As he is lying there alone and in complete silence, he tries to hear her. He waits for a sign to prove that she is there with him, but nothing comes.
Realizing that sleep eludes him, he heads to the studio to work on the half-finished piece waiting for him. What the hell do I think I am doing? He asked himself that same question last night when he stroked a hand down warm naked flesh.
He isn’t being fair to Gemma. He knows that, but he also knows that he doesn’t have the desire or strength to continue saying no. So, why should I? She knows who he is. Gemma knows what happened, yet she still trusts him to hold her all night while she sleeps entwined with him. When was the last time I had the complete trust of a woman? Well, he knows the answer to that question.
Pulling the cover from the canvas in the far corner, Phillipe looks at the floating figure. Midway down the piece, a beautiful white gown extends up toward the surface beyond the sinking body. With her arms falling away and legs pointed to her watery grave, the picture mocks him while the absolute silence is killing him.
Stepping into the studio, I immediately spot Phillipe over by the window.
His arms are behind his back. He’s wearing a blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and black wool pants that cling to the muscles of his legs and ass. Even from behind, he’s magnificent.
“Good morning,” I say, announcing my arrival.
He looks over his shoulder at me, and his mouth tips up at the corner. “Morning, Gemma. You look well rested.”
Smiling, I move farther into the room, walking toward the small desk. “I am. Thank you.”
Without a word, he nods before looking back out the window. I try to gauge his mood, but once again, I find that I’m having trouble pinpointing it. Pulling the chair away from the desk, I sit and wait for him to turn. It doesn’t take long, but before he does, I notice when he takes a deep breath.
Finally, when he is facing me, I look him over in the way a woman who spent the night with him would. Up until this moment, I haven’t allowed myself that privilege. Yes, I have been with him many times, but this is the first morning I feel as though I have permission to enjoy the afterglow, basking in the memories of our shared intimacy. So, that’s exactly what I do.
“You showered,” he comments, turning away from where he is standing.
Keeping my eyes on him, I follow his sinuous stride as he prowls toward me. His eyes are on mine, and his sensual mouth is pulled tight.
“Yes,” I finally answer.
I lick my lips in anticipation. The full force of this man is potent. From the way his eyes are focused with his full attention on me, I feel like a hand has reached out and stroked me between my thighs.
When he stops before me, he instructs seductively, “Stand up, Gemma.”
Without hesitation, I do as requested, noticing a slight twitch to his mouth. My heart is hammering in my chest as his eyes move to where my blouse parts at my neck. I wonder if he can see my thumping pulse.
He places his large palm at the base of my throat, so his fingers are caressing my neck, and his thumb is at the hollow of my throat.
Should I be scared? Probably. Am I? Not in the least.
“You smell fresh and…” He pauses as his eyes run over my face. “Moist.”
Swallowing, I can feel his thumb as he presses it a little firmer against my throat.
“Frightened?” he questions.
His deep voice slides down to join the imaginary fingers in my panties.
“No.” I smile, hoping he feels as aroused as I do by his seduction. “Turned on.”
His free hand comes out to wrap around my waist, and he tugs me close to him. “Yes, so am I, Gemma. I keep thinking about how hot and tight your ass was last night.”
A low moan rips from my throat as his large palm strokes over the ass in discussion. Before I can think or stop myself, I’m confessing all the longing and all the emotions that have built up inside of me.
“It’s yours—all of it.” Panting now, my desire and need for him override my common sense, making me say things I know he is not ready to hear. “Take me, Phillipe. Love me. I am yours.”
Slowly, I feel the arm around me loosen, so I reach down to grab it, trying to keep it around me.
“No! No, don’t let go,” I beg him, not even embarrassed at how needy I sound. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I say in a rush.
His eyes, only seconds ago full of desire, now slide close, and his mouth grimaces as he releases me completely.
“Let go, Gemma,” he instructs firmly.
Feeling my heartbeats skip and falter from the ache of him pulling away, I blink rapidly and turn my head away from him. I’m humiliated. He’s still so close, and I can smell his skin. He hasn’t made a move to shift away from me, but he’s placed an emotional barrier between us like a ten-foot brick wall. Biting my bottom lip to keep myself from either crying or screaming, I steel my resolve against him.
He demands firmly, “Look at me.”
I hear him, but I refuse to comply. Instantly, his hand and thumb are at my chin, and he turns my head back to face him. I know I have tears in my eyes because his face is blurry. Still abusing my lip, I’m furious with myself for pushing and angry with him for leading me on.
“What is it you really think you are feeling, Gemma?”
Clenching my teeth, I try to pull my face from his grasp, but he doesn’t let go.
“Love? I don’t think so. Lust? Infatuation?” he asks.
I remain mute.
Instead, I feel a tear finally spill forth, sliding down my cheek. Moving my hand, I swipe it away. When he reaches out to grip my wrist, I become infuriated.
“Let me go!” I demand, attempting to twist my arm away from him.
Releasing my chin, he pulls my arm back behind me and gathers me up close to him. My breasts press against his chest as I feel a second tear slip free down my cheek.
“I can’t let you go, Gemma,” he rasps fiercely, leaning forward. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”
Suddenly, I can’t stand the thought of his mouth on mine. I have my pride, and he just walked all over it. As I turn my head to the side, I’m shocked when I feel his tongue against my skin. He licks the tears from my cheek, and then his mouth is at my ear.
“Trust me, I’m not what you want, Gemma. I’m not what you need,” he whispers, stressing his last word. “Don’t waste your time loving me.”
Moving back to face him, I find myself staring into intense green eyes that are pleading with me to understand.
“But you’re who I have come to love,” I confess, finally allowing my head to catch up to my heart.
His eyes search my face, like he’s trying to find something, before he releases me abruptly. Walking away, he mutters, “Then, you are a fool.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch him stop at the easel in the corner. I have to agree with him. I am the biggest fool of all.
Phillipe knows he’s being purposefully cruel, but Gemma—sweet Gemma with the wide innocent eyes—thinks of him as Chantel once did. They believe he is a man worthy of being placed high up on a pedestal. He already toppled from that lofty pedestal months ago, and he still has the broken bones to prove it. The last thing he needs is to be placed back up there only for him to fall again.
When he reaches the other side of the room, he turns back to face the woman who is watching him with a mixture of love and hate etched across her face. He wonders about his self-destructive behavior.