Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

Staring down at that last line—then, maybe one day, you’ll let me paint you—I’m struck at the simplicity of that moment in time. He made a request. Obviously, somewhere along the way, she granted him permission. And now?

Shaking my head, I am amazed by how much one moment can change your life forever. That moment certainly changed theirs.

Looking down at the journal in my lap, I pick it up and continue reading.

* * *

I could feel his heart beating under my palm—thump, thump, thump.

It was steady and calming, but by that stage, I was feeling anything but calm. I spread my fingers wide. The heel of my palm brushed against a pointy nub, his nipple. I moved my hand slowly, so my palm was covering his strong pec. His nipple was now pushing against the center of my hand.

“Touch me all over,” he offered suggestively.

No, my mind was screaming. I had no idea what I was doing. Instead of telling him that, I responded shyly, “Yes. Okay.”

I actually felt the rumble against my palm this time as a low laugh bubbled out of his chest and throat.

“Don’t stop now, Beauty. Learn about who sees you. See me,” he encouraged.

The paint was dripping beneath my palm. It was probably sliding over his stomach, so I slowly started to move my hand down the side of his body. I kept my left hand palm up, so the paint stayed in my hand. I concentrated on smoothing my other fingers down his ridged ribs. Tracing every single groove, I licked my lips before flattening out my wet palm, caressing his corrugated abdominal muscles.

He shifted, and I felt his body shudder as he sucked in a deep breath.

Stopping my exploration, I tilted my head up to where his eyes would be. “Should I stop?”

I waited for an answer to come. Instead of a verbal response, he reached out and gripped my left hand, pulling it forward with a bit more force than necessary, to place it on the neglected half of his body.

“Definitely don’t stop, Chantel,” he ordered.

I felt him raise his hands up behind his head.

Taking my own calming breath, I took my bottom lip between my teeth and concentrated as I mirrored the same path my first hand had followed.

With my right hand still on his lower abdomen and my left hand reaching his navel, I found myself becoming more aggressive. I stepped forward and let my fingers trace each abdominal muscle individually before dipping my wet finger into his navel. A loud groan slid free from his mouth. It thrilled me somewhere deep—somewhere I was not familiar with.

His body was amazing, a true work of art in every sense of the word. In my mind, I could see the dips and shadows, the valleys and sharp ridges, and the more I touched him, the bolder I became.

I took the final step toward him, closing the distance between us. I left enough space, so I could still move my hands as I guided both index fingers down to his naked hip bones. His hands came to rest on mine and that was when my breath caught. He hauled me forward and slammed his mouth onto my own.

Our first kiss was a brutal onslaught. I moaned as he slid his tongue in to rub up against mine. I dragged my paint-covered hands up his arms and slid them over his muscular neck. As he pulled his mouth away, he swallowed, and I could feel his Adam’s apple move. That’s when I began touching his face voraciously, like a starving woman.

His hands were in my hair, and I could feel them gripping tightly as I stroked my fingers over his strong masculine chin and jaw. My finger dipped into a cleft at the center of his chin. Tracing over light stubble, I dragged my nails lightly over his cheeks, moving up to his high cheekbones. I smoothed four fingers of each hand across the sides of his broad face. Breathing deeply, my index fingers traced his beautiful strong nose.

My sensual exploration ended with my fingers gliding up between his brows, smoothing them across his forehead. His face had to be covered in paint by now, but he didn’t seem to care.

Feeling his breath whisper across my parted lips, I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back into the cradle of his hands.

Softly, I asked him, “What color eyes do you have?”

“Green,” he replied quickly. “Have you seen green before?”

“No,” I told him.

“Then, why ask?” he questioned curiously.

“Seemed like the right thing to do.” Before he could ask me anything else, I queried, “What color hair?”

“Brown.” He chuckled.

I felt him lower his head down until I could taste the breath he was breathing out. He was addictive. This feeling of intoxication was addictive.

“Do you see me?” he asked.

I rested my hands on his cheeks and opened my eyes.

It was an odd question to ask of a blind woman, but as I stared directly into what I now knew were his green eyes, I replied, “Yes, I see you perfectly.”

* * *

Day Four

Phillipe wasn’t able to go back to see Gemma last night, and now, it’s morning.

He knows what part she has been reading, and no matter what he agreed to, he cannot subject himself to the fucking heartache that would come from remembering that first meeting with Chantel.

Christ, he thinks as he stares at the ceiling. Just thinking about Chantel and the day she painted him has his cock hard enough to drill holes.

Sighing, he rolls over to stare out the window opposite his bed. His room is situated on the first floor of the chateau, and he always sleeps with the shutters open at this time of the year. This morning, the sun is shining down over his vineyard, spilling into his room.

Reaching under the covers, he smoothes his palm against his erection. Groaning softly, he rolls to his back and closes his eyes. Bringing his hand up, he spits into his palm and curses himself as he shoves it back down between his thighs. Gripping his cock in his fist, he squeezes it tightly and tries to dampen the desire that’s bubbling up inside him.

Damn her. Chantel still had a way of crawling inside of him.

He isn’t sure if it’s the topics they are discussing or the lingering shadow he constantly sees out of the corner of his eye, but whenever Gemma gets too close to a shared intimacy of his and Chantel’s, Phillipe finds himself getting antsy, and his cock starts to twitch, just as it is doing now.

Flinging back the covers, he looks down his body that is now mottled with the light of the sun. He watches his own fist as he pulls on his now straining hard flesh. Closing his eyes, his free hand reaches back over his head and clutches the bottom of his headboard.

He feels his whole body grow taut. His muscles strain as he strokes his hard on with his fist once again, moving up and down the angry flesh that is now throbbing with insistence between his thighs.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he pictures Chantel standing in his studio.

* * *

The sun streamed through the open window as she slowly unbuttoned the bright yellow dress she’d worn to see him the first time he painted her.

Her hair was down, spilling over her shoulders. She captured her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it as she concentrated.

“Just act as if you are alone,” he told her.

Her eyes rose to his. “Like close-my-eyes-and-pretend-you-aren’t-here kind of thing?” she asked with a twitch to her lips.

* * *

Phillipe starts to stroke harder, recalling that first moment of revelation. She watched him with every button she undid. There were twelve—twelve black round buttons. Every time she undid one, Phillipe’s heart hammered faster, just as it is doing now.

Raising his right leg, he places his foot on the mattress, lifting his hips into each stroke. Groaning softly, his lips part as he holds on to the headboard again, tighter this time.

Why can’t I find release from this world we created?

It doesn’t matter how many months have passed. The minute he thinks about her, everything tumbles back—the desire, the pain, the soul-destroying love. It all ends the exact same way. She is gone, and I am alone.

Alone and desperate, he thinks angrily, now really squeezing and fisting the stupid cock that got him into this fucked-up situation in the first place. Now, it wants to take him there again. Perhaps with the journalist? Fuck that!

Shutting his eyes tightly, he feels his knuckles start to ache while his fingers try to bore a hole into the wood of the bed. His right wrist is pumping so hard that he’s surprised he hasn’t hurt himself. Yet there he is—still hard, still pissed off, and nowhere near close to being satisfied. Fuck!

Agreeing to this whole ridiculous biography about his paintings and what took place that night was his own choice. Get to them before they get to you. No matter what happened, he knows that some prick would come up with a story about that night, and it would be full of shit.

So, in the end, he caved. He is the one who sought out a journalist. He is the one who wanted it to be a woman. He is the stupid fucking idiot who picked Gemma Harris because she in no way resembles Chantel Rosenberg.

Finally knowing he is getting nowhere close to a satisfying sexual release, he lets go of his cock with disgust. He whacks his palm against the headboard hard, and he sits up, letting his legs fall over the side of the bed.

Shaking his head in annoyance, he gets up and makes his way over to the window. Standing there with a raging hard erection, he’s naked, angry, and annoyed. He takes a deep breath and tries to push it all aside.

He is close to calming down when he hears some gravel crunch to his left. He turns his head in the direction where the noise came from. It takes him a moment, but then he sees her.

Gemma is standing just outside his window under one of the trees behind the chateau. Her eyes are focused on him, looking like a gazelle that has just been spotted by a hungry lion.

His anger and frustration quickly melt away. Instead, curiosity and intrigue surface as Phillipe tips his head to her, leaning forward into a mock bow.

Hope you enjoyed the show, Mademoiselle.

He watches unflinchingly as her flight instinct kicks in, forcing the gazelle to run away.

To say that I ran back to my room is stating it mildly.

Entering my bedroom, I turn around, leaning my back against the door. Lowering my right hand down between my thighs, I cup my aching sex. My body is vibrating with tension, both sexual and nervous.

I’m trying to wrap my mind around what I just witnessed and—well, honestly, I can’t. I know exactly what Phillipe was doing to himself as he lay there in all his magnificent naked glory, but the harsh and almost brutal way he was touching himself is what has my mind in shock.

What would make a man treat his body that way? What would cause him to almost inflict injury upon himself while still striving to reach some kind of satisfaction?

And why, oh why, did I find it so erotic to watch?

The minute my eyes peered through that open window, spotting him, my attention was riveted. When the covers were pushed aside, I was bound. My feet refused to go where my brain was telling them to—away. Away from the window. Away from what I was witnessing. Away from his seductive presence. Instead, I stayed and watched. I watched a show so sinfully depraved that I felt myself getting more aroused with each rough and wicked stroke of his hand.

Just thinking about it now has my palms tingling, and I can feel moisture dampening my panties. Making my way across the room, I enter the bathroom with one thing in mind, easing my own sexual need. Moving into the small white ceramic space, I firmly shut the door, locking it for good measure. Wouldn’t want someone watching me, right, Gemma? What a hypocrite I am.

Looking around the room, I walk over to the built-in shower and tub. Taking a deep breath, I quickly unsnap my black slacks and push them down along with my soaked panties.