Blind Obsession (37 page)

He might have had a problem admitting his feelings for me earlier, but when it comes to physical action, I own Phillipe Tibideau right now, just like he owns me.

Rubbing my tongue against the underside of his cock, I suck him between my lips and drag my mouth up his throbbing length. He’s not letting me get away that quick though. His second hand grips my hair, and his hips thrust as he slides in deep. He’s so deep that I have to concentrate on not choking from his sheer size. Grunting softly, he starts to move, fucking my mouth over and over, as my free hand holds on to the edge of the tub.

I can feel my core clenching with each sensuous stroke he makes into my mouth, and this time, as I raise my eyes, I see him looking down at me. He’s watching his cock, glistening with a combination of my saliva and his pre-cum, as it pulls out from between my wet lips. It’s messy and dirty, and I love every minute of it.

He clenches his jaw, and I see it twitch. As I feel his fingers tighten in my hair, I watch as his eyes dilate. He’s gone, and he’s lost. This time, it’s in me, and I bask in the high I get from that. Tears start to leak out of the corner of my eyes from the sheer force of his thrusts and the raw emotions that are riding me hard. I’m shocked when his hands leave my head, reaching down to grab my shoulders.

As his cock slips free of my mouth, he pulls me from the tub, and a gasp emerges from my throat. My wet body is hauled out, and I’m turned around to be propped up on the bathroom counter.

Leaning back against the cool mirror, I stare into the eyes of a man who looks like he’s about to crack, and I want to be the one who pushes him. Smiling seductively, I run my eyes over him as I slowly part my legs and reach down between my wet thighs, running my fingers over my clit. His eyes follow the move, and his mouth parts as he unconsciously licks his lips.

“Wider,” he instructs gruffly, reaching down to fist his cock.

Spreading my legs more, I notice when his hand starts to move faster.

“I’m going to fuck you in a minute, Gemma, and it’s going to be hard.” He punctuates his sentence with another rough stroke. “If you don’t want that, then shut those sexy thighs and get the fuck out of here.”

I take my bottom lip between my teeth, and instead of leaving, I push my finger inside myself in invitation. His nostrils flare as his fisting quickens. Bringing my hand to my mouth, I suck my finger between my lips, and before I know it, he snaps.

His hand leaves his cock to grab my wrist tightly. His other hand wraps around my waist and tugs me to the edge of the counter as he wedges his naked body between my thighs.

“Do it again,” he insists roughly.

While he watches intently, I reach down between our very close bodies and push my finger back inside myself. I arch forward, bringing me only an inch away from his mouth, and my lips open on a sigh.

Opening my eyes, I smirk as I move my hand. My now wet finger traces up his cock that’s pulsating between my splayed thighs before I bring up my hand to tap it against his lower lip.

He bites the tip of it. “This doesn’t change anything, Gemma.”

I push my finger into his mouth, and as he sucks it clean, I place my mouth by his ear.

“Of course not. Why would it?”

Pulling his head away, he shifts a little, so his cock is finally touching the opening of my weeping folds.

“Indeed,” he mumbles.

He flexes his hips, filling me with one hard thrust. Reaching around me, he clutches my ass cheeks with his big hands and pulls me toward him even closer, burrowing deeper into my soaked center.

“Un-fucking-believable.” He groans as he starts to move, one slow pull out and one solid stroke back in. “A fucking fist—your pussy is like a fucking tight fist.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, and as he starts to pick up pace, I can’t help the whimper that turns to a loud moan. Biting my lip, I arch my breasts into his chest and start to roll my hips into his.

Not having a clue what possesses me, I lean up, so my mouth is by his ear. As he starts to pump faster, I whisper
her
name into his ear.

“Chantel.” I moan softly. “Is that what you would say?”

It seems as if his game has rubbed off on me, and I delight in the reaction I’m receiving. His hands grip my ass tighter as a growl emerges from his chest.

“When you were deep inside of her, Phillipe, did you scream out her name or whisper it softly in her ear?
Chantel
.”

I taunt him again and again, making him groan. Pulling away from me sharply, he turns his head to the side, locking eyes with mine.

“What fucking game are you playing?” he demands.

Narrowing my eyes, I tighten my inner muscles and watch his eyes dilate further. “You don’t want me, so I’m giving you her.”

Shaking his head, he tries to pull out, but I tightly wrap my legs around his hips, tugging him back.

“No! You started this. You fucking finish it.”

I watch as his jaw ticks, and I feel his cock twitch inside of me. Leaning in to me, he flicks my lower lip with his tongue, and then he bites me hard. Gasping, I pull my mouth from his.

“So, that’s what you want, Gemma? You want me to fuck you and call out for
her
? Is that what
you
were doing all alone in here? Were you going to fuck yourself and think about her?”

While pushing hard against his hips, I’m frustrated out of my mind. I feel tears starting to slide down my cheeks. “None of your fucking business.”

Sage eyes full of anger and desire narrow as he nods slightly. Like a hard punch to my gut, I’m reminded of her journal entry and the fact that him nodding is a move that is second nature to him.

“Fine. Have it your way,” he grits out on a harsh whisper as he proceeds to fucking rail me.

Over and over, he fucks me harder than I ever thought possible. As I claw my nails into his skin, I’m captivated by the ferocious power he’s unleashing. As he stiffens, my pussy clamps around him tight.

He looks me right in the eye and screams out her name at the top of his lungs. “Chantel!”

***

The dream always ends there. That is when I awake.

It’s a strange dream, and I have to wonder what it means.

Stuck. You’re stuck.

Does he mean with him? Does he mean here in France?

Dreams are odd, strange things. It’s a good thing that is all they are—just dreams.

SACRED

Chapter  Twenty-Five ~ Sacred

Phillipe looks over to where Gemma is kneeling naked on the floor with her arms wrapped around her waist. He can see her fingers against her back as the violin is propped up behind her.

The
Sacred
pose now resonates in the deepest parts of him. Depicting a woman’s smooth skin, she’s stripped bare of everything, except for her violin and her soul.

When he walked by Gemma’s room earlier tonight, he heard her calling out Chantel’s name. He didn’t know what to think. At first, he stood frozen by the door while the name he cherished floated through the air. He thought he had imagined it until it was repeated over again.

Deciding to go in and investigate, he was shocked to see the bedroom empty, especially when he expected Gemma to be lying in bed. All that greeted him though was an unmade bed with rumpled sheets and her laptop open, displaying that horribly tragic article. The words pointed at him like an accusatory finger.

That was when he heard it again. Chantel’s name was almost moaned this time. As he followed it to the bathroom, he found Gemma halfway submerged in the tub of water. Moving quickly to her, Phillipe felt his stomach plummet as his heart picked up at a rapid tattoo pace.

No, no, no!
was his initial thought as she laid there, unmoving and silent. Automatically, he reached out, watching the blonde hair floating around her face change to black as he was hurled back to that day. That terrible day was forever etched into his mind with such alarming detail that he felt like it was an image carved on the insides of his eyelids.

Blinking rapidly as his frantic heartbeats increased, he grasped her naked shoulder. When he touched it, feeling her warm skin, he allowed his breathing to somewhat calm.
She’s alive
. As that thought registered in his mind, she opened her eyes to stare up at him.

“Phillipe?”

Looking away from the spot he has now painted over several times, he notices Gemma is looking at him over her shoulder.

“Yes?” he replies absentmindedly. He tries to bring himself back to the present with the woman who is here.

“You said something. I was just asking what you meant.”

Frowning, he shakes his head. After placing the paintbrush down, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

He concentrates as Gemma’s eyes narrow on him. He knows that she wants more from him. Every time he touches her, he feels her whole body open, wanting to give herself to him. Instead of returning the gesture though, he just continues to take. He takes her mind, and he takes her body. He also knows that, at some point in between, she has also handed him her heart.

Repeatedly, he reminded her that there was no way he could be what she wanted. He was still spoken for. He was damaged, and he was still
hers
.

“That’s okay,” she says from across the room.

She stands and turns to pick up the sweater that she left on the desk. It’s the same desk that he moved up here for a journalist only weeks ago. Weeks ago, he specifically requested that journalist to be Gemma Harris.

After she pulls the blue wool over her head, she steps into her pants. He quietly watches as she gets dressed.
If things were only different
, Phillipe thinks to himself. If she had been first for him, maybe he wouldn’t be where he was today. Maybe he’d be happy, and maybe, he could have made her happy.

She crosses the space to where he is standing and moves around the easel. That’s when he hears her take a shocked deep breath. Looking at her, he sees the questions flooding in her eyes.

“What? Why...” She stutters and then stops. Licking her lips, she straightens her shoulders. “That’s not me,” she points out.

Phillipe turns away from the full force of her accusation and reaches out to trace his fingers over the canvas. He doesn’t care that the paint smears and smudges. His fingers move over the
dark
hair that is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of a luminescent neck.

“No,” he confesses, “but when I look at you,
she
is all I see.”

***

Trying not to lose hold of the tight grip I have on my emotions, I bite my bottom lip and nod.

“All of them?” I question, needing to know. I need to know if he painted
her
in every single one of the images he made me pose for.

He turns on the wooden stool he is seated on, and haunted eyes stare up at me. He replies softly, “All of them.”

I nod, and without a word, I pivot on my heel, wanting to leave the space. I
need
to get away.

Just as I reach the door, I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry.”

As I turn around, ready to forgive him, I notice his hand is on the canvas, and I realize that it isn’t me he is apologizing to.

Picking up the journal from the table by the door, I quickly flee the scene. I can’t even begin to hold back my emotions while I run down the stairs. I glance swiftly at the woman who hangs silently as the center of attention. She’s the center of importance in this house. I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I know that I’m fighting a losing battle, yet I keep throwing myself down on the sword. Constantly, I give myself to him, and continually, he denies me for her.

As I push open the back door, I’m relieved to see that night has settled in because the darkness is the exact place where I want to be. Picking up my coat and a small flashlight, I head out. Following the little dirt path he led me down a couple of nights before, I make my way through the rows of vines as I reach up to wipe the tears from my face.

When am I going to fucking learn?
The pain caused by his confession continues to pummel me in waves.
She is all I see.
His words repeat in my mind as the memory of his tortured expression tears at my heart.
Why can’t I just let him go?
It has only been a few weeks. Days before this, I didn’t even know who Phillipe Tibideau really was. In fact, the thought of knowing him intimidated me.
But now?
Now, the thought of
not
knowing him slays me.

As I make the final turn in the bend, the Fleuve  Sauvage de Fleurs comes into view. I slow my pace and notice the moon is casting a beautiful glow across the running water.

Gradually, I move toward the edge of the bank. I can hear the yellowhammers chirping in the branches above, just like she did. As I get to the edge of the river, I sit down and open her journal. Closing my eyes for a minute, I pause, listening to the sounds around me. There aren’t many. It’s extremely peaceful. I hear only the running water, the birds, and the occasional croak of a full-bellied toad. Opening my eyes to stare up at the sky, I search for peace or comfort of some kind before I look down at the writing before me.