Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

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.

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 instance, 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.

Stopping before me, he reaches out a hand toward my face. I swallow and hold my breath as his large fingers brush against my cheek. He hasn’t done more than trace his fingers along my skin, but I can feel my breathing deepen as my nipples harden.

I want him.

I want him with such an unexpected ferocity that I barely stop myself from begging him to rip off my clothes and fuck me right where we stand.

What the hell is the matter with me?

I clench my jaw, tilting my face up to look him in the eye.

“You want me to trust you, you say?” he asks.

That deep melodic voice slides inside of me and travels down to the aroused flesh between my thighs.

I swallow again. “Yes.” Then, with a little more force, I tell him, “Yes, I want you to trust me. That’s the only way this will work.”

His eyes scrutinize my face in a way that makes me think he’s memorizing every little thing about me. Suddenly, I’m worried that he might find me lacking. I’m frightened that he is comparing me to her, and I might inevitably come up short.

* * *

Phillipe traces his fingers down Gemma’s cheek, along her jawline, and finally, he slides the back of his fingers down her throat. When he reaches the neck of her sweater, he slips a finger inside and touches along the curve where it dips down low, leaving the material to hang loosely between her breasts. Suddenly, he wants to see those breasts naked.

Gemma ceases talking. She is standing so still that he can barely tell she’s breathing as she lets her eyes drop to his mouth. He can tell she’s curious but oh so cautious. Her eyes can’t lie though. Her eyes are telling him that she wants to fuck, and she wants to fuck hard.

Well, I can accommodate her, Phillipe thinks as he slides his hand around behind her neck, pulling her forward.

She stumbles and places her hands up on his chest. He can feel her nails as she flexes her fingers for better purchase.

“You want my trust?” he demands.

This time, he slides his free hand down between their bodies to cup her sex. He watches her mouth part on a needy moan, and instead of answering, she nods.

“I don’t trust journalists,” he tells her, grinding his palm against her hot covered pussy.

“Then, how—”

“Shh, Gemma.”

She immediately complies.

“Let’s compromise,” he murmurs.

Her eyes focus on his mouth before they slide shut. She squeezes her thighs around his hand. “Compromise?”

“An exchange of trust,” he explains. He rubs the heel of his palm against the fabric directly covering her clit. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Do you?”

Her green eyes blink once, and when they open, he notices her pupils have dilated.

Gemma is aroused. As Phillipe stands there, cupping the back of her neck with one hand while his other is wedged snuggly between her strong thighs, she moves against him like a cat in heat. He watches the pulse flutter at the base of her throat before his eyes move to her moist pink lips. All he can think of is how fucking perfect they would look wrapped around his cock.

Perfect, plump, fuckable lips.

Lowering his mouth to hers, he suggests against those very lips, “I think for you to understand this story, you must first become a part of it.”

He feels her breathe out, and he can’t help but bite her quivering bottom lip. She looks close to climax, like she wants to scream for him. As he releases her mouth, she trembles, panting softly.

She tells him, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I want to paint you, Gemma,” he informs.

He thrills at the hesitation he witnesses as her brain starts to catch up. She swallows, trying to pull away, but he keeps her where she is with a firm grip.