We were sacred.
***
Who am I kidding? I think, throwing the offending journal on the bed. I can’t write this piece anymore. I’m too involved. All of my professional detachment is gone, and all I’m left with is this emotional mess, who is currently curled up on a bed, hating a ghost.
When I first arrived, he was a stranger, and she was a figment of my imagination that I put together from pictures and articles. But now? Now, she is just as real as he is, and with every word she typed, I feel her touching a part of me that I don’t understand.
I don’t want to love either one of them, yet I know that is exactly what has happened. Somewhere between Chantel telling me why she loved him and learning for myself that he was too hard not to love, I have fallen deeply for a man who I barely know and who doesn’t want me. He touches me with every look he gives me, and she touches me with every word she tells me.
I feel as though my heart is being pulled in two separate directions, yet neither direction is the right path for me to choose. She is no longer here, but he won’t let her go. So, where does that leave me? Well, that’s easy. I’m left alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four ~ Dreams
Sleep is not my friend tonight. Getting out of bed, I make my way over to the window and look out at the inky sky. The wind is whipping and howling through the vines, and I can almost feel the breeze as it seems to surround and penetrate me. Wrapping my arms across my chest, I take a deep breath before I whisper her name.
“Chantel?” I call, expecting no answer in return. “Help me,” I plead into the empty night sky.
Shaking my head, I try to remind myself that she isn’t real—well, not anymore. So, why the hell am I trying to communicate with her? Next thing I know, I’ll start a séance.
Moving back from the window, I pick up the journal and climb back into bed to let her communicate with me in a way I know she can.
***
Dreams ~
I keep having the strangest dream.
This is the third night that I’ve had it, and I have to think that it means something. Right? It always starts with music—Air by Johann Sebastian Bach. That doesn’t surprise me or feel strange though.
I love that piece. I have always found it so peaceful to both listen to and play, so dreaming about it seems natural. In fact, when I was a little girl, I had dreams about all the pieces I was learning by ear. It was probably because I had to play them over and over to get them right.
That’s not what makes this dream odd. No, it’s what comes after it.
It always starts the same with music floating all around me. I’m there, but I can also see myself. Yes, I can actually see, which is a completely unreal situation, even without all the other factors.
I’m down by the river. I believe it has to be the river at the back of the chateau because Phillipe is there as well, and I can see him, too. I don’t know if how I picture him is accurate, but he takes my breath away every time, so much so that I want to stay in my dream just so I can look at him.
He’s tall—that I already know. His brown hair blows gently across his eyes every time the wind shifts directions, and his eyes—wow, those green eyes of his are stunning. When he is looking at me, and he is looking at me in the dream, his gaze is sensual and intense.
He gestures me forward, raising a long arm with his palm open toward me. Without hesitation, I place my hand in his, and our hands lock right together. His hand holds mine and protects it, just like how he protects me.
“Come,” he requests softly, his voice calming me the way it always does.
As I take a step toward him, I feel the soft grass beneath my feet as it tickles my toes. Glancing down, I wiggle them and smile at the fact that I can actually see my toes.
Looking back up at him, he is also smiling, and again, I’m mesmerized by the sight of him. He is beautiful. His lips are perfect, full and soft, and I know exactly how they feel against every inch of my body. As I move toward him, I can see his eyes looking me over from head to toe.
“If we wade out just a little, it will be perfect,” he tells me.
I nod my agreement, trusting him implicitly. I know what he wants from me, and I want to do this for him.
Stepping closer, I feel my long white dress move and flutter between my ankles as I cross the bank to the edge of the water. There is a slight breeze in the air, but I can’t hear it. All I can hear is Air by Johann Sebastian Bach and the sounds of birds floating through the branches. Little yellow birds chirp and hop from branch to branch above me. In just the way he described them, they are happy.
“I went and bought a secondhand violin today,” he informs me, holding my hand.
I can feel the water lapping at my toes, and I giggle softly. “Well, that’s good because I was not going to bring Diva in here with me.”
This is the part of the dream that I love the most. He bends down, and I see his eyes. They are full of love, virtually shining with it, as he smiles right before his lips softly and reverently touch mine. I don’t ever close my eyes in my dream because I am afraid of what might happen if I do. When I open them back up, he might be gone, and I might not be able to see him.
Instead, I slide my hands through his thick hair and squeeze gently as I hear and feel a rumble vibrate through him. When he pulls back from me, he runs a hand down my loose hair and asks me the same question one more time, even though he has asked me one hundred times already.
“Are you sure you don’t mind being in the water?”
I release his hand and step forward, the cool water engulfing my ankles. As I look back over my shoulder, I smile and reassure him. “Not in the least.”
***
Closing the journal gently, I sit on my bed in shock. Premonition, I think automatically. Chantel had a premonition of what was going to happen. There is more to this journal entry, but I want to—no, I need to understand what I am reading.
Grabbing my laptop off the desk, I sit down and open up a search engine. Frantically, I type into the bar, Chantel Rosenberg, and it reveals more than 5,820,000 results. Scrolling down, my eyes roam over the salacious headlines and look for an article with some kind of substance. There it is!
Clicking it open, I search through the keywords I am seeing: chateau, despicable, Phillipe, sinful. That’s when, I find exactly what I am looking for.
Today, we are saddened to learn about the shocking death of one of our own on foreign soil.
Miss Chantel Rosenberg, live-in girlfriend to world-renowned artist Phillipe Tibideau, was found dead yesterday at 1:30 p.m., lying seemingly peaceful on the bank of the Fleuve Sauvage de Fleurs (Wildflower River) in Bordeaux, France.
The French authorities have reported that when they arrived, they found a shocked and somewhat disengaged Mr. Tibideau and a motionless Miss Rosenberg, who was reportedly wearing a long white dress.
One of the policemen went on record. He stated, “Elle a ressemble a un ange,” which translates to “She looked like an angel.”
Full details are still unknown at the time of this release.
As I stare at the screen, I feel a shiver skate up my spine, making my flesh break out in goose bumps.
She had a premonition.
***
“Is this far enough?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to where Phillipe is standing.
He’s watching me carefully, and I can feel the water lapping around my upper thighs. I can sense that he is a little bit worried, but at the same time, I know he has no reason to be.
“Would you quit worrying? I’ve been swimming for years. Plus, the water is only up to my thighs.”
I watch as a shaky smile touches his lips, and he nods at me. It’s a gesture I know he must do all the time because it seems so second nature to him, but to me, each time I see it, I enjoy it more. After all, this is only the third time I have actually seen it.
“Okay, can you float?” he asks.
Giggling, I tip my head back, and, I find I am blin
ded by the sun as it warms my face.
That’s when the dream shifts. It changes mood and alters its course. As I focus once again, Phillipe is by me in the middle of the river, but I can’t see him. Everything is dark, and my vision is gone. I can feel him beside me, holding my head between his palms, while the music continues to float around us.
I can still feel the sun on my face as I inquire softly, “Phillipe?”
His hands tighten in my hair as he mumbles something.
“Phillipe?” I call again, feeling my heart start to flutter in my chest. I can feel myself becoming frightened.
Then, I hear him reassure me, attempting to calm me. “I’m right here.”
“What’s going on? What happened?”
The water gently laps against my temples, trickling into my ears a little. I start to realize the rest of my body is submerged. My arms are floating, and my legs…my legs feel as though they are being pulled down. My legs are—
“Stuck,” his voice confirms. “You’re stuck.”
***
Shaking my head, I get up from my bed and put the journal aside. I don’t know if I can finish this. I don’t know if I can read whatever it is she wrote next. Making my way into the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the tub as I fill it. Maybe a soothing soak in the tub and some relaxation will help to get my mind where it needs to be, so I can finish what I feel will be a disturbing precursor to her final moments.
Standing, I quickly undress and climb into the tub, lying back in the fragrant warm water. Closing my eyes, I start to picture Chantel as she saw herself in her dream with a long white dress, floating around her ankles, and her hair left down, like mine is now.
Sliding farther down into the tub, the water laps gently against my ears as it surrounds my head, making my hair float down around my cheeks. Slowly, I lower my hands to my sides and close my eyes, letting the dark take me under. There is no sound in the bathroom, no Air by Johann Sebastian Bach floating around me. I hear only the rush of blood that is pumping through my ears as I lie still and silent in the tub.
“Gemma.”
I hear my name spoken softly as though whispered directly in my ear.
I ignore it, knowing I am imagining things. Once again, I’m trying to get inside her mind, while she is trying to get inside of mine.
“Gemma.”
I hear my name again, a little louder this time.
Taking a breath, I lower my head deeper into the tub. I’m determined to block her out. I’m determined to feel as she felt. The warm water completely envelopes my ears and starts to creep up onto my cheeks as I struggle to remind myself that I am in control. I can sit up at any time, I think to myself, but my heart is choosing to ignore my common sense as it starts to pound anxiously.
“Gemma.”
My name is called again.
“Go away,” I reply, feeling the water touch my chin.
Not a minute later, a hand grasps my shoulder. My eyes snap open, and I see gray eyes staring down at me and a face curtained by raven black hair. My heart viciously thumps inside my chest, making my head spin, as I try to clear my addled brain. As my vision clears, the image above me morphs until Phillipe is standing there, shaking my shoulder.
“Gemma!” he calls desperately.
I swallow, sitting up abruptly, and find myself returning to the present. Blinking rapidly, I bring up my hand and swipe away the water from my cheeks.
“What are you doing in here?” I demand.
Now that I am finally coherent, I can see he is in a panic. His eyes are wide. His hand, still gripping my shoulder, is shaking. Quickly, he releases me and steps back to lean against the counter.
He explains, “You were calling out.”
Belatedly, I remember that I am sitting in a bathtub, and haphazardly, I try to cover myself.
“I was?”
Nodding slowly, he remains silent.
“What was I calling?”
His eyes move to my hands that are now cupping my breasts. As he takes a step toward me, I scramble back in the tub to the wall, making the water slosh around me where I land, not an inch away from where I was just sitting.
As he looks down at me, I’m aware of the hard bulge that has formed behind his zipper. My eyes move to his hands as he reaches down to unbutton and unzip his pants.
Shaking my head, I tell him softly, “No, Phillipe.”
He doesn’t heed my request though because he quickly pushes his pants and underwear down and off his hips. He reaches for the hem of his sweater, tugging it up over his head. My traitorous pussy clenches at the sight of him naked and hard before me. Lowering my arm from my breasts, I sit in awe of the body he has just put on display for me.
Looking down at where I am seated, he lets his arms come to rest by his sides, palms facing me.
He asks, “No?”
My breathing increases and the water I am sitting in now feels like it’s starting to boil because looking at him has me overheating.
“What was I calling?” I ask him again. I’m determined that if he wants something, wants this from me, then he needs to give me something in return.
Reaching around to the front of his body, he takes his cock in his hand and starts to stroke himself. My mouth parts as I watch the decadent act taking place not more than a few feet from me. Unable to resist the seductive allure of him, I find myself moving to kneel before him in the tub. With a large palm, he cups the back of my wet hair, drawing me forward. Licking my lips, I look up at him.
One more time, I ask again, “What was I calling?”
Gritting his teeth, he finally replies, “Chantel. You were calling out her name.”
His hand tightens in my hair as he brings my lips closer to his pulsating shaft. With eyes raised to him, I let out a deep breath, teasing his sensitive skin.
“That’s because I was thinking about her.”
His head falls back, and the muscles and veins in his neck start to strain as his taut body trembles. His pleasure at just my breath on his flesh is intoxicating. He’s making me feel like a queen as I kneel before him.
Finally, he releases his grip on his cock, and I replace his hand with my own, grasping at the base of his shaft. Leaning forward, I lick the wet tip of his desire, and I delight at the deep groan that rumbles from his throat. Encouraged by the hand fisting in my hair, I part my lips and take him inside my mouth.
He might have had a problem admitting his feelings for me earlier, but when it comes to physical action, I own Phillipe Tibideau right now, just like he owns me.
Rubbing my tongue against the underside of his cock, I suck him between my lips and drag my mouth up his throbbing length. He’s not letting me get away that quick though. His second hand grips my hair, and his hips thrust as he slides in deep. He’s so deep that I have to concentrate on not choking from his sheer size. Grunting softly, he starts to move, fucking my mouth over and over, as my free hand holds on to the edge of the tub.
I can feel my core clenching with each sensuous stroke he makes into my mouth, and this time, as I raise my eyes, I see him looking down at me. He’s watching his cock, glistening with a combination of my saliva and his pre-cum, as it pulls out from between my wet lips. It’s messy and dirty, and I love every minute of it.
He clenches his jaw, and I see it twitch. As I feel his fingers tighten in my hair, I watch as his eyes dilate. He’s gone, and he’s lost. This time, it’s in me, and I bask in the high I get from that. Tears start to leak out of the corner of my eyes from the sheer force of his thrusts and the raw emotions that are riding me hard. I’m shocked when his hands leave my head, reaching down to grab my shoulders.
As his cock slips free of my mouth, he pulls me from the tub, and a gasp emerges from my throat. My wet body is hauled out, and I’m turned around to be propped up on the bathroom counter.
Leaning back against the cool mirror, I stare into the eyes of a man who looks like he’s about to crack, and I want to be the one who pushes him. S
miling seductively, I run my eyes over him as I slowly part my legs and reach down between my wet thighs, running my fingers over my clit. His eyes follow the move, and his mouth parts as he unconsciously licks his lips.
“Wider,” he instructs gruffly, reaching down to fist his cock.
Spreading my legs more, I notice when his hand starts to move faster.
“I’m going to fuck you in a minute, Gemma, and it’s going to be hard.” He punctuates his sentence with another rough stroke. “If you don’t want that, then shut those sexy thighs and get the fuck out of here.”
I take my bottom lip between my teeth, and instead of leaving, I push my finger inside myself in invitation. His nostrils flare as his fisting quickens. Bringing my hand to my mouth, I suck my finger between my lips, and before I know it, he snaps.
His hand leaves his cock to grab my wrist tightly. His other hand wraps around my waist and tugs me to the edge of the counter as he wedges his naked body between my thighs.
“Do it again,” he insists roughly.
While he watches intently, I reach down between our very close bodies and push my finger back inside myself. I arch forward, bringing me only an inch away from his mouth, and my lips open on a sigh.
Opening my eyes, I smirk as I move my hand. My now wet finger traces up his cock that’s pulsating between my splayed thighs before I bring up my hand to tap it against his lower lip.
He bites the tip of it. “This doesn’t change anything, Gemma.”
I push my finger into his mouth, and as he sucks it clean, I place my mouth by his ear.
“Of course not. Why would it?”
Pulling his head away, he shifts a little, so his cock is finally touching the opening of my weeping folds.
“Indeed,” he mumbles.
He flexes his hips, filling me with one hard thrust. Reaching around me, he clutches my ass cheeks with his big hands and pulls me toward him even closer, burrowing deeper into my soaked center.
“Un-fucking-believable.” He groans as he starts to move, one slow pull out and one solid stroke back in. “A fucking fist—your pussy is like a fucking tight fist.”