She smiled slightly before closing her eyes once more, and he found himself blocking out the other three people standing by her along with the fifty orchestral members who also disappeared from his view. All he saw was Chantel, standing center stage, playing the most beautiful and spellbinding rendition of one of the most famous pieces ever scored.

He had known the minute he saw her out in his vineyard that first morning that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to know her. Just as he knew, right this second, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.

* * *

“So, after the show, you…what? Went back to the dressing room? To the chateau?” I stop and sigh. “Why are you being so difficult about this part in the story? If you didn’t want to talk to me about it, then you should have let me finish reading her journal.” I pause before muttering, “At least, she answers my questions.”

“You seem frustrated,” he tells me.

“I am frustrated. I want to know what happened, Phillipe.”

Pausing, I realize I am still sitting on the floor naked, and he seems to have moved his position. He isn’t over where he was when he was painting. No, he sounds as though he’s sitting in the chair that’s over in the other corner of the room. Reaching up, I remove the blindfold, twisting my body around to see that my suspicions are correct.

“Why didn’t you tell me you stopped for the evening?”

His eyes travel over my hair that has now fallen across the shoulder that is twisted toward him.

“Because I was enjoying looking at you.”

Completely annoyed at this stage, I reach for my clothes that are strewn across the floor. “Well, isn’t that nice?” I mutter while I tug my sweater over my head.

“I thought so.”

Bending down, I pick up my panties. “I can’t believe you. Well, I’m not going to sit here just for you to look at.”

“Well, this view is working pretty well, too.”

Looking at him over my shoulder, I turn and attempt to cover myself with the pants and panties bunched in my hands. He stands and slowly walks closer. All the while, he’s twirling a paintbrush in his fingers, which seems to be a habit that comes second nature to him.

Standing my ground, I look up at him when he stops only inches from me.

“I keep catching you without your pants on today,” he muses.

His eyes look down to where I’m clutching the two items in front of me.

“Both times, need I remind you, are due to no fault of my own,” I point out with as much dignity as I can find.

Reaching forward, he takes hold of the material in my hand and tugs gently. I don’t want to let it go because I know that if I give in, he’s going to do something. Something that will make me forget why I’m annoyed. Something that will turn me into a person I don’t quite understand.

“Let go, Gemma.”

Reluctantly, I obey, and he drops the clothing on the floor, leaving me in just my sweater.

“I stopped talking because she tells it much better, which you will discover when you read it.”

I shiver at the mention of her, and I swallow as he brings his hand up, still holding the paintbrush in it.

“And I stopped painting because I realized you are missing something important.”

My heart almost stops at the thought that this man finds me lacking in anyway. As ridiculous as it seems, I now want him to want me, no matter how wrong it is.

“Well, I’m sorry you felt that way.” I stand there, staring up into eyes that are daring me to run.

I try not to flinch when he reaches down with the paintbrush, running the soft bristles across my vulnerable mound that is still naked and on display for him. I bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning, as he raises a brow and moves his hand lower, letting the brush bristles tickle and flirt their way down between my thighs.

Looking down our bodies, I find my eyes transfixed by the scene I’m witnessing. With his big fingers wrapped around the paintbrush, he gently continues to stroke it against my clit. I can’t help but reach up with one hand to grip his inactive arm, steadying myself.

Widening my stance, I raise my eyes to his as he leans his head down and traces my bottom lip with his tongue.

“Gemma.” He sighs against my mouth.

“Yes?”

“You like this, Gemma? The soft tickle of the brush against your clit?”

I don’t know what he expects from me at this stage because I seem to have lost the ability of speech. All thought disappears as the brush dips lower, and I feel it stroke between my tender folds as he slides it through my juices. I wonder if he’s going to do what I think. Will he take it there?

Panting heavily, my lips part against his, and I can’t help myself from taking a bite of his full bottom lip. That’s when I feel his depraved smile appear. He shifts his hand, and the brush disappears deep inside of me.

Gripping his arm tight, I know I’m going to leave nail marks. I moan and open my eyes to stare into green ones filled with decadence and desire. His desire is so hot that it’s literally burning me, melting me from the inside out.

“Now, this is much more fun. Don’t you think, Gemma?”

I blink at him, my breathing accelerating. He starts to slowly pull the paintbrush from my body, the bristles tickling me on their way out.

“This is the way I think I should always paint you—with a size twenty-four round brush in my hand as you coat the bristles.”

Leaning down beside my ear, he asks me, “What do you think, Gemma? Do you like being painted this way?”

All I can think is that being painted by him feels a lot like being fucked by him, but he already knows that.

“Phillipe,” I beg.

He thrusts the brush back up inside of me, and my hips start to flex against his sinful hand. I turn my head, so our mouths are almost touching. I feel myself getting impossibly wetter, and he licks his lips as his hand shifts again.

“This is wrong,” I say, panting.

He grins demonically, nibbling my lip. “All the best things are,” he agrees. He drags the brush out from my confused and needy body, and then he pushes it back up inside of me again. “Now, close your eyes, Gemma, and go with it. Who cares if it’s wrong? How does it feel?”

I have no words for him as I stand there, grinding down on the brush that is now deep inside of me. All I can do is what he told me—feel.

He starts to thrust it in and out of me, quicker with each movement, and that’s when I hear him softly humming the strings of Pachelbel’s Canon in D in my ear. Everything about the situation is fucked up.

What he’s doing and how I’m responding is beyond fucked up, but there’s not one thing I can do when he bites my ear. I scream out my shockingly intense and inappropriate climax. Once again, I find myself unsure and ashamed of how I’m left feeling.

* * *

Phillipe took me back to the chateau after my performance and told me how moved he was when he watched me play. I could tell by the way he spoke to me that something was different.

He was touching and talking to me as though he had never seen me before. Maybe he hadn’t.

My mother always told me that I came alive when I was on stage. Maybe that’s what he saw.

“I knew you’d be amazing tonight, but, Chantel, I have no words.” He paused and sighed. “You were simply breathtaking.”

I kissed him softly. “Well, I don’t want you to stop breathing.”

His lips covered mine in an almost desperate kiss. When he pulled away, he stroked a hand down my cheek. “I don’t plan to, not for a very long time, and neither will you.”

He kissed me again, and almost as though he couldn’t stand to be still, he lifted me off the ground, twirling me around as I laughed. He slowly lowered me down his body. “Will you come and stay with me, Chantel?”

Automatically, I went to say yes, but he kissed me before I could even make a sound.

“Don’t say no, please. Tell me you’ll move in with me? Let me see you when you awake. Let me be inspired every time I turn a corner, and you’re there.”

Laughing at his eagerness, I stroked my fingers over his impossibly high cheekbone. “My parents and Beau wouldn’t understand why I would choose to stay here in France or why I would move in with you, a man I have just barely met.”

He kissed my mouth, and I felt myself sliding under the waves again.

I asked him, “Is this wrong? Are we crazy?”

This time, his lips pressed against my forehead. He whispered, “Probably. But who cares? How does it make you feel?”

My answer was simple. It made me feel complete.

The next day I moved into the chateau.

Chapter  Nine ~ Want

Day 8

I am ashamed to admit that I hid for two whole days. As I am lying here in bed, I continue to find myself reflecting on everything that happened that day up in his studio. With a paintbrush, no less.


I’m still trying to understand all that took place, but what it ultimately comes down to is that I invited Phillipe Tibideau into my body.

Well, in actuality, there was no inviting. It was more of a hostile takeover. He took over my senses, including any common sense I possessed before arriving here.

Reaching up to my mouth, I touch my lips and remember his on mine as he played my body so expertly out in the vineyard only a couple of days before.