Pinching my nipples, I replied, “Yes, Phillipe. I want to feel you everywhere before I feel you nowhere.”
I heard a pained groan as he slowly dragged his wet fingers out of me. Shifting behind me, he brought up his fingers and pressed down on my bottom lip. “Taste how excited you are, Chantel. Taste how excited you are to be mine.”
I took his fingers into my mouth, sucking on them while rubbing my ass against him.
He pulled me in tight. “Goddamn it,” he growled. “What you’re giving me is sacred.”
I felt a tear fall from my eye at the beauty of the moment and at the thought of not touching him for days.
“I love you,” he told me over and over. “You are perfection.”
As I rocked against him, I knew this was our moment, the exact right place I was supposed to be in.
Wewere sacred.
Who am I kidding?I think, throwing the journal on the bed. I can’t write this piece anymore. I’m too involved. All of my professional detachment is gone, and all I’m left with is this emotional mess who is currently curled up on a bed, hating a ghost.
When I first arrived, he was a stranger, andshewas a figment of my imagination that I put together from pictures and articles. But now? Now she is just as real as he is, and reading every word she typed, I feel her touching a part of me that I don’t understand.
I don’twantto love either one of them, yet I know that is exactly what has happened. Somewhere between Chantel’s telling me why she loved him and my learning for myself that he is too hard not to love, I have fallen deeply for a man I barely know and who doesn’t want me. He touches me with every look he gives me, and she touches me with every word she tells me.
I feel as though my heart is being pulled in two separate directions, yet neither is the right path for me. She is no longer here, but he won’t let her go.
So, where does that leave me? Well, that’s easy. I’m left alone.
Twenty-Four
DREAMS
SLEEP IS NOT my friend tonight. Getting out of bed, I make my way over to the window and look out at the inky sky. The wind is whipping and howling through the vines, and I can almost feel the breeze, as it seems to surround and penetrate me. Wrapping my arms across my chest, I take a deep breath.
“Chantel?” I whisper, expecting no answer in return. “Help me,” I plead into the empty night sky.
Shaking my head, I try to remind myself that she isn’t real—well, not anymore. So why the hell am I trying to communicate with her? Next thing I know, I’ll start a séance.
Moving back from the window, I pick up the journal and climb back into bed to let her communicate with me in the only way I know she can.
Dreams ~
I keep having the strangest dream.
This is the third night that I’ve had it, and I have to think that it means something. Right? It always starts with music—Johann Sebastian Bach’s Air.
That doesn’t surprise me or feel strange, though. I love that piece. I have always found it so peaceful to both listen to and play, so dreaming about it seems natural. In fact, when I was a little girl, I had dreams about all the pieces I was learning by ear. It was probably because I had to play them over and over to get them right.
That’s not what makes this dream odd. No, it’s what comes after it.
It always starts the same, with music floating all around me. I’m there, but I can also see myself. Yes, I can actuallysee, which is a completely unreal situation, even without all the other factors.
I’m down by the river. I believe it has to be the river at the back of the chateau because Phillipe is there as well, and I can see him, too. I don’t know if how I picture him is accurate, but he takes my breath away every time, so much so that I want to stay in my dream just so I can look at him.
He’s tall—that I already know. His brown hair blows gently across his eyes every time the wind shifts directions, and his eyes—wow, those green eyes of his are stunning. When he is looking at me—and heislooking at me in the dream—his gaze is sensual and intense.
He gestures me forward. Without hesitation, I place my hand in his, and they lock right together. His hand holds mine and protects it, just like how he protects me.
“Come,” he says softly, his voice calming me the way it always does.
As I take a step toward him, I feel the soft grass beneath my feet as it tickles my toes. Glancing down, I wiggle them and smile at the fact that I can actually see my toes.
