“Oh god,” I sighed, pushing myself against his mouth.
He nuzzled his nose against my throbbing pussy. He inhaled deeply before he let out a loud groan, raising a hand to push a long, thick finger up between my juicy wet lips.
“I want to worship you,” he confided as he pushed that finger deeper into my needy body.
“Phillipe,” I moaned as I bore down on his hand.
His wet lips traced a sensuous path across my quivering flesh. Holding on tight, I just about flew out of the room when his tongue finally reached my swollen clit. He manipulated it, flicking his tongue back and forth over my wet nub. I couldn’t help the way my hips started to thrust against him, almost as though I was fucking his mouth.
That was when I started to beg. “Please,” I implored.
I felt him shift and move lower, farther beneath me, so his wicked hot tongue could slide through my sopping folds. His hands held me in place as he flattened his tongue against my aching pussy. He licked at it like it was his favorite dessert before he moved his mouth back to my clit and sucked it between his lips. That was all I needed. I screamed and pulled his hair, climaxing all over his tongue.
Against my abused flesh, he admitted, “I’m yours.”
Chapter Six ~ Solitary
Mid-afternoon finally arrives as I sit in my bedroom with Chantel’s journal on my lap. Still, I am trying to understand exactly all that happened out in the arbor this morning.
Was I seduced? Is that what happened? Was I seduced into agreeing to pose for Phillipe? Oh, and it’s not just for any paintings. I’m posing for Chantel’s collection.
There are millions of women who would clamor for the opportunity to sit for Phillipe Tibideau. That’s what happens when you are one of the most attractive, and yes, one of the most enigmatic artists.
He is such a difficult man to get a handle on. One minute, he appears sad and reflective, almost alone in the world he now chooses to inhabit, and then in the blink of an eye, his demeanor changes, and he becomes a frustrated rigid shell of a man. Both sides are now becoming familiar, I thought, tracing my hands over the leather cover. I can understand his sadness and anguish in the face of all he has gone through.
But what about the seductive side of Phillipe? He seems to slip into that side, using it to get his way. That is a potent force. It’s as natural to him as breathing. When he turns that force on me, there is not a hope in the world that I will be able to resist.
When he kissed me this morning, every single thought I had got lost somewhere between my beating heart and my wet, throbbing sex that had started an insistent pulse between my legs. His strong arms felt sublime when he wrapped one around me while he used the other to stroke me to a splintering hot orgasm, without even undoing my pants. The man is sex—pure, unadulterated sex.
However, unlike the flawless and almost reverent way he touched and worshiped Chantel, with me, he seems so capricious. I never know how he’ll react, which only makes the idea of posing for him in such an intimate way all the more daunting.
Phillipe moves quietly around the studio, setting up the area he wants to use for the afternoon’s session. Down in the arbor this morning, he let his emotions get the better of him, and once again, he now found himself rethinking his actions.
Touching Gemma in the seclusion of the garden felt right. She was warm, she was present, and he wanted her with a hunger he never thought he would feel again.
What is it about her? Maybe the way she looks at me? Her mixture of wonder and fascination is tinged with a hint of fear. She appeared as though she wanted to touch him, but she thought she might get burned.
Perhaps she is right. Maybe I will end up ruining her, too.
Sighing, he makes his way over to the shelves where he keeps his paint and brushes. Pulling them down, he heads back toward the easel, and that’s when he spots Gemma by the door. Her eyes are watching him closely as he walks across the well-lit area.
“It’s okay. You can come in,” he acknowledges, feeling like the wolf inviting Red Riding Hood into his den. Once upon a time…ha—yeah, well, once upon a time, he would have never viewed himself that way at all. It’s funny how things have changed.
“I know,” she replies bravely, stepping inside.
She’s clutching the worn leather journal. It’s ironic how it now seems like a safety blanket for her, yet to him, it represents a tragic nightmare.
“I was just making sure you were finished setting up. I didn’t want to distract you.”
Phillipe moves behind the easel, placing the items on the small table he situated beside it. He tilts his head, looking over her slowly. “Ahh, but you’re such a lovely distraction, Gemma. Why would I mind?”
She doesn’t seem to have an answer for him, so she remains silent as she moves farther into the room to where the drop cloth is now spread out on the floor. When she reaches it, she turns back to face him.
“Which painting do you want to do first?”
Now, there is the million-dollar question, he thinks. Phillipe walks over to the lovely Gemma. She is holding herself rigid. She no longer resembles the woman he held this morning when she came with such intense passion.
“Well, first…” He pauses, reaching out to take the journal.
She lets it go reluctantly before she clasps her hands again in front of herself.
“First, you have to relax, Gemma.”
“Was she relaxed your first time?”
Phillipe stops on his way to the desk where he is going to put the journal down. He looks over his shoulder at the bold journalist. He can tell she is bracing for his answer, so he lets his eyes travel down over her newly donned black pants before bringing them back up to her sweater.
“I made sure she was relaxed her first time, yes.”
She takes a deep breath of air, making it immediately obvious that she understands his double entendre. Placing the journal down, he moves behind the easel to see if she is in the space he is going to need her in. She waits so patiently for him. She’s so silent that he almost hates to break the peace that comes with it.
“I thought we’d start with Solitary,” he informs, waiting for a reaction.
He knows that she studied each piece before arriving here, so she knows exactly which one he is referring to. As predicted, she shifts, appearing uncomfortable with his choice.
“Why that one? Because it was the first?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
She tilts her head to the side and plainly states, “I think you’re trying to scare me off.”
Phillipe lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “If I wanted to scare you, I would have started with Armor or perhaps Rhapsody.”
Her shoulders stiffen, and he’s aware he has hit on one of her biggest fears.
After all, to most people, those particular poses would be the most intimate and the most revealing.
“Fine. Solitary, it is,” Gemma tells him with determination.
Phillipe nods his assent as he walks around the easel and passes her on his way to the window. When he reaches it, he closes the heavy wooden shutters. Automatically, every shred of sunlight is cut off, and the studio is plunged into darkness as though it is night. He had the shutters installed for the purpose of his craft. Sometimes an image calls for darkness, even though it is daylight outside.