by Ella Frank
He demanded, “Put your fucking teeth on me, Chantel.”
How could I resist that? I couldn’t, and I didn’t.
Instead, I bit him hard, harder than I would have expected, as I stroked and squeezed his cock as fast and rough as I could. It must have been what he was waiting for because his palm gripped my hand and stilled it as I felt his big body twitch and shudder while he groaned my name.
***
Snapping the journal shut, I place it on the bed beside me, annoyed and frustrated. Every word I read from her pulls me deeper into their relationship. The more I read, the more I find myself craving the knowledge. What is it about them that I find so intriguing? Is it the fact that I am reading something so very private? I feel as though I am violating their love in some way, yet I can’t help myself from wanting to know more. No, I need to know more.
Sliding down the bed, I rest my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling, remembering the image of Phillipe as I saw him only a few days ago. Naked, hard, and stroking himself so violently that I thought he must have been hurting himself. What did he tell her? Put your fucking teeth in me.
Fucking hell, that was so damn sexy.
I sit, letting my legs fall over the edge of the bed. He wants to start painting Armor tonight. The painting is the second one of the collection, and it’s the first full nude shot, where you can see a portion of my front side. I’m not sure how I feel about it.
Standing, I make my way over to the mirror that’s in my room, and I stare at my reflection. There, looking back at me, are wide green eyes. Raising my hand, I grip the hairband holding my hair away from my face and pull it out, releasing my blonde hair. It tumbles down around me, so I shake it back from my shoulders, looking at the picture I present. I’m trying to see all that he sees.
Reaching down to the bottom of my top, I lift it and pull it over my head, leaving myself standing in my nude-colored lace bra. Bringing my hand to the right strap, I finger the material and run it down to the curve of my breast, watching the reflection of my nipple as it hardens.
It’s strange inspecting myself, seeing my body change as I feel it happen. Moving to unclasp my bra, I take a breath as I pull the cups away from my body and let it fall to the ground. I’m left standing there, naked from the waist up, trying to see myself objectively.
My breasts aren’t huge. A small C-cup makes them full enough that I usually have to wear a bra, but sometimes, if I want to dress up for someone special, I can go without.
Below my right arm, where my breast curves out, I have a small beauty mark that I have hated for as long as I can remember. As I stand here now, looking at myself, I find that I don’t mind it. I think it adds a certain character to me.
Lifting my hand, I gently brush my red-painted fingertips against my nipple and let out a small gasp. Biting my bottom lip, I watch my fingers in the mirror as I trace them around the sensitive tips. I remember Chantel talking about how good Phillipe’s shirt felt against her nipples. Probably as good as my fingers now feel against mine.
I pinch and tug them between my thumb and index fingers, pulling the tight little tips. I sigh as I feel my pussy start to moisten. Shocked by my own brazen behavior, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from myself.
That’s when something in the room changes, and I feel like I’m going a little crazy. I swear I’m seeing dark hair now, falling over my shoulder. Instead of my red-tipped fingers, I’m seeing long elegant ones with blunt-cut nails tracing over my body.
Feeling my lips part, I watch as the hands in front of me cup my breasts and squeeze. I’m mesmerized by the scene. The hands gliding over my body have morphed into hands I know. They are hands that shock me.
They’re hands I have seen before, hands I’ve studied, hands that have created music I’ve listened to, and hands I have just read about.
“Ah!” I groan as my nipples are plucked and twisted. They are pinched hard and teased. As my eyes are transfixed on the mirror, I can feel myself becoming increasingly wetter.
“Fuck.” I pant as my right breast is squeezed, and my left nipple is pulled. Crossing one leg over the other, I now close my eyes and imagine beautiful, pale talented hands caressing me. I can hear music flowing over me, violins, and I can feel my aching wet core clenching with each moment of my pleasure.
Arching my back and pushing my breasts forward, hands now squeeze my supple curves, I swear someone whispers, “Do you like that?”
As my climax crashes into me, I find myself calling out a name I never thought to say in a moment such as this.
“Chantel.”
Chapter Eleven ~ Courage
That night, Phillipe stands at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee in his hand, staring out to the lit arbor. He can see Gemma out under the large branches, sitting on the bench he placed down there many months ago.
He wonders about Gemma Harris. What does she really think about everything she’s heard? She doesn’t really give him a good indication of her opinion either way.
One thing he does know is that, although she’s attracted to him, there’s definitely a wary and suspicious side of her when it comes to who he is. Oh, she lets me into her body, but there is no way that the woman who flinched away from me this morning trusts me.
Feeling a frown and a headache coming on, he places his empty cup in the sink, turning to make his way up the stairs. When he reaches the Rhapsody painting hanging on the wall, he stops for a moment and allows himself to look over her.
Taking in a deep breath, he sighs. As he lets it out softly, he shakes his head. “What am I doing?” he asks out loud. He knows he won’t get an answer, but he feels the desire to voice his request. Reaching out, he strokes his finger down the sweet curve of flesh on the canvas before dropping his hand as though the memory burned him. Turning on his heel, he makes his way to the studio.
Tonight, he is painting Armor. He is painting strength. He needs to remind himself of that, especially when familiar words keep running through his mind. Don’t let them make a villain out of you.
She is still in his head.
Spreading the drop cloth out under his easel, he moves to where he wants Gemma to stand and angles a soft spotlight on the area. Everything is ready. All he needs is her. The only problem is that he has no clue which woman he’s referring to at that precise moment.
***
I glance up to the studio window and watch silently as a light is turned on in the west turret. After what happened this morning, I am unsure of how this evening will go.
I know what Phillipe wants from me. He made that clear earlier today. I am finding it hard to garner the courage I need to actually go up there, remove my top, and stand before him—a man who, for very good reasons, is still annoyed at me.
Standing I look down at the bench and the inscription, Love looks not with the eyes, I try not to envy a woman who had eyes she could not see from. Because at this very moment, I would do anything not to have to stand before his perceptive and annoyed gaze.
Oh well, best to get it over with. I make my way inside and upstairs to extend my trust with the hope that he will give his in return.
When I reach the studio, I don’t wait for permission. I simply make my way inside, determined to prove to him that I can be strong—just as strong as Chantel. As I move through the room, I ask myself, When did this become a competition to me? No matter how long I think about that, I still have no answer, and now, the question itself is starting to disturb me. Noticeably, there is no music tonight, just silence. This, for some reason, pleases me.
“You came.” His familiar voice travels across the room. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
Straightening my shoulders, I try to remind myself that he is not referring to this afternoon when I brought myself to a spectacular climax, fantasizing about her. No, that dark secret still remains solely mine.
I make my way over to where he obviously wants me to stand, and I turn to him. “Of course, I’m here. This is why you invited me to the cha
teau, correct?”
He tilts his head to the side. Seemingly out of nowhere, he asks, “What’s different tonight?”
“Excuse me?” I query, tugging on the bottom of my shirt, a little nervous now.
This man constantly has me questioning myself. It’s hard to believe that I ever had a moment where I was comfortable enough to let him inside of my body—unless, of course, I hallucinated that whole episode in the vineyard as well. With the way my mind keeps playing tricks on me, it would not surprise me.
“What is different?” he repeats, moving toward me. His long legs cross the space in no time at all. “You seem defensive tonight, like you’re out to prove something…or perhaps you’re hiding something.”
Swallowing hard, I clasp my fingers together, fidgeting with my nails.
“I’m not hiding anything. How absurd,” I tell him.
I don’t feel he’s convinced because those shrewd sage-colored eyes narrow as he licks his bottom lip.
“Maybe I’m defensive because you challenged me this afternoon. Will you be wearing your armor? Does that ring a bell?” I snap in a tone far more bitchy than I expect.
His silence is unnerving, and his stare is unwavering as he slowly shakes his head. “No. That’s not it. You’re hiding something.”
Clenching my jaw, I stay stubbornly quiet until he finally turns and walks back to where he set up his paints.
“So, take off all my clothes then? We can’t work in sections?” I query, trying to decide what he wants.
“No we can’t work in sections. You need to remove it all.”
“Can’t I leave my pants on until you are ready for that part?” I demand instantly.
One of his eyebrows goes up as he states very calmly, “No, Gemma, you know better. The piece is full nude—unless, of course, you aren’t brave enough. I don’t understand the problem. I have seen it all before.”
I curse my own insecurities. I’m not sure if I’m ready to be so vulnerable and so exposed to him again. I reach down, unbuckle my pants, and unzip them quickly, pushing them to the floor. I kick them to the side with a little more force than necessary.
“I suppose you need these off as well?” I question in a surly tone.
Phillipe looks at my fingers, which are touching the lace of my white panties. “Of course.”
I roll my eyes. It figures he would find a way to make me feel like I just asked a stupid question. Reaching down to the bottom of my shirt, I start to unbutton it, when I realize he is still standing there. He patiently watches me with intense eyes, pulling his lips into a pensive line.
I raise my eyes to his and decide to try and lighten the mood by joking. “So, I’m just supposed to bare my soul to you?”
In the blink of an eye, he darkens the moment. “Well, you’re asking me to bare mine.”
Contemplating his terse reply, I reach back to undo the clip of my bra. “That’s true in a sense, but what you are doing and what I am about to do are two completely different things.
His eyes have moved, focusing on my breasts and my arms, which are paused behind my back for the moment.
“Yet each of those two things requires an enormous amount of trust,” he reminds me.
I can see that he’s trying to teach me a lesson—something along the lines of, you blew my trust this morning by thinking I would hurt you, so take off your shirt, and maybe I’ll forgive you.
“So, Gemma, are you willing to trust me?”
I unhook the bra and slowly lower it, revealing my aching breasts to him. Moving my arm to the side, I drop the piece of lingerie on the floor.
“Yes, I am. Now, my question remains. Are you going to trust me?”
***
Courage ~
Tonight didn’t go very well.
My parents arrived at my uncle’s two nights ago. They had made a “special” trip in order to meet the man I had moved in with. They wanted to meet Phillipe, so we went over to Uncle Beau’s home.
I’m so annoyed right now because I feel like it has somehow put a wedge between us. He didn’t say much at all when we got home, and right now—well, I don’t even know where he is.
He left around ten minutes ago and told me he needed to go for a walk.
He’s never just left. I suppose this is our first fight. I keep reassuring myself that couples do that…right?
All I can think about is how upset he was.
“What do you want me to say, Chantel? That did not go well,” he told me.
“I’m sure they didn’t mean to make it sound the way it did.” I tried to reassure him as we made our way into the kitchen, but honestly, I knew that my parents weren’t being very welcoming.
“They accused me of brainwashing you, and you just stood there!”
“I did not!” I defended while I tried to convince myself that I didn’t.
“I hardly think ‘Mom, I wanted to go,’ was very convincing, especially after I just told them that I would look after you and I couldn’t help but want you close to me.” His voice trailed off as if defeated. “How could you let them make you question us, Chantel? They basically told you to leave, and when you said nothing—well, you might as well go and pack your bags.”
“Phillipe,” I pleaded.
He brushed by me. Suddenly, I felt more alone than I ever had before.
“Yes?”
“Don’t leave like this,” I begged. I hated that he was feeling this way, and I hated that I couldn’t express how I felt.
“I just need to be alone for a while. I’m going for a walk.” His voice softened as he asked me, “Will you be here when I get back?”
How could he think to question it? How had I made him question me?
“Of course. Where else would I go?”
I never received an answer. Instead, all I heard was the kitchen door as it slammed shut, making me jump where I stood. Why hadn’t I told my parents everything I felt? I didn’t understand my own reluctance and that annoyed me. Maybe it was because I didn’t want them to judge me—judge me like they had him. That didn’t seem fair.
It makes me wonder what kind of coward I am. I’m an adult. I’m a grown woman who found a man she loves. How dare they make me question that and how dare I let them make me.
I need to find him. I need to go and find him and bring him back.
Bring him back to me, to us, and to the world we belong in. I need him to come back and paint me as I am—strong, courageous, and brave.
Armor—that’s what I need when I deal with my parents from now on. I need a suit of armor and the courage to stand behind my convictions to fight for what I want. And, what I want is Phillipe.
***
I can feel my bare nipples harden in the cool air. They almost seem to be begging for attention, like they remember what they received earlier, and they want it again. I slip my fingers into my panties and slide them down over my hips, all the while, keeping my eyes on the silent man across from me.
I concentrate on Phillipe as he makes his way to the shelves on the wall. He crouches down to reach into the bottom. I’m so focused on his broad back and amazing ass that I don’t even notice what he is holding in his hand until he stands. It’s an old music case.
Almost instantaneously, it feels as though the oxygen in the room has been removed. I can’t breathe as he stops at the desk just a few feet from me. He gently places the case down. Immediately, I know what is in there. He doesn’t have to tell me. As I stand there silently staring at him, my brain is screaming, Why? Why on earth does he have Chantel’s violin? How?
It has been reported that the astronomically expensive Stradivarius, which had been passed down for years through the Rosenberg family, was never recovered. It is still reported as missing to this day.
I have no idea how he has it, but I know that the instrument inside that case is a violin. I know it is Diva.
I’m also very aware of what he’s going to ask me to do. I have seen the collection and studied each piece f
or hours on end. None of that matters though, as the locks on the old music case are flicked open.
As he lifts the lid, my eyes are automatically drawn to the contents, like a moth to a flame. This right here is the other piece in the huge, distorted puzzle that is them, and it is about to be handed to me.
He reaches into the case, which is lined with what looks like red silk. He lovingly—yes, lovingly is the only way I can describe the way he is touching the instrument—cradles Chantel’s Stradivarius as he removes it from its resting place.
My mouth falls open as he turns and walks toward me. He’s cradling it as though it is his child. When he holds it out to me, I look at him as if he is insane, and I begin shaking my head.
“Apparently, I am going to trust you. Here, take this.”
Looking at the violin he’s now handing to me, I am very aware, all of a sudden, that I ‘m standing here naked. And yet somehow, that is not the most bizarre part of this equation. No, the most bizarre part is the fact that he thinks I can and will be responsible for hanging on to an instrument that is not only worth more than a million dollars but is also reportedly a missing family heirloom. Not to mention, it means more to him than the entire house we are both standing in.
Shaking my head again, I raise my eyes from the beautiful Diva. “No. I can’t use that to model with.”
“Here. You need it to model with,” he tells me, pushing it closer to me.
I literally step away from him, refusing to take a hold of what I essentially know to be his heart.
“No.” I refuse again. “Don’t you have a spare one?” I realize how stupid that sounds but so does the fact that he wants me to hold her violin.
He steps closer to me and reaches out. He takes my right hand in a firm grip and tugs me to him. Placing the neck of it in my hand, I have no choice but to close my fingers around it tightly. I’m afraid I might drop it, smashing it into little pieces.
“See, it won’t hurt you,” he reassures as he steps in closer. “You seem spooked tonight. That’s what it is.” Bending down until our noses are almost touching, he asks, “What happened this afternoon, Gemma?”
