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.”
“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?”