“Right here.”

I grinned against his mouth. “Where are we, Phillipe?”

“We’re in a little spot away from the vineyards,” he explained, pulling my hand gently.

I felt him move to sit down, and I followed carefully. His hands helped guide me, and I was shocked when I felt a soft blanket hit my knees.

“You brought a blanket?” I questioned.

I moved to touch the material under my knees. It was fuzzy but not scratchy. My fingers sank into the plushness as I stroked my hand across the fabric. His hand came down on mine, as he gently entwined our fingers to stroke the blanket’s softness together.

“I came down here this morning and set it up.”

“Tell me what’s here?” I demanded of him eagerly.

He brought up my hand and kissed my knuckles. “Well, there’s a blanket. Above us, I hung a piece of cheesecloth from a couple of branches to shade the area a little better.”

As I felt him shift, I guessed he was looking around.

“I also brought several pillows.”

“You brought pillows?” I smiled. “Why?”

The scent of his cologne became stronger, and I knew he was only inches from me. His hands slid through my hair, cupping the back of my head.

“Because I want to lie down with you.” He explained as his lips met mine in a kiss that was as hot and potent as the sun that was shining down on us.

* * *

I have to stop for a minute because I have a feeling I know where this entry is going to go.

Am I ready to read this?

This is going to be their moment. I can tell from the title and the first line in the entry. Today, Phillipe took me outside. He took me outside and made me his.

Do I want to read this? The answer to that is almost embarrassingly easy to come by. However, the real question bothering me—the one that I don’t have an immediate answer for—is, Am I ready for how this will ultimately make me feel?

Looking up at the branches overhead, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open the leather-bound book, and continue on.

* * *

Phillipe lowered me down onto the blanket and moved one of the pillows to cushion my head. His breath, warm and sweet, whispered against my parted mouth as his tongue dipped inside to rub against my own.

I ran my hands up through his hair and moaned against his lips as he angled in a different direction to deepen the kiss. One of his hands stroked over my cheek as he lowered to the top of my dress. I gasped as his big warm palm continued down to cup my aching breast. Arching up into his caress, I felt him lift his head from mine.

His low voice rasped out a harsh prayer. “Christ.”

I almost echoed his sentiment.

His weight shifted as he moved to my right, stroking his palm over to the middle of my torso. I held my breath as his fingers flirted with my top button, and his hair flopped down to tickle my chin as he laid a hot open-mouth kiss at the base of my throat.

Bringing up my hands, I tunneled them into his hair. His tongue came out to lick a hot wet path up the side of my neck until he was at my ear where he bit the lobe gently.

“I want to sink inside of you, Chantel.”

“Yes.” I sighed.

“Yes?” he questioned.

His fingers started to undo the buttons at the center of my chest.

“Yes,” I repeated.

“You want me inside you?”

I was slowly losing my mind as he kissed and nipped my ear while he continued to undo the buttons of my dress. When he had them all free, he parted the material, and I could feel him move. I sensed he was now looking down at me, so I brought my hands up beside my head to give him a better view of what he wanted to see.

“Yes, Phillipe, I want you inside me.”

At that exact moment, I hated that I couldn’t see him because I had a feeling I would be looking at something spectacular just as that sexy voice skated over my skin. It was almost as good as seeing.

“Mmm, yes, so do I,” he said.

His hand flattened between my breasts, and I arched up my back toward him. He smoothed the heel of his palm all the way down the center of my body until he reached my aching mound.

That was where he stopped and pressed firmly, applying a delicious pressure where I needed it most.

My hips pushed up, imploring him to continue. I could feel him still kneeling by my side.

When he told me, “Open your legs,” there was nothing I could have done to disobey.

* * *

I should be ashamed of myself. That’s all I can think as I tunnel my hand down under my pants into my panties. My fingers are now perilously close to grazing the small strip of hair covering my aroused flesh.

Somewhere between reading about Phillipe undoing Chantel’s dress and imagining how he sounded as he told her to open her legs, my hand unfastened my pants and slid inside, seeking a way to ease my own sexual need.

The journal is still firmly gripped in my left hand, and my leg is angled up so the heel of my foot is planted firmly on the blanket.

I can’t believe that I’m going to touch myself as I read this, but I know there’s no way to stop myself. I’m so turned on, thinking that I might be lying right where Phillipe spread Chantel’s dress apart or that I might be on the same blanket he laid on the ground. Instantly, I can feel my juices start to slide between my thighs.

Quickly, I glance around the area I’m lying in. When I’m satisfied that I’m alone, I finally let my fingers delve down between my aching wet folds. My lips part as I shut my eyes for a moment. I imagine Phillipe’s face above me, him kneeling beside my body, while he pushes his finger deep inside of me and tells me to open my legs wider.

Moaning, I grip the journal tighter, flexing my hips up into my nimble hand. Opening my lust-heavy eyes, I focus on the words in front of me and continue reading the book that has now turned me into a voyeur through no fault of its own.

* * *

I opened my legs as I felt him remove his palm from my body, and two fingers pushed my now soaked panties up against my hot flesh. I arched my back, flexing my hips toward him, not quite believing how incredibly turned on I was. He didn’t do anything more than undo my dress and tell me to open my legs, yet I could feel myself becoming so wet that my moisture actually seeped through the fabric between my legs. I knew I had to be soaking his fingertips.

Just as that thought left my lust-addled mind, he was above me. I could feel one arm by the left side of my head, and I felt his right fingers pushing against my bottom lip.

“Taste, Chantel,” he instructed.

I opened my mouth to taste myself on his fingers.

Lowering down beside me, he rasped into my ear, “You’re so fucking wet that you drenched my fingers through your panties. Do you know how fucking sexy that is? Do you know how hard that makes me?”

I panted and moaned when his right hand slipped back down between my thighs. This time, he moved my panties to slide inside of them. With no hesitation, those two clever fingers found their way deep between my aching pussy lips.

“Hmm,” he groaned in my ear.

I curved up against his hand on a soft moan. “Oh god! Ahhh, Phillipe!” I cried out.

When his fingers finally penetrated my body, he pushed deeper and angled them.

“Fuck yes.” He growled in my ear.

I let out my own harsh breath of pleasure. I raised my arms and placed my palms on his shoulders as I started to really push up my hips against his astute hand. I could feel my juices running down my thighs now, so I knew his hand had to be coated as he continued to thrust two and then three fingers into me.

Parting my lips, I let out a harsh breath. “I never knew it could be like this.”

His head lowered, and his teeth sank into my bottom lip. He thrust his fingers in again, flicking my clit with his thumb. “Neither did I.”

* * *

As Phillipe returns from Beau’s, he runs into Penelope in the kitchen. She tells him that Gemma made her way down to the vineyard around an hour or so ago.

Looking up at the clock, he notices it has just turned 1 p.m., and he figures he should go down to find her.

Grabbing his black jacket from the coatrack, he makes his way outside to head in the direction Penelope told him she had gone. It’s beautiful outside today, he thinks as he turns down to the right of the vines in the direction of the fork.

Phillipe thinks about the part of the journal Gemma must be at. He pushes his hands into his pockets and looks around. He wonders about his own slightly masochistic tendencies. He sent her down here, knowing what she would read, but she told him that she wanted to tell their story accurately.

What better way to learn about it than to read one of the most pivotal moments at the actual scene?

He doesn’t think much after that though because that’s when he spots Gemma.

What a fucking sight she is.

She is lying out on the same exact blanket he brought down here with Chantel, but this woman isn’t wearing a dress. Oh no. She has on snug black pants and currently has one leg bent up at an angle. Her right hand is buried down between her thighs as she flexes her hips, pleasuring herself with sexy determination to find release.