by Ella Frank
To say that I ran back to my room is stating it mildly.
Entering my bedroom, I turn around, leaning my back against the door. Lowering my right hand down between my thighs, I cup my aching sex. My body is vibrating with tension, both sexual and nervous.
I’m trying to wrap my mind around what I just witnessed and—well, honestly, I can’t. I know exactly what Phillipe was doing to himself as he lay there in all his magnificent naked glory, but the harsh and almost brutal way he was touching himself is what has my mind in shock.
What would make a man treat his body that way? What would cause him to almost inflict injury upon himself while still striving to reach some kind of satisfaction?
And why, oh why, did I find it so erotic to watch?
The minute my eyes peered through that open window, spotting him, my attention was riveted. When the covers were pushed aside, I was bound. My feet refused to go where my brain was telling them to—away. Away from the window. Away from what I was witnessing. Away from his seductive presence. Instead, I stayed and watched. I watched a show so sinfully depraved that I felt myself getting more aroused with each rough and wicked stroke of his hand.
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.
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.
As he gets closer, he slides his large hands into his pants pockets. I have noticed that this is a habit of his, revealing when he seems uncomfortable or doesn’t want to be somewhere. In this insta
nce, he doesn’t seem to want to be here with me.
When he stops in front of me, I stand, but he shakes his head gently, indicating that I should stay seated. I settle back down on the bench as he moves to the opposite side of the shaded area.
The air has a nice cool bite to it this morning, but the sun is warm enough, so the wind doesn’t chill to the bone. This time of the year seems to be perfect here.
“You found your way down here alright?” he asks with an arched brow.
I cross my leg, one over the other. “Yes, thank you. I just asked Penelope.”
Looking right at me, he asks without preamble, “Are you ready to start?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you in a hurry?”
His whole body stiffens as he straightens. “No. No hurry, Gemma. I’d just rather get this over with.”
I think about that for a moment as I stand. Placing the notepad on the bench, I clasp my hands in front of myself. “Well, doesn’t that defeat the whole point of this?” I ask, starting to get a little bit annoyed by his attitude.
I understand his reluctance to talk to reporters. I’m aware of the delicate nature of the issues we are covering, but this man asked me—me—to come here and report the story. It’s a little bit hard to do that if he doesn’t want to tell me any of it.
“Doesn’t what defeat the purpose, Miss Harris?”
There he goes again, referring back to my surname, trying to get a rise out of me. Taking one step forward, I gather my courage. “Isn’t the purpose of me staying here and living under your roof for me to interview you? To ask what happened in your life? To learn what happened in hers?”
At the mere mention of her, his shoulders become even more impossibly stiff.
“I can’t tell your story with any kind of accuracy if you do not trust me,” I tell him, raising my chin.
When he moves, his eyes narrow on me. Like an experienced predator, he slowly prowls across the pebbled space. With each step, the stones crunch beneath his booted feet, and I have to admit that I find it difficult not to retreat.
I’m not one who is usually shy or withdrawn. I’m by no means prudish by nature or inexperienced. Yet I feel a shiver of apprehension slide up my spine while I stand in front of this man, watching his sensual green eyes look me over from my black flats and slacks to my blue cowl-neck sweater that dips down between my breasts.