Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

She took in a deep breath and then let it out gently. “I like the way you smell.”

He grinned at her strange, soft confession as she took another deep breath. He leaned in, so his mouth was by her ear. “I like the way you look.” He blew a hot breath gently against her. “And the way you smell.”

She turned her head, so they were nose to nose. She breathed out, and he could taste her on his lips and tongue.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he admitted with a sigh.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I?” he responded, watching her pulse beat at the base of her throat.

She was nervous but excited, and he was ensnared.

Taking a small step back, she continued past him. He swallowed and closed his eyes as she stopped in the center of the foyer. He shut the door and carefully moved around, standing beside her.

She turned in his direction. “How old are you?”

Her hearing seemed to be extra sensitive. No matter where he was in the room, she moved in that direction, appearing to somehow sense him.

“Does it matter?” he asked, knowing that he wasn’t really being fair.

He could see her, so he knew her approximate age. She, on the other hand, had no idea what he looked like or how old he might be. He got the impression that she liked it when he treated her as he would anyone else, so that was exactly what he planned to do.

“Well, no, I guess it doesn’t.” She paused, thinking about it. “Actually, yes. Yes, it does matter.”

He stepped closer to her. Reaching out, he moved to touch the ends of her hair, but he thought better of it, not wanting to startle her. “May I touch you?”

He watched closely as a smile tugged at her lips.

“You may…if you tell me how old you are.”

Hesitantly, he stroked the pads of his fingers across her naked collarbone. She took a swift breath.

“How old are you?” she asked again.

“I’m thirty-two. How old are you, Chantel?” he questioned, looking down to see her sightless eyes focused on his face. He knew instantly that if she could, she would be looking right at him.

“I’m twenty-six.”

Running his fingers along the bare skin across her shoulder, he inquired softly, “Am I too old for you?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “No.”

“No?”

“No, you’re not too old,” she confirmed.

Stepping back, he dropped his hand and immediately missed touching her. “Why did it matter?”

Tilting her head to the side, she pursed her red lips as though she was about to answer him. However, at the last minute, she lowered her head.

She’s shy.

Placing a finger under her chin, he told her softly, “I feel it, too.”

Her mouth parted as she blinked up at him. “You do?”

Silently, he nodded and then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes. I feel you.”

A smile lit up her face. It was so radiant that it looked like it had burst from her soul. He couldn’t help but think that he was looking at an angel because she sure as shit didn’t seem to be real.

“What did you want to show me?” she asked, smile still in place.

“Are you okay to go up some stairs?”

Nodding, she stepped forward, closer to him. “Once I know my surroundings in a room, I don’t even need my cane. I use it just to get from point A to point B and, of course, to guide me through unfamiliar territory.”

“Well then, we’ll have to work on getting you familiar, won’t we?”

She shied away, and for the moment, he let her.

“Okay, come with me.” He urged her, leading her up the stairs.

* * *

He stops.

I look up at him from my notepad. “Why did you stop?”

Phillipe glances over at me as he asks a completely random question. “Is that your natural hair color? That honey blonde? It almost looks like you streaked the brown through it.”

Taken off-guard, I raise one eyebrow as I straighten my back. “You want to know if I streak my hair?”

He picks up the glass of water sitting beside him and takes a sip. “Well?”

“I really don’t think that has any relevance. Do you?”

Standing, he makes his way toward me. All of a sudden, I start to think that maybe I should have just answered his question. He leans down until we are eye to eye.

“Actually, it holds a lot of relevance. Why are people so offended when asked such a simple question about appearance?”

Straightening back up, he walks by me and makes his way over to the window.

“Looking at someone’s appearance is a privilege we take for granted, Gemma. Describing yourself to a person who cannot see you is difficult to say the least.”

He turns back to face me, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. Leaning back against the window frame, he crosses one leg over the other.

My eyes roam from his long legs up to the white button-up shirt he’s wearing. Phillipe is right. Seeing is something I take for granted, and I have to admit that it’s an absolute pleasure to see him. He seems to know my thoughts because he grimaces. He pushes himself away from the wall, turning to look back out the window.

“I racked my brain for days, trying to think of a way to let her see me, so she could know me. I even looked it up online, and finally, I came up with an idea.”

I sit silently, waiting for him to tell me. Please tell me, I internally plead.

He looks back at me over his shoulder. “She’ll tell you what she saw,” he informs in a cool tone as he makes his way past me toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he explains, “I think I’m done for the morning. Maybe we can meet again tonight? Let’s say eight?”

I nod before I realize that he’s not even looking at me. “Eight sounds good.”

Without another word, he continues out the door.

I quickly grab the journal and flick through it. I see there are several pages before the next stopping point, so I pick it up and move over to his soft chair in the corner. Curling into it, I can still feel the body heat he left behind. I snuggle back and open the book, eager to discover what Chantel saw.

Vision ~

Today, I saw Phillipe.

That sounds so crazy, but it’s true.

When I arrived at the chateau today, I had no idea what it was he wanted to show me. In all honesty, I couldn’t even imagine what Phillipe could show me.

So, when he finally explained—well I’ll just type it here.

After leading me up a staircase with fifteen broad steps curving around a wall—which my uncle now tells me is a turret—through a part of the building on the west side of the house, Phillipe guided me by the hand, always gently, into a room off to the left.

Immediately, I was hit with smells that were foreign to me. The scent was strong, almost alcoholic in nature. It wasn’t drinking alcohol. It smelled more like rubbing alcohol.

We stopped walking, and that was when I asked, “Where are we?”

I felt him brush by me, walking farther into the room.

“My art studio.”

He’s an artist. How did I not know this about him? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I had just assumed he ran the vineyard. From then on, I was very hungry for answers. “What do you paint?”

He chuckled, and the wicked rumble of it teased my skin.

“Pictures.”

Frustrated, I stepped forward and then stopped, not knowing what was in front of me.

“It’s okay,” he told me. “I cleared the space. There’s nothing to trip over or bump into.”

My heart sped up at the thoughtfulness of his gesture. “You did that for me?”

“Yes. I wanted you to feel comfortable and at ease here.”

Strangely, I did. Stepping closer toward the direction of his voice, I asked again, “What do you paint?”

This time, I heard him move. His feet shuffled across some fabric, maybe a drop cloth on the floor, before he stopped in front of me.

“I’ve been looking for something, something that will inspire me, Chantel. Something the world will look at and want to cry because it’s so fucking beautiful your body just can’t help but weep.”

I stood there speechless as his voice, coupled with the words he was telling me, pulled at my soul. From somewhere deep down inside of me, I realized what he wanted. I knew as he moved closer still that I was what he wanted to paint. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel.

Tilting my head to him, I stated softly, “The world is a big place. That’s a lot of people to touch and a lot of people to please.”

Absolute silence filled the space we were standing in, and he reached out, taking my hand. Tugging gently, he urged me forward, and I complied. I could hear the cloth as I now stepped onto it as well.

“Okay, how about this? For right now, I just want to please you.”

I frowned for a moment and moved my eyes to where I was sure his face would be. “You have pleased me. Thank you for showing me your studio.”

He laughed softly as he moved even closer, and I felt his hands grip my arms lightly.

“This isn’t what I wanted to show you,” he assured me, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my left cheek.

At the first touch of his mouth against my skin, I sucked in a quick deep breath and stiffened as he let me go.

He didn’t move far. “Hold out your hands for me?”

Confused but curious, I raised my arms and held them out.

“Palms up,” he instructed.

Flipping my hands over, I was surprised when I felt a cool glob of liquid hit the palm of my hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked nervously. “What is this?”

“So many questions, Beauty. Relax. Trust me,” he teased, his voice taking on a seductive timbre.

I heard a rustle of movement and knew immediately that he moved away from me. I could hear him doing something but what, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t understand what he had planned until he stepped back in front of my raised hands. Taking me by the wrists, he tugged me forward. I stumbled a little, nervous and uncertain of what was going on.

He whispered, “I want you to see me.”

My heart was now galloping in my chest, and my breathing was coming fast.

“How?” I questioned, but I knew how. It was how the blind always see people, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to touch him that way. I was already under his spell just by his voice alone. Touching him would make it impossible to ever surface above it.

Pulling my right wrist up, he placed it, wet palm down, on a very naked chest. He must have removed his shirt when he stepped away earlier. His chest was a little higher than my own breastbone, and his muscles were hard and solid.

He released my wrist. “I know you use touch to learn a person’s features. I thought it would be fun for you to paint me.”

Swallowing deeply, I let out a fit of nervous giggles. “So, I’m just going to...paint you?”

I knew that if I could see him, he would have a smile on his face. I could hear his happiness in his voice.

“Yes. Don’t worry. They’re watercolors,” he confirmed. “Then, maybe one day, you’ll let me paint you.”

* * *

Wow. Sitting in Phillipe’s chair, I stop for a moment, finding I need one. Hell, I might need several. I’m trying to imagine how Chantel must have felt. She stood in this very studio with paint on her hands and him naked from the chest up in front of her as he gave her permission to touch his body.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t have a clue how she felt.

Last night on the stairs, I froze like a statue, allowing him to do whatever he wanted with me, and he was fully clothed during our encounter. She had been standing before him with the knowledge that he had removed clothing. Yes, my first conclusion is sound. I have no idea how she felt.