Gemma turns, glancing down at his hand, before she looks back up to face him.
“A lot of people talk about my obsession—my unhealthy need for Chantel. Everyone focuses on the images, the haunting beauty, and the eroticism behind my obsession.”
Picking up the journal, he holds it out to her. She flinches back at the unexpected move, and then she reaches out slowly to take it from him. As her fingers grip the leather, he leans down until they are eye to eye.
With firm resolution, he explains, “No one knows that the obsession went both ways. What would they do if they read pages of journal entries where each entry was dedicated in precise detail to a moment in time—our moments in time?”
Standing up straight, he releases the book and makes his way to the studio door. “If there was obsession here—a dominant persistent desire—then it was the desire to lose ourselves in one another. The only problem is that one person is now lost, and the other is trapped.”
Taking one last look at the now silent Gemma, he turns and walks out. As he leaves, he softly mutters, “Good night.”
I sit in the silence he left behind, shaking slightly, as I hold the journal he just relinquished. He is right, of course. No one knows that Chantel Rosenberg wrote a journal. No one knows that she was just as hungry to know Phillipe as he obviously was to know her.
What must it be like to be craved that way? To return that feeling with such ferocity?
Letting out a sigh, I put the notepad on the desk. I wonder if a time would come when he wouldn’t leave after spending thirty minutes in a room with me, but I know it isn’t me he is running from. It is her.
I look at the empty page that is mocking me. I haven’t written down a single thing from this evening’s session. In all honesty, I turned on my small recorder because I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to function as I sat here and stared at him. After this morning, I can’t help from seeing him that way—naked and hard. So, I came prepared, knowing I would be frozen.
Good thing too because this evening’s episode was intense. Turning off the lamp, I make my way over to his side table, and I can’t help myself from reaching out to stroke the chair he was sitting in. He seemed so lost, yet at times, he was also so present and angry.
Is he what people say he is? Did his obsession ruin a perfect relationship?
I have no clue, but I want to find out. Although he is intense and sometimes frightening in his fierce and passionate nature, I don’t fear for my safety.
No, if anything, I muse as I make my way to my room and into bed, I fear for his.
Cravings ~
I want Phillipe. There—I typed it.
Why can’t I stop thinking about him? And why don’t I want to?
Every minute I’m away from him, I find myself counting down the hours until we’re together. I need to be near him again, so I can find a way to somehow touch him. I need to touch his soft but strong skin that is so warm under my fingers. I find myself wanting to stroke those muscles and trace them with my tongue.
I don’t want it to be just fantasies anymore.
I want the flesh.
I’m starting to crave it.
He told me yesterday that he wants to paint me in some kind of series. He also told me it would be something so beautiful that the world would weep. He told me it would be perfect—perfect like I am. Ha! I laughed at that. I’m not perfect, not in any way.
When I pointed out that I am greatly flawed, he insisted that I was crazy and that was only one of the things that made me beautiful.
So, I agreed with the condition that he called his series Beautifully Flawed and not some cheesy, sad Beauty Is Skin Deep garbage. Again, he just laughed, and I knew whatever he ended up naming it, would fit perfectly.
I told him that I want to show him something tomorrow. He acted like a petulant child all day, trying to get me to spill my secret, but I told him that he must wait.
Tomorrow, I’m going to introduce him to my best friend, Diva.
He seemed worried. He shouldn’t be.
In fact, I think he’s going to love her.
Closing the journal, I lean over and place it gently on the bedside table. Switching off the lamp, I lie there in silence and try to picture the playful and pouty man Chantel describes. While Phillipe is not rude or mean, he certainly doesn’t laugh or joke in the way she portrays him.
I guess that’s something that belongs to just you, Miss Rosenberg. That is yours alone, along with his flawed heart.
I find myself also wondering about Chantel.
With every journal entry, she is becoming increasingly intoxicated by Phillipe. The more time she spends with him, the more she seems to be falling under his spell. Just like me, she can’t seem to explain why.
I close my eyes, and once again, I picture Phillipe naked and hard, violently trying to pleasure himself. Reaching under the covers, I cup my sex and roll over, squeezing my thighs tight.
No. I will not fall prey to a second session of confusing fantasies that involve Phillipe Tibideau and the woman who is his dark obsession.
Chapter Five ~ Revelations
Day Five
I have been instructed to meet Phillipe down at the arbor this morning.
This is a part of the chateau that I have yet to visit. As I walk down the pebbled path, I find myself instantly enchanted by the birds I hear singing. This place really is a slice of paradise. It seems so untouched, yet at the same time, it has footprints—footprints of the past—all over it.
As I reach the end of the path, I find a bench nestled up against one of the large trees. Its branches are leaning over to cover the sitting area. I make my way over to the stone bench and notice there’s a passage engraved on it. When I’m finally close enough to read it, I notice it’s in English.
Love looks not with the eyes
but with the mind,
and, therefore, is winged cupid painted blind.
My heart clenches as the meaning and impact of the words hit me. Chateau Tibideau is full of Chantel. It’s bursting at the seams with the imprints and images of a woman who is no longer here.
I look up into the branches and spot several little yellowhammer birds hopping around from branch to branch. I catch myself smiling as they twitter and jump back and forth. The sun is shining down and filtering through the leaves, warming me as I take a seat on the bench. I don’t know what to expect today, but I do know one thing for certain. I need to make Phillipe understand that for me to write this story—his story—he needs to trust me, and that means not leaving every time things get difficult, or in his case, personal.
The crunch of the gravel alerts me to look down the path where I see him striding toward me. He has his usual wool slacks on today. This time, they’re navy in color, and he’s matched it with a cream knit pullover. The combination is quite easily the most attractive outfit I’ve seen on a man, yet it’s so simple. So, perhaps it’s not the outfit but the man himself.