Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

I felt him turn toward me, and he took both my hands in his.

“I’m sorry. This is Marcus. I met him at the gallery a couple of days ago. He is a tattoo artist.”

Pulling my hands back, I raised an eyebrow. Phillipe saw the questions all over my face because he chuckled low and deep. He moved to me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

His breath brushing by my ear, he told me, “Trust me. He is going to tattoo me, not you.”

I thought about that for a moment, and before I knew what I was saying, I told him softly, “I want one.”

Phillipe laughed. He thought I was joking, but I wasn’t.

“I’m not kidding. I want one.”

“I didn’t bring you here to mark you. I want your mark on me.”

Rising up on my tiptoes, I kissed his mouth. “You’re already on my heart, and you’re already in my soul. Now, I want you on my body.”

His lips curved against mine. “Do you even know what you want?”

Surprisingly, I did. It was amazingly obvious.

So, I told him simply, “F-holes.”

* * *

Phillipe looks up at Gemma as she straddles his thighs, running her fingers through his hair. Her eyes are focused on him as she moves slowly. Rocking her hips gently against him, she presses her belly and mound against his impatient cock.

She is simply breathtaking. He hasn’t let himself see it before. He doesn’t want to admit it, but as she sits there open to him, vulnerable in her emotions, he sees her for the first time. Bringing his hands up from her waist, he traces her ribs to cup the sides of her breasts. She arches into his palms and pushes her hips forward.

Her eyes never leave his as he plays with her plump, aching flesh. When her mouth parts, he expects a sigh, but as he is coming to find with Gemma, nothing is ever what he expects.

“What about you?” she questions quietly.

Closing his eyes, he lowers his right hand down between her thighs and touches her wet pussy. He feels her thighs tighten around his as she rises up, allowing his fingers between her moist folds. She grips his hair as she moves gently against both of his hands.

“What about me?” he replies, continuing to watch her pleasure herself.

Licking her lips, she pants softly. “She got F-holes. Her parents made sure to tell the whole world what a disgrace that was.”

Phillipe winces as Gemma leans forward, putting her mouth to his. “Stop thinking that they were right. She wanted it. She wanted all of this.”

Phillipe removes his hand from between her thighs. He twists them both around, so Gemma is now lying under him.

“Did she? Do you mean I didn’t brainwash her? I didn’t make her lose the ability to think for herself? Do you mean I haven’t made you lose the ability to think for yourself?”

Phillipe watches as Gemma’s blonde hair moves across his pillow as she shakes her head.

“No. Don’t you see? I can’t stay away, just as she couldn’t. Why do you continue to do this to yourself? Why won’t you look at what’s in front of you?”

Sliding over her, he drags his shaft through her wet slit. “And what’s that?”

Phillipe lets her pull him down.

She explains, “Chantel and me. We are what’s in front of you.”

Her lips part as he penetrates her with the tip of his cock.

“Open your eyes and see us.”

As she finishes that statement, he thrusts deep inside her tight, warm core, vowing that he will never leave.

* * *

I knew he was shocked. As he stood behind me speechless, I knew he was shocked with all that he saw.

“They’re flawless,” he finally stated, almost reverently.

“So, they look good?”

“They look perfect. It’s like you should have been born with them.”

I felt his fingers reach out to touch the surrounding skin.

“Oh no. No, Phillipe. Do not touch, not for a while,” Marcus told him seriously.

I smiled to myself as Phillipe came around in front of me.

“Your parents will kill me.”

“How will they ever know? And, Phillipe, I’m an adult.”

“They already hate me. This will just make them hate me more.”

Reaching out, I traced his mouth with my fingers as I reiterated, “I don’t care what they think, and neither should you. When are you going to understand that the only thing that is important is right here in front of you?” I paused and kissed his mouth. “Stop worrying about what everybody else thinks and open your eyes. See me.”

He gripped my fingers, and I felt him nod. “I do. I promise.”

Stroking a finger down his impossibly high cheekbone, I told him softly, “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”

As we stood there in the tattoo shop, I could have sworn that I felt a tear under my finger, but before I could comment, he pulled away.

“Marcus?” his voice rumbled over my skin.

“Yes, Phillipe?”

“I want that—what she just said—I want her words marked on my body.”

* * *

As I lie silently, face to face with Phillipe, I run my palm over his chest.

“So, you had a quote tattooed on you?”

I watch with a small burst of happiness as a smug little grin pulls at his mouth. It’s an expression that has been gone for so long that it takes me off-guard with its appearance.

“Yes.”

Biting my lip, I remove my hand, but he quickly reaches out and pulls it back. This is the first time that he has voluntarily let me touch every part of him—not only with my hands, but also with my mind and body. He’s letting me reach parts of him that I never have before. I feel we have crossed a line. He’s finally letting me in.

“Where? I haven’t seen it, and I’ve seen you...” I pause, feeling ridiculous in my shyness.

“You’ve seen me what, Gemma?”

“Naked. I’ve seen you naked.”

Looking down our bodies, he then brings his eyes back to me and raises his brows, wiggling them playfully. “So, it would seem.”

“Are you going to tell me?” I ask, wondering where on earth it can be. I let me eyes run down his arms and across his chest. They skate over his rigid abs and softening cock. Nope, there’s not a tattoo in sight.

“Always full of questions.” He muses as he reaches out to play with the ends of my hair.

“And you are always deflecting them.”

“I find that the less I say to journalists, the less I have to worry about.”

I narrow my eyes at him, hating that he has mentioned my profession.

“But when I look at you, I no longer see a journalist,” he informs thoughtfully.

I don’t know why, but this confession pleases me. I feel my heart start to flutter in my chest as I watch his eyes track over me.

“What do you see?” I ask. I’m curious as always.

His hand reaches out, and he brushes my nipple with his finger. “I see me, I see her, and I see you. When I look at you Gemma, I see us.”

Moving in close, I ask again, “Where is it, Phillipe?”

His beautiful green eyes slide close, and he rolls over onto his side to his stomach. Across the top of his back in script reads The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.

I trace my fingertip across the words before I lean down over him and place my lips to his skin. How have I not seen this before? Well, the answer is simple really. He never wanted to show me.

In the silence that now surrounds us, he lies face down on the mattress with me pressed close to his skin. I finally feel that he has let me in. He has shown me a truth, and now, I have vision.

Day 18

As I stand in the shower with my eyes shut the next morning, I think back to the night before. Phillipe let me stay all night. He pulled me in close and held me steady as I listened to his heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump.

The steady rhythm lulled me to sleep while my mind was playing trick after trick on me. One moment we were alone, and the next I swore I could see haunted gray eyes staring at me. As I laid there, I squeezed him tight and vowed nothing could make me leave.

Running my hands through my hair, I try to understand where my head is. The only problem is that it’s becoming more difficult with every passing hour and every disappearing day.

I have an article to write first and foremost, but my want and need to touch and be touched by this man is pushing that aside. I’m starting to discover a part of myself that I didn’t know existed.

Drive, desire, passion—these are all things I know I possess. They are what got me to the chateau in the first place. I have pushed myself to succeed and be recognized in this competitive field. But now? Now, as I’m standing here with the water washing over my aching body from an intense night, I don’t know where I begin and he ends. I have no idea which side of me—journalist or woman—will win.

Either way, I need to get up to that studio. I have questions—from the journalist and the woman—that I want answered.

* * *

Phillipe wakes up as soon as Gemma slips from his bed. The sheets automatically cool as she dresses in silence. She picks up the journal right before leaving his room during the early hours of dawn.

As he is lying there alone and in complete silence, he tries to hear her. He waits for a sign to prove that she is there with him, but nothing comes.

Realizing that sleep eludes him, he heads to the studio to work on the half-finished piece waiting for him. What the hell do I think I am doing? He asked himself that same question last night when he stroked a hand down warm naked flesh.

He isn’t being fair to Gemma. He knows that, but he also knows that he doesn’t have the desire or strength to continue saying no. So, why should I? She knows who he is. Gemma knows what happened, yet she still trusts him to hold her all night while she sleeps entwined with him. When was the last time I had the complete trust of a woman? Well, he knows the answer to that question.

Pulling the cover from the canvas in the far corner, Phillipe looks at the floating figure. Midway down the piece, a beautiful white gown extends up toward the surface beyond the sinking body. With her arms falling away and legs pointed to her watery grave, the picture mocks him while the absolute silence is killing him.

* * *

Stepping into the studio, I immediately spot Phillipe over by the window.

His arms are behind his back. He’s wearing a blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and black wool pants that cling to the muscles of his legs and ass. Even from behind, he’s magnificent.

“Good morning,” I say, announcing my arrival.

He looks over his shoulder at me, and his mouth tips up at the corner. “Morning, Gemma. You look well rested.”

Smiling, I move farther into the room, walking toward the small desk. “I am. Thank you.”

Without a word, he nods before looking back out the window. I try to gauge his mood, but once again, I find that I’m having trouble pinpointing it. Pulling the chair away from the desk, I sit and wait for him to turn. It doesn’t take long, but before he does, I notice when he takes a deep breath.

Finally, when he is facing me, I look him over in the way a woman who spent the night with him would. Up until this moment, I haven’t allowed myself that privilege. Yes, I have been with him many times, but this is the first morning I feel as though I have permission to enjoy the afterglow, basking in the memories of our shared intimacy. So, that’s exactly what I do.

“You showered,” he comments, turning away from where he is standing.

Keeping my eyes on him, I follow his sinuous stride as he prowls toward me. His eyes are on mine, and his sensual mouth is pulled tight.

“Yes,” I finally answer.

I lick my lips in anticipation. The full force of this man is potent. From the way his eyes are focused with his full attention on me, I feel like a hand has reached out and stroked me between my thighs.