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 Gemma’s warm, naked flesh.
He isn’t being fair to her—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 waterygrave, the picture mocks him, while the absolute silence is killing him.
Stepping into the studio, I 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 walk toward the small desk. “I am. Thank you.”
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 the window.
I follow his sinuous stride as he prowls toward me. His eyes are on mine and his mouth is pulled tight.
“Yes,” I finally answer.
I lick my lips in anticipation. The full force of this man is potent. With his full attention on me, I feel like a hand has reached out and stroked me between my thighs.
“Stand up, Gemma.”
I do as requested, noticing a slight twitch to his mouth. My heart is hammering in my chest as his eyes move to where my blouse parts at my neck. I wonder if he can see my thumping pulse.
He places his large palm at the base of my throat, so his fingers are caressing my neck and his thumb is at the hollow of my throat.
Should I be scared? Probably. Am I? Not in the least.
“You smell”—he pauses—“fresh.”
Swallowing, I can feel his thumb pressed a little firmer against my throat.
“Frightened?” he asks.
“No.” I smile, hoping he feels as aroused as I do. “Turned on.”
He tugs me close to him. “Yes, so am I, Gemma. I keep thinking about how tight your ass was last night.”
A low moan rips from my throat as he strokes the ass under discussion. Before I can think or stop myself, I’m confessing all the longing and all the emotions that have built up inside of me.
“It’s yours—all of it.” My desire and need for him override my common sense, making me say things I know he is not ready to hear. “Take me, Phillipe.Loveme. I am yours.”
Slowly, I feel the arm around me loosen, so I reach down to grab it, trying to keep it around me.
“No. No, don’t let go,” I beg him, not even embarrassed at how needy I sound. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
His eyes, only seconds ago full of desire, now slide closed, and he grimaces as he releases me completely.
“Let go, Gemma,” he says firmly.
