Just thinking about it now has my palms tingling, and I can feel moisture dampening my panties. Making my way across the room, I enter the bathroom with one thing in mind, easing my own sexual need. Moving into the small white ceramic space, I firmly shut the door, locking it for good measure. Wouldn’t want someone watching me, right, Gemma? What a hypocrite I am.
Looking around the room, I walk over to the built-in shower and tub. Taking a deep breath, I quickly unsnap my black slacks and push them down along with my soaked panties.
Shaking my head, I try and remind myself that this is a healthy response. It’s natural to feel intense desire for someone so unbelievably attractive, who just displayed such unbridled self-pleasure. Right after that thought, I also admit that it isn’t exactly natural to stand, uninvited, and watch a man abuse himself, all the while finding it intensely erotic.
No matter which way I look at it, what I witnessed has now resulted in me standing in this small room with my arm against the wall and my left leg raised on the edge of the tub.
Biting my bottom lip to keep silent, I reach down between my thighs and stroke the soft flesh that is now alarmingly wet. Closing my eyes, I picture him as I just saw him, lying on his back with all his strong muscles straining. His neck was arched back, into the pillow, with one leg bent and raised as he reached down between them to grip his cock.
Moaning at the image, I press the pads of my fingers against my now swollen clit. The sensations that rock up through me are unreal. I’m so undeniably turned on. I make each stroke of my fingers a little firmer, pushing a little harder, as I swirl them through my wet juices.
Slowly, my mind starts to merge images and memories as my thoughts drift to the painting by the stairs, focusing on the woman’s nude behind. I remember the suggestive way he stood behind me, touching my shoulders, as he insisted it was natural to want to touch her.
Was it? Or was it the power of his voice and the sexual haze he created, making me question the desire I was feeling?
Sliding my fingers back and forth through my plump folds, I brace myself against the wall with my left hand and push against the tiles hard. I try to keep from moaning out loud while I continue to rock my hips.
How is he infiltrating my mind this way? How is it that after seeing him down in his room with his naked body, pulsating and strong, that I am now standing in a bathroom with my fingers seeking entrance into my greedy body?
I have never in all my life reacted with such intensity before. I’ve been stimulated and made love to, but never have I craved the darkness that I witnessed in him. Never have I felt such raw lust from watching someone purposefully hurt himself.
Oh, but watching him in the throes of his own painful pleasure was so erotic and so darkly seductive that I am wishing he was here now, doing it in front of me all over again.
Finally, I push my finger deep into my own tight warmth while I picture the way he looked at me the moment he caught me. Remembering that mocking bow, the insolent arched brow, and a tiny hint of a caught-you smirk, I feel my pussy clench. It spasms around my finger, and suddenly, his voice is in my head. The again, perhaps that’s exactly where you want to be after your indecision last night on the stairs, hmm…between Chantel and me?” That final memory—that’s enough. His deep voice and sexual suggestion penetrate me, and a climax so powerful that it almost takes my breath away washes over me and drags me under.
Later that night, Phillipe makes his way up to the studio. He sent a message to Gemma to meet him at 7 p.m. He isn’t sure where she has been all day, but he knows one thing. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since she fled this morning.
As he makes his way into the west turret, he is surprised to see her sitting there, waiting for him. She has her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She’s wearing her usual black slacks and a blue blouse with a black cardigan. She looks every inch the journalist or perhaps a librarian.
He makes his way farther into the room, which is illuminated by the soft lamp behind his chair. He also notes that she has turned on the lamp by her desk. She’s trying to send him a message. She’s here to work, and what she witnessed this morning is not going to deter her.
Okay, I can play that game—for a little while.
“Evening, Gemma,” he acknowledges, finally sitting down in his chair.
He observes her as she studies him from head to toe. As usual, he is dressed in dark colors. Tonight, he’s wearing black wool slacks and a hunter green lightweight sweater. When she has finished her inspection, he can’t help the next question he asks.
“Is everything appropriately covered, Miss Harris?”
He takes great delight in the blush that creeps over her cheeks.
She lifts her pen and astutely avoids the question and his eyes. “I want to ask you about Chantel,” she tells him boldly.
Licking his lips, he nods at her once. “Well, I assumed that. After all, isn’t she the reason you and the rest of the world want to talk to me?” He stops to cross one leg over the other at the ankles. “Without her, I wasn’t anybody.” Looking to the open window, he mumbles, “Funny how true that still is.”
Turning his head back to face Gemma, he tilts it to the side and raises a hand in a small wave, signaling her to go ahead with her question.
“Okay then…” She crosses her legs, almost like she’s trying to quell an ache.
That makes Phillipe wonder, What exactly has Gemma been doing all day?
“A lot of recent articles have called your relationship with Ms. Rosenberg an unhealthy one. They report that it was an unusual arrangement with you being center stage in the public eye while she was rather secluded and kept away from the public. They allude to you being too protective. Some even use the word obsessive.” She ceases in her spiel, her eyes finally glancing up to lock with his.
Phillipe knows she is uncomfortable. I’ll be damned if I’m going to ease her. If she wants to go down this rabbit hole with him, then she better be prepared for what she will find.
He sits there silently as he waits for the final question.
“Would you say they were right? Were you obsessed with Chantel Rosenberg?”
Phillipe lets the question linger in the air while her foot begins to tap nervously. She starts to flick her pen against the notepad. Finally, he uncrosses his legs and stands, making his way over to the window.
“Do you know why I love this window so much?” he asks as he looks over his shoulder.
“No,” she immediately replies.
“This is where I first saw her,” he explains, turning back to face the woman who is watching him with intense, smart eyes—the same eyes that saw too much this morning. “This was the window that I looked out of when my life changed.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he closes his eyes and tells her what she wants to know.
“Obsession, as defined by the dictionary, means the domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire.” Phillipe opens his eyes and focuses intently on Gemma, who now has a crease between her brows as she frowns at him in concentration. “What do you think? Do you think Chantel dominated my thoughts and feelings?”
She swallows once, and boldly, she tells him, “Yes.” As she chews her bottom lip more in thought than from nerves, she blinks slowly. “You painted several images of her. You dedicated a whole collection to her. If that isn’t obsession or persistent desire, I don’t know what is.”
Pushing away from the window, Phillipe walks over and stops by her desk. He reaches out and fingers the journal that is sitting there.