Chapter Six #2
Stepping out of the panties, I try to remain calm as he reaches up to uncoil several loose strands of hair, freeing them to tickle my shoulders. While he’s doing this, I remain silent. I’m afraid that if I say anything, it will break the spell and ruin the moment.
Then I feel him move away for a second. Taking that moment to look over my shoulder at him, I have the pleasure of watching him as he makes his way back to me.
Those sinfully sexy eyes are locked with mine when he stops behind me once more, raising his hand to show me a piece of black, silky material in his palm.
Arousal swiftly disappears as fear hurries in to take its place.
My eyes widen, and my lips part. “What is that?”
He tilts his head to the side as he looks at the cloth in his hand. He states plainly, “It’s a blindfold, Gemma.”
Headlines start flashing to the forefront of my mind. Headlines about a man who takes something pure and makes it depraved. Headlines that scream that this is a man who destroys softness and preys on the weak-minded. Headlines that, up until around ten seconds ago, I had forgotten existed.
Staring at the material in his hand, I consider the fact that I am now completely naked, and he is still fully clothed. I can’t help the jackhammer speed at which my heart has started to beat.
“I’m not wearing a blindfold,” I inform him quite adamantly.
Very slowly, he lowers his arm in front of him, clasping his wrist with his other palm. “Why?”
“Why would I?” I demand with as much dignity as I can muster while standing there with my naked back to him. My brain is ordering me to run.
“I don’t know, Gemma,” he tells me softly. “Maybe to understand how Chantel felt? Maybe to grasp the whole concept of being blind? Or maybe”—he pauses, leaning down so our eyes are on the same level and our mouths are only inches apart—“to realize you can trust me not to hurt you. No?”
I blink once and find he’s gone back to standing upright, and he’s holding out the cloth to me again.
I swivel around a little, reaching for it. When my fingers get a firm grip, he tightens his hold, tugging me forward. My body gives me no other option than to go with it. So I’m left standing full frontal, staring up at him.
“When I fuck you, Gemma, I want your eyes open, looking right at me. I’ve never hidden who I am from anyone I’ve touched, and I won’t start with you.”
He lets go of the blindfold and walks around me to the drop cloth.
“I need you to sit here,” he tells me, and I move to sit where he has instructed.
Voice back to cool and aloof, he continues, “Face toward the back wall, curve your torso to the left, and raise your arms up over your head, so your hands come down to cross over by your hair. Angle this right arm, so it is bent up toward the ceiling. Yes, perfect. Just curve your legs out to the side. I’ll cover them with the cloth.
” He looks down at me. “Do you think you can do that?”
I nod silently, feeling completely off balance.
“Good,” he replies, acting as though I’m not sitting here completely naked. “Now, do you want me to tie that around your eyes or would you prefer not to wear it?”
I look up at him, noticing his pupils have dilated. Phillipe is aroused, and all of a sudden, I can’t think of anything other than pleasing him.
I hold up the piece of material to him, and he takes it from me as he moves in close.
Crouching down in front of me, he gently places it over my eyes, and his handsome and troubled face disappears from view.
I feel his arms whisper past my ears as he moves closer to tie the ends at the back of my head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” he asks, his warm breath floating across my mouth.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry I doubted your intentions.”
The silence seems thicker without my sight. I’m straining to hear him, but there’s nothing, and that’s when I feel a soft kiss against the corner of my lips.
“I think you’re sorry you got caught. Oh, and Gemma? You should always doubt my intentions.”
With that, he moves away from me, leaving me to find my pose.
Gemma is resplendent in her nakedness, Phillipe thinks as he situates himself behind the easel.
He watches her closely where she is seated and in pose.
Her hair is the exact opposite shade of Chantel’s.
As Gemma holds herself in the mirror image he once so lovingly captured, he is struck by the differences in their bodies.
Gemma is curvier than Chantel—her breasts are rounder and her hips flare out more, creating a shadow of an hourglass on the wall opposite from where the spotlight is hitting her.
Her reaction to the blindfold is interesting.
He knows that she immediately thought of everything atrocious she heard, causing her to rebel against her initial reaction of curiosity.
The moment he firmly told her about his sexual proclivities, she seemed apologetic for allowing herself to go where her thoughts had taken her.
Funny, really, considering the things I’m thinking about doing to her.
Blame can’t be placed upon her, though. After all, one of the most horrid stories he read about himself described him as a man who had plucked the wings from a butterfly.
People are so fucking cruel.
“Why did you decide to paint Chantel in this series?” Gemma asks, breaking the silence.
Phillipe picks up a paintbrush and starts to outline her. He finds not having her look directly at him makes it easier to answer her questions.
“I was fascinated by her,” he explains. “Everything she did was always executed with so much grace and such poise.” He briefly pauses, reaching over to dip the tip of the brush into more paint before tracing it down the canvas to where her hip would be.
“It seemed natural to paint her. Her ability to find beauty in everything was such an amazing quality. I wanted to capture that, so I could show the world beauty as I saw it.” He chuckles softly.
“One of her favorite quotes was Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. Nothing sums Chantel up better than that.”
“Wow,” Gemma mutters softly. “She sounds like an inspiring individual.”
Phillipe closes his eyes for a moment and sees Chantel as she was when she posed for him, her black hair piled on top of her head and a few stray pieces escaping to flirt with her shoulders.
He remembers the precise moment he fell, the moment his life changed.
His whole reason for breathing was sitting in front of him, illuminated by a soft spotlight.
“Phillipe?” Gemma says.
He focuses back on the woman now seated before him. Other than the glaringly obvious physical differences, two major things alter this image from the original. That’s exactly what Gemma is now questioning.
“Were the violin and the music always part of your vision? Or did that come later?”
For someone who is sitting naked and vulnerable with a blindfold over her eyes, Gemma wavers only slightly. That impresses him immensely.
His eyes are drawn to the dip and sway of her lower back. That smooth expanse of skin is perfect in its unblemished state. Just like with Chantel, he finds himself wanting to mark it. Mark it with paint.
“It came later,” he replies vaguely. He strokes his paintbrush on the canvas, creating the sweet curve of her ass.
“Chantel used to sit with me while I painted, and one day, I asked her if she’d play when she visited.
She inspired me, making me think of things I hadn’t yet imagined.
That was when I decided to paint her. It wasn’t until after Solitary was complete that I thought to add Diva to the mix.
Before that I only added the marks I thought belonged on her skin.
Quite simply, she moved me when she played. She owned me.”
The silence is so thick and tense that he can almost see it stretched across the softly illuminated space.
Breaking through the quiet moment, Gemma whispers, “She was beautiful.”
Phillipe feels a sad, painful smile touch his mouth. “She was perfection.”
Vulnerable ~
Today, Phillipe asked to paint me.
Today, I said yes.
When I reached the chateau, Penelope let me in and told me Phillipe was in his studio as she helped me up to the room. When I entered, I could smell the strong, distinct smell of his paints.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
I let out a small giggle, and he must have turned to look at me, because I heard him walk in my direction.
“Chantel. I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
“You were painting?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Well, I was trying to. I hate to admit that not much is happening.”
I felt him reach out and take my free hand. Diva was in my other. I brought her with me, just as he’d asked.
“Why do you think that is?”
He led me into the room. “I don’t know, but I was hoping maybe you’d play for me today. Maybe if I hear something inspiring, I’ll paint something equally astounding.”
I grinned in his direction as we stopped at the chair I had been curling up in lately.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I replied. “You can ask me anything.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I got.
“Will you let me paint you today?”
At first, I didn’t quite understand. “Like I painted you?”
He reached out and stroked my cheek. “As much as I’d love to do that, I actually meant on canvas. I would love it if you would pose for me.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Like a model?”
“Exactly like a model.” His strong hand slid down my arm to entwine his fingers with mine. “You’re so undeniably captivating that I want to see if I can capture even a tenth of your magnetism with my brush.”
Embarrassment flushed over my skin at his words. I’d never been so revered by anyone. I was always that awkward girl or that amazing blind girl who could play the violin, which was almost as insulting. To be the focus of such attention from this man was altogether intoxicating.
“How would you want me to pose?” I asked cautiously.
I wasn’t completely na?ve. I knew that a lot of paintings of models were nudes, and I also got the impression that Phillipe was the kind of man who’d want to paint his model in such a way.
He oozed sensuality with everything he did—from the way he talked to the way he touched to his chosen profession. It made perfect sense that he’d want to paint me—
“Nude. Naked and sitting on the floor, facing away from me, with your arms above your head. Hair pulled up, revealing all of this perfect, pale skin,” he softly said into my ear.
He pressed a hot kiss to my neck, and my whole body shivered as I turned my face in his direction. I knew somehow we were looking into each other’s eyes.
“Yes,” I murmured.
I gasped as his mouth took mine in a sensual assault.
His warm, full lips opened against mine as his tongue slid deep into my mouth to rub and flirt against my own.
Moaning, I raised my hands to grip his chest, and I felt his strong arms wrap around my waist. One of his large hands cupped my ass, pulling my body in tight to his own.
He groaned loudly as I wriggled against the hard press of his cock that I could feel rubbing against the apex of my thighs.
“Undress for me,” he said against my lips as he reluctantly let me go.
Although I couldn’t see him, I lowered my head, closing my eyes.
“No,” he said, putting his finger beneath my chin. “Don’t shut your eyes, Chantel. Don’t ever hide from me.”
Taking a deep breath, I kept my sightless eyes open, focused on the spot where I believed he would be standing.
I reached up to the top button of my dress.
As I undid the buttons, I could hear his breathing accelerate, creating a small smile of pleasure on my face.
I was affecting him. Chantel Rosenberg, the woman from the States who couldn’t see, was making Phillipe Tibideau—artist and beyond intriguing and sexy man—breathe a little harder.
This was such an amazing and powerful moment for me.
He stayed silent through my full disrobing, and then he muttered, “Perfect. Absolute fucking perfection.”
I bit my bottom lip, waiting for him to tell me what to do.
“Turn around.”
I found myself immediately obeying. That was when I felt his warm palm on my lower back and his lips on my shoulder.
“Can I do something?” he asked.
Laughing nervously, I turned my head toward the shoulder he was kissing. “Aren’t you already doing something?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” He smiled against my skin before gently biting where he was kissing. “But can I do something else?”
I nodded slowly as he moved away from me. The next sensation I felt was cool and wet against my lower back. I gasped. “What are you doing?”
“I’m painting you.”
Giggling, I looked over my shoulder like I would actually see something. “Well, what are you painting?”
He blew against the paint he’d stroked onto my skin, and his breath fluttered against my lower back and ass. He didn’t answer me. Instead, he stayed silent as he repeated the same step on the other side. I remained still until he was done.
“What did you paint on me?” I asked.
His finger stroked a shape next to one of the spots he had painted, and I concentrated as he repeated the stroke.
I smiled. “An F-hole?”
His laugh rolled through me, and I held my breath as I felt his finger drift down to flirt with the top of my ass crack.
“I almost can’t believe my luck with the name of those little sound holes,” he said.
I couldn’t believe I was letting him touch me where he was. As he continued to talk and run his finger farther down between my cheeks, I found the sensation arousing, thrilling, and forbidden. I arched back against his touch as his wicked laugh tickled my ear.
“Do you like this?” he inquired darkly. “Do you like my finger here?”
I completely lost my ability to talk. Instead, I nodded my affirmation as he pressed in deeper. Now I could feel his fingertip rubbing against my dark little pucker.
“You’re so hot here.” He groaned.
I let out a soft moan of pleasure.
“Yes, that’s it, Beauty. Let go. Let me touch you where no one has before. Relax for me.”
His mouth was on the curve of my shoulder and neck as I pushed my hips back against him.
“I want to take you here, Chantel,” he told me, his voice husky and deep. “I want to crawl inside of you and never leave.”
Just as suddenly as it had begun, he stopped his petting and kisses. He stepped away, leaving me bereft and empty.
“But first I want to paint you. Sit down, Chantel. Let me see you.”