Mid-afternoon finally arrives as I sit in my bedroom with Chantel’s journal on my lap. Still, I am trying to understand exactly all that happened out in the arbor this morning.

Was I seduced? Is that what happened? Was I seduced into agreeing to pose for Phillipe? Oh, and it’s not just for any paintings. I’m posing for Chantel’s collection.

There are millions of women who would clamor for the opportunity to sit for Phillipe Tibideau. That’s what happens when you are one of the most attractive, and yes, one of the most enigmatic artists.

He is such a difficult man to get a handle on. One minute, he appears sad and reflective, almost alone in the world he now chooses to inhabit, and then in the blink of an eye, his demeanor changes, and he becomes a frustrated rigid shell of a man. Both sides are now becoming familiar, I thought, tracing my hands over the leather cover. I can understand his sadness and anguish in the face of all he has gone through.

But what about the seductive side of Phillipe? He seems to slip into that side, using it to get his way. That is a potent force. It’s as natural to him as breathing. When he turns that force on me, there is not a hope in the world that I will be able to resist.

When he kissed me this morning, every single thought I had got lost somewhere between my beating heart and my wet, throbbing sex that had started an insistent pulse between my legs. His strong arms felt sublime when he wrapped one around me while he used the other to stroke me to a splintering hot orgasm, without even undoing my pants. The man is sex—pure, unadulterated sex.

However, unlike the flawless and almost reverent way he touched and worshiped Chantel, with me, he seems so capricious. I never know how he’ll react, which only makes the idea of posing for him in such an intimate way all the more daunting.

* * *

Phillipe moves quietly around the studio, setting up the area he wants to use for the afternoon’s session. Down in the arbor this morning, he let his emotions get the better of him, and once again, he now found himself rethinking his actions.

Touching Gemma in the seclusion of the garden felt right. She was warm, she was present, and he wanted her with a hunger he never thought he would feel again.

What is it about her? Maybe the way she looks at me? Her mixture of wonder and fascination is tinged with a hint of fear. She appeared as though she wanted to touch him, but she thought she might get burned.

Perhaps she is right. Maybe I will end up ruining her, too.

Sighing, he makes his way over to the shelves where he keeps his paint and brushes. Pulling them down, he heads back toward the easel, and that’s when he spots Gemma by the door. Her eyes are watching him closely as he walks across the well-lit area.

“It’s okay. You can come in,” he acknowledges, feeling like the wolf inviting Red Riding Hood into his den. Once upon a time…ha—yeah, well, once upon a time, he would have never viewed himself that way at all. It’s funny how things have changed.

“I know,” she replies bravely, stepping inside.

She’s clutching the worn leather journal. It’s ironic how it now seems like a safety blanket for her, yet to him, it represents a tragic nightmare.

“I was just making sure you were finished setting up. I didn’t want to distract you.”

Phillipe moves behind the easel, placing the items on the small table he situated beside it. He tilts his head, looking over her slowly. “Ahh, but you’re such a lovely distraction, Gemma. Why would I mind?”

She doesn’t seem to have an answer for him, so she remains silent as she moves farther into the room to where the drop cloth is now spread out on the floor. When she reaches it, she turns back to face him.

“Which painting do you want to do first?”

Now, there is the million-dollar question, he thinks. Phillipe walks over to the lovely Gemma. She is holding herself rigid. She no longer resembles the woman he held this morning when she came with such intense passion.

“Well, first…” He pauses, reaching out to take the journal.

She lets it go reluctantly before she clasps her hands again in front of herself.

“First, you have to relax, Gemma.”

“Was she relaxed your first time?”

Phillipe stops on his way to the desk where he is going to put the journal down. He looks over his shoulder at the bold journalist. He can tell she is bracing for his answer, so he lets his eyes travel down over her newly donned black pants before bringing them back up to her sweater.

“I made sure she was relaxed her first time, yes.”

She takes a deep breath of air, making it immediately obvious that she understands his double entendre. Placing the journal down, he moves behind the easel to see if she is in the space he is going to need her in. She waits so patiently for him. She’s so silent that he almost hates to break the peace that comes with it.

“I thought we’d start with Solitary,” he informs, waiting for a reaction.

He knows that she studied each piece before arriving here, so she knows exactly which one he is referring to. As predicted, she shifts, appearing uncomfortable with his choice.

“Why that one? Because it was the first?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

She tilts her head to the side and plainly states, “I think you’re trying to scare me off.”

Phillipe lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “If I wanted to scare you, I would have started with Armor or perhaps Rhapsody.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and he’s aware he has hit on one of her biggest fears.

After all, to most people, those particular poses would be the most intimate and the most revealing.

“Fine. Solitary, it is,” Gemma tells him with determination.

Phillipe nods his assent as he walks around the easel and passes her on his way to the window. When he reaches it, he closes the heavy wooden shutters. Automatically, every shred of sunlight is cut off, and the studio is plunged into darkness as though it is night. He had the shutters installed for the purpose of his craft. Sometimes an image calls for darkness, even though it is daylight outside.

That’s when Gemma asks, “So, what now? I just take off my clothes?”

* * *

I stand frozen, waiting for him to tell me what to do. This whole situation seems bizarrely unreal and one-hundred percent sexual in nature. How do life models do this and not feel so exposed and so extremely vulnerable?

As soon as Phillipe shuts the windows and the sunlight in the room disappears, all of my earlier apprehension returns. I start to reassure myself as I stand there talking to him. I can do this. After all, Solitary is just the back of me with no face exposed at all. I continue to tell myself that as the darkness starts to surround me. My eyes adjust, but it doesn’t help. I’ll be fully naked for this pose. I have to take off every single item of clothing and sit down with my back facing Phillipe. I will be exposed with nothing to cover me.

Taking a deep breath to try and calm myself, I almost jump out of my skin when I feel his hands land gently on my shoulders.

“Relax, Gemma.” His deep voice slips into my thoughts. “I’m a professional.”

He steps around me, and I almost laugh at that ridiculous notion. Sure, he’s a professional. A professional who made me come without much effort at all. A professional who, with every word this morning, stripped away my armor. A professional who is now wrapping me in a bundle of aroused nerves.

“Oh, and yes, Gemma, you will need to take off all of your clothes.”

As if I didn’t work that out on my own.

Turning my back to him, even though the room is now dark, I unbutton my slacks and swiftly push them down my hips. I figure I should do this quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Once the pants are gone, my sweater is next, so I pull it up and over my head. Just as I’m about to slide my panties off my hips, a soft spotlight flicks on, and I find the space I’m standing in is now brightly illuminated.

Like a fool, I quickly try to cover myself, and that’s when I hear Phillipe’s deep chuckle.

“Do you find this amusing?” I snap, looking over my shoulder at him. “I thought this was supposed to be an exercise in trust. It’s not supposed to be one where I take off my clothes, and you laugh.”

He moves around the easel into the soft light, and continues toward me. I have absolutely nowhere to go and no choice but to stand there as he stops a whisper away from me, our eyes connecting. Idiotically, I still have my hands over my bra and panties, which seems ridiculous since he is standing behind me and can see what I am trying to cover anyway.

All thoughts, however, soon leave my mind as I feel his warm fingers reach out. He traces the curves of my shoulder blades and moves down my back to where my bra is held together. He clasps the hook and eye between his thumbs and index fingers as he expertly unsnaps the bra, letting the stretchy lace fall slowly to the sides of my body. Those same fingers then gently slide down my spine until he reaches my panties.

My breathing starts to come faster with each seductive move he makes. When his mouth stops by my ear, I close my eyes.

“Now for these, sweet Gemma,” he coerces softly.

The strong timbre of his voice rumbles through my body, calming and exciting me, just as Chantel described. He hooks those talented fingers into the remaining lace on my body, sliding them swiftly down to my ankles. The move is so eerily similar to what I read this morning that I can’t help but wish for him to be in front of me, getting ready to kiss and tongue my wet pussy.

Stepping out of the panties, I try to remain calm as his hand reaches up to uncoil several loose strands of hair, freeing them to tickle my shoulders. While he’s doing this, I’ve remained 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 destroyed softness and preyed on the weak-minded. Headlines, which 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 in 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?”

Blinking once, I open my eyes to 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 own 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?”