After the soul-destroying way he took me earlier, I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the man who is sitting directly across from me as he sketches my portrait.

At first, I rejected the idea because I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be studied so closely, especially after having him inside my body so intimately.

Who knows what he would see on my face?

His voice intrudes into my thoughts. “What did you just read? You look...pensive.”

Lowering my eyes to the page again, I read the last line to him. “Share this with the world. They need to see it. They need to see me as you do.”

I raise my eyes back to his to see that he has stopped sketching. His thoughtful gaze comes up to meet mine. Frowning, I decide to just ask him what I want to know.

“Do you think they did?”

He answers my question with one of his own. “Do I think they did what?”

“You’re doing it again,” I point out, lowering the journal.

“What can I say? I don’t like journalists, but this you already know.” He blows out a breath and raises a hand to run it through his hair.

“Do you really think that I’m going to write something terrible about you?” I question, genuinely curious.

Shaking his head, he moves the sketchpad as he crosses his ankle over his knee.

“I don’t know, Gemma. For all I know, you might go home and write a story about how I seduced and clouded your mind.”

“Would it kill you to trust me?” I snap, closing the journal in complete annoyance.

“No,” he states calmly. Those green eyes are now frigid as they connect with mine. “But it might kill you.”

* * *

Phillipe watches as Gemma digests his words.

Her shoulders straighten. “You can’t scare me away.”

Raising a brow, he nods. “Okay.”

“You can’t,” she repeats.

“Okay,” he stresses slowly.

He starts sketching again. He knows she’s watching him, studying his responses. Nothing makes him more uncomfortable than someone watching his every move. It’s ironic since he used to wish that one person in particular could watch him—just once.

“So? Do you think the world ever saw her the way that you did?” Gemma tenaciously asks.

Gritting his teeth, he peers at her through the hair that has fallen forward over his eyes. “No, I don’t think that they did,” he finally answers, “but I think you do.”

He can tell she isn’t expecting that answer because her head tilts to the side.

“What do you mean?”

Continuing to sketch, he looks at her blonde hair that is now messy from his hands. The long, soft strands are still ruffled from where he held her still as he pushed his cock between her hungry lips. He can’t help the stiffening between his thighs.

“I mean you see her, Gemma. Every time you look at her, you see her as I did. They didn’t, and they still don’t.”

She nods, signaling she understands, as she sits up in the chair, leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees.

He knows that she is about to ask a question he doesn’t want to answer.

“Why do you think they don’t get it? Why didn’t they see what you do? Or, for that matter, what I do?”

He wondered if she was prepared for the answer he would or, in a sense, wouldn’t give.

“Because they were too busy looking at me and how I looked at her,” he states. He knows he’s talking to her in riddles, but he also understands this is the best way to explain it.

“I don’t understand,” she tells him, frowning.

“Haven’t you noticed the things that your colleagues have written about me, Gemma?” he asks, his voice full of venom. “They were all so busy writing about my obsession and my perversion of the poor, little blind woman that no one bothered to get to know her. No one bothered to look closer.”

She blinks, trying to comprehend, and then she swallows, taking a moment before she responds. “I’m looking closer,” she finally whispers.

Phillipe stands and walks over to where she is seated. Looking down at her, he asks, “And what do you see?”

Licking her lips Gemma stands, wanting to keep them on even footing, and keeping her eyes on him the whole time. “I see a man who is broken from an experience he couldn’t control. I see you in a way that they didn’t.”

Phillipe shakes his head. “God, you’re so naive. I’m not just broken. I’m twisted inside my own fucking nightmare that never goes away. I’m fucked on the inside. You’re only seeing what I want to show you.” Agitated, he firmly grasps the sides of her face. “There’s a part of you, Gemma, that’s so fucking sweet, and I want to steal that part of you, even though I know I shouldn’t.”

Moving his hands, he cups the back of her neck, tugging her in close to him. She raises her hands, placing them on his chest. Leaning down, he presses his lips to hers.

He grimly elaborates, “They said I took something beautiful and destroyed it. Slowly, image after image depicted a tale of seductive debauchery. People ate that shit up. They loved it. Until, of course, they got their biggest story: An alluring mixture of dark eroticism that is now enhanced by its devastatingly haunting sadness. The angels must be weeping.” He pauses, letting out a deep breath. “She was the fucking angel. That’s what no one understood.”

* * *

Parting my lips against his, I feel his breath slide inside of me, and I can sense the tension rolling off of him in waves.

“Why then? Why didn’t you tell everyone they were wrong? Why did you make it seem like she wasn’t allowed to talk anyone? Why keep her hidden?”

His eyes narrow as he drops his hand from my neck. He takes a step away, distancing himself. “She didn’t want to be in the public eye. That was her choice. I respected it, but no one understood that. They all just assumed that I brainwashed her, leading her astray and making her strip down, so I could have my wicked way with her.” His whole body seems to be vibrating with tension. “What do you think, Gemma? Was she brainwashed? Should the story of her innocence be retold?”

Shaking my head, I move a step closer to him. “No,” I tell him simply. “I think she was in just as deep as you were. The way she wrote about you showed the level of her own desperation. She was enamored with you.”

“And what about you?” he demands quietly.

He moves, so we are now toe to toe. He looks down at my upturned face.

I raise my hand, placing it on his strong, solid chest. “I’m entangled with both of you. If the way you wanted her was perverse in anyway, then I am guilty, too. I’m guilty of wanting you both with a hunger that I’ve never had before. Maybe you are the common denominator, but now, I’m just as much a part of this equation as she was. Phillipe, no one is brainwashing me.”

His mouth pulls into a tight grimace. “Well, maybe you’re the fool, Gemma, because the public—the people outside of here that you dedicate your life to informing—is just waiting for me to fuck up.”

Reaching out, he grabs my shoulders and squeezes them tightly. He pulls me in to crush his mouth down onto mine. I gasp at the brutal and violent fury behind our kiss as I feel the familiar stirrings of hot desire sliding between my thighs. Just as quickly as it began, he pulls back, pushing me away from him.

“You have no fucking idea what they did and what they still do to me or to her. Isn’t it enough that my heart has already been ripped out of my fucking chest? Why does the world think it’s okay to walk all over a memory that has already been destroyed?”

I try desperately to think of a response, any response, but before I can find any suitable words, he turns and leaves the room. I’m left standing in her music room. It’s just me with an echo of her.

* * *

Phillipe finally took the paintings to the gallery today. They were thrilled to sign him, and they wanted to display his series immediately—well, the first three anyway. He told me that he wants me to sit for three more. He said that the gallery was going to feature him and that journalists would be coming to write pieces on him for the local newspaper and for a national magazine.

This was it. I knew it as soon as he told me. This was the moment when his life would change.

I just left him in the studio to come down here to type. I asked him to set my typewriter outside in the arbor. It was so peaceful here at night. There was no noise, except for the sounds of the wind as it whistled through the branches. I needed to think about some things.

He asked me if I would go with him to his opening night at the gallery. I was reluctant. I knew it was silly of me because I should be proud of what he and I had done, but there was something so intimate about those paintings.

Each one of them meant so much more than just a naked pose. They were a part of him and a part of me, and I didn’t know if I wanted to stand there and listen to them being analyzed.

However, I felt like a hypocrite because I told him to get out there to let the world see his vision, but this was his dream, not mine.

I’m happy in the shadows this time. I’m content to stand behind the man I love and watch him rise to the greatness I know he has in him.

I just hope he understands my decision and doesn’t end up resenting me.

* * *

Shutting the journal, I stand and make my way out of the music room. Heading up the stairs, I can’t help but think, Why didn’t Phillipe just show people her journal? Or at least parts of it? It would be more than obvious that she was the one who didn’t want to be on display. He really had nothing to do with her decision to remain unknown at all. As it stood though, Chantel, he, and I are the only ones who know that.

I reach the top of the stairs and turn to make my way down the hall. That’s when I spot him. Catching a quick glance out of the corner of my eye, I see him in his bedroom, the one he was in that morning several weeks ago. This time, he’s sitting on the bed with his legs spread apart, his elbows resting on his knees. His shoulders are slumped forward, and his head is resting in his hands. He is painfully gripping his hair.

Stopping at the entrance with the journal in my right hand, I clear my throat and watch as his tortured eyes come up to meet mine. Without saying a word, I make my way into his room.

I’m aware that this is not the room they slept in. As my eyes shift to the mattress he is sitting on, I wonder if it is the same one he so eagerly pulled up to his studio a lifetime ago.

Placing the journal on a chest of drawers against the wall, I’m aware of his eyes tracking my every move. I know he’s raw right now, thinking of her and the way people turned their relationship into something ugly. I find myself wanting to give him something back. I want to give her back to him.

Moving forward, I take a deep breath and stop when I’m standing before him. He releases his hair and drops his hands down as he looks up at me. Without a word, I reach out to replace his hands with mine, stroking them through his hair. I tip his head back gently and can see he’s about to talk.

“Shh,” I tell him. This time, I’m determined to be the one in control of the situation. “Let me?” I question the complicated man before me.

His eyes darken as he nods, leaning his head into my palms. Taking that as his consent, I release his hair and take a step back. I undo my pants and push them, along with my panties, off my hips. Kicking them to the side, I move to undo my shirt. I feel the heat of his eyes on me as I hear the same snick and clink of the metal from earlier when he releases his belt buckle.

When I’m completely nude and standing before him, his mouth opens, and he licks his full, sensual bottom lip. His eyes don’t stray when he stands slowly to push his pants down his hips. He removes his sweater, and I can’t get enough of him as he bares his body to me. Our eyes collide. Staring deeply, I witness the moment when his shattered soul comes into focus.

As he drops his final piece of clothing on the floor, he sits back on the edge of the mattress. Feeling my heart fluttering in my chest like a trapped butterfly, I step closer to him—the man whom I have now become one-hundred percent consumed by. He’s stolen a part of me, and I don’t even know which part it is. My sanity?My passion? Or maybe my heart? All I know is that I want him like I need my next breath.