before closing her eyes once more, and he found himself blocking out the other three people standing by her along with the fifty orchestral members who also disappeared from his view. All he saw was Chantel, standing center stage, playing the most beautiful and spellbinding rendition of one of the most famous pieces ever scored.
He had known the minute he saw her out in his vineyard that first morning that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to know her. Just as he knew, right this second, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.
***
“So, after the show, you…what? Went back to the dressing room? To the chateau?” I stop and sigh. “Why are you being so difficult about this part in the story? If you didn’t want to talk to me about it, then you should have let me finish reading her journal.” I pause before muttering, “At least, she answers my questions.”
“You seem frustrated,” he tells me.
“I am frustrated. I want to know what happened, Phillipe.”
Pausing, I realize I am still sitting on the floor naked, and he seems to have moved his position. He isn’t over where he was when he was painting. No, he sounds as though he’s sitting in the chair that’s over in the other corner of the room. Reaching up, I remove the blindfold, twisting my body around to see that my suspicions are correct.
“Why didn’t you tell me you stopped for the evening?”
His eyes travel over my hair that has now fallen across the shoulder that is twisted toward him.
“Because I was enjoying looking at you.”
Completely annoyed at this stage, I reach for my clothes that are strewn across the floor. “Well, isn’t that nice?” I mutter while I tug my sweater over my head.
“I thought so.”
Bending down, I pick up my panties. “I can’t believe you. Well, I’m not going to sit here just for you to look at.”
br /> “Well, this view is working pretty well, too.”
Looking at him over my shoulder, I turn and attempt to cover myself with the pants and panties bunched in my hands. He stands and slowly walks closer. All the while, he’s twirling a paintbrush in his fingers, which seems to be a habit that comes second nature to him.
Standing my ground, I look up at him when he stops only inches from me.
“I keep catching you without your pants on today,” he muses.
His eyes look down to where I’m clutching the two items in front of me.
“Both times, need I remind you, are due to no fault of my own,” I point out with as much dignity as I can find.
Reaching forward, he takes hold of the material in my hand and tugs gently. I don’t want to let it go because I know that if I give in, he’s going to do something. Something that will make me forget why I’m annoyed. Something that will turn me into a person I don’t quite understand.
“Let go, Gemma.”
Reluctantly, I obey, and he drops the clothing on the floor, leaving me in just my sweater.
“I stopped talking because she tells it much better, which you will discover when you read it.”
I shiver at the mention of her, and I swallow as he brings his hand up, still holding the paintbrush in it.
“And I stopped painting because I realized you are missing something important.”
My heart almost stops at the thought that this man finds me lacking in anyway. As ridiculous as it seems, I now want him to want me, no matter how wrong it is.
“Well, I’m sorry you felt that way.” I stand there, staring up into eyes that are daring me to run.
I try not to flinch when he reaches down with the paintbrush, running the soft bristles across my vulnerable mound that is still naked and on display for him. I bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning, as he raises a brow and moves his hand lower, letting the brush bristles tickle and flirt their way down between my thighs.
Looking down our bodies, I find my eyes transfixed by the scene I’m witnessing. With his big fingers wrapped around the paintbrush, he gently continues to stroke it against my clit. I can’t help but reach up with one hand to grip his inactive arm, steadying myself.
Widening my stance, I raise my eyes to his as he leans his head down and traces my bottom lip with his tongue.
“Gemma.” He sighs against my mouth.
“Yes?”
“You like this, Gemma? The soft tickle of the brush against your clit?”
I don’t know what he expects from me at this stage because I seem to have lost the ability of speech. All thought disappears as the brush dips lower, and I feel it stroke between my tender folds as he slides it through my juices. I wonder if he’s going to do what I think. Will he take it there?
Panting heavily, my lips part against his, and I can’t help myself from taking a bite of his full bottom lip. That’s when I feel his depraved smile appear. He shifts his hand, and the brush disappears deep inside of me.
Gripping his arm tight, I know I’m going to leave nail marks. I moan and open my eyes to stare into green ones filled with decadence and desire. His desire is so hot that it’s literally burning me, melting me from the inside out.
“Now, this is much more fun. Don’t you think, Gemma?”
I blink at him, my breathing accelerating. He starts to slowly pull the paintbrush from my body, the bristles tickling me on their way out.
“This is the way I think I should always paint you—with a size twenty-four round brush in my hand as you coat the bristles.”
Leaning down beside my ear, he asks me, “What do you think, Gemma? Do you like being painted this way?”
All I can think is that being painted by him feels a lot like being fucked by him, but he already knows that.
“Phillipe,” I beg.
He thrusts the brush back up inside of me, and my hips start to flex against his sinful hand. I turn my head, so our mouths are almost touching. I feel myself getting impossibly wetter, and he licks his lips as his hand shifts again.
“This is wrong,” I say, panting.
He grins demonically, nibbling my lip. “All the best things are,” he agrees. He drags the brush out from my confused and needy body, and then he pushes it back up inside of me again. “Now, close your eyes, Gemma, and go with it. Who cares if it’s wrong? How does it feel?”
I have no words for him as I stand there, grinding down on the brush that is now deep inside of me. All I can do is what he told me—feel.
He starts to thrust it in and out of me, quicker with each movement, and that’s when I hear him softly humming the strings of Pachelbel’s Canon in D in my ear. Everything about the situation is fucked up.
What he’s doing and how I’m responding is beyond fucked up, but there’s not one thing I can do when he bites my ear. I scream out my shockingly intense and inappropriate climax. Once again, I find myself unsure and ashamed of how I’m left feeling.
***
Phillipe took me back to the chateau after my performance and told me how moved he was when he watched me play. I could tell by the way he spoke to me that something was different.
He was touching and talking to me as though he had never seen me before. Maybe he hadn’t.
My mother always told me that I came alive when I was on stage. Maybe that’s what he saw.
“I knew you’d be amazing tonight, but, Chantel, I have no words.” He paused and sighed. “You were simply breathtaking.”
I kissed him softly. “Well, I don’t want you to stop breathing.”
His lips covered mine in an almost desperate kiss. When he pulled away, he stroked a hand down my cheek. “I don’t plan to, not for a very long time, and neither will you.”
He kissed me again, and almost as though he couldn’t stand to be still, he lifted me off the ground, twirling me around as I laughed. He slowly lowered me down his body. “Will you come and stay with me, Chantel?”
Automatically, I went to say yes, but he kissed me before I could even make a sound.
“Don’t say no, please. Tell me you’ll move in with me? Let me see you when you awake. Let me be inspired every time I turn a corner, and you’re there.”
Laughing at his eagerness, I stroked my fingers over his impossibly high cheekbone. “My parents and Beau wouldn’t understand why I would choose to stay here in France or why I would move in with you, a man I have just barely met.”
He kissed my mouth, and I felt myself sliding under the waves again.
I asked him, “Is this wrong? Are we crazy?”
This time, his lips pressed against my forehead. He whispered, “Probably. But who cares? How does it make you feel?”
My answer was simple. It made me feel complete.
The next day I moved into the chateau.
Chapter Nine ~ Want
Day 8
I am ashamed to admit that I hid for two whole days. As I am lying here in bed, I continue to find myself reflecting on everything that happened that day up in his studio. With a paintbrush, no less.
I’m still trying to understand all that took place, but what it ultimately comes down to is that I invited Phillipe Tibideau into my body.
Well, in actuality, there was no inviting. It was more of a hostile takeover. He took over my senses, including any common sense I possessed before arriving here.
Reaching up to my mouth, I touch my lips and remember his on mine as he played my body so expertly out in the vineyard only a couple of days before.
One thing is certain. My judgment becomes compromised when it comes to Phillipe, and I have no immediate idea on how to stop myself from wanting to be compromised over and over again.
Today though, I want some answers from him. I want to know why people thought their relationship was unhealthy. Why did the world turn against a man that only months earlier they had revered?
The obvious answer seems too simple. There has to be more to it because the man I am coming to know
doesn’t fit with all that I have read.
Why wouldn’t he defend himself publicly? Why wouldn’t he save his name?
Twice now, I sat in a dark room—a room that for all intents and purposes is cut off from the world—and he blindfolded me. He had every opportunity to do as he pleased, yet he didn’t touch me while in pose.
No, he waited until my sight was restored, and my attention was focused, focused solely on him before he…what? Seduces me? Tempts me? Destroys me?
That is the word that my mind keeps returning to—destroyed. That is the word that has been thrown around and used in conjunction with his name, but I don’t feel destroyed. I feel alive. I feel needy and hungry.
Lying here with just my thoughts for comfort, I’m shocked to discover that I feel no shame in what we did, even though I probably should. In the face of reflection, I’m craving what I am seeing instead of running from it.
Suddenly, I understand Chantel’s words because the wave has come, and I feel it pulling me under.
***
Want ~
This morning, I awoke to an empty bed, or to be more precise, an empty mattress.
Phillipe had decided that since we were spending so many hours in the studio, we should just bring a mattress up here. So, two days ago, he’d done just that and hauled his huge mattress up into the studio. It had all been very romantic when he’d placed it beneath the window. Kissing me, he had pulled me down onto it and told me that now he could touch me under the stars, just like he’d touched me under the sun.
That was not all that happened. This morning, I discovered what it means to truly want another. Want in every way that the word can be used. To need, crave, and desire another.
Phillipe had gotten up early. I could tell because there was no sun warming my skin, like it had every other morning. Rolling over, I reached my hand across the pillow beside me. I noticed that it had already cooled, so he’d been up for a while.
That was a shame because I had wanted him to make love to me this morning. I was restless.