I sit, letting my legs fall over the edge of the bed. He wants to start paintingArmortonight. The painting is the second in the collection, and it’s the first full nude, where you can see a portion of my front side. I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I make my way over to the mirror and stare at my reflection. There, looking back at me, are wide green eyes. Raising my hand, I grip the hairband holding my hair away from my face and pull it out, releasing my blonde strands. It tumbles down around me, so I shake it back from my shoulders, looking at the picture I present. I’m trying to see all that he sees.
Reaching down to the bottom of my top, I lift it and pull it over my head, leaving myself standing in my nude-colored lace bra. I finger the material and run my hand down to the curve of my breast, watching the reflection of my nipple as it hardens.
It’s strange inspecting myself, seeing my body change as I feel it happen. I unclasp my bra then take a breath as I pull the cups away from my body and let it fall to the ground. I’m left standing there, naked from the waist up, trying to see myself objectively.
My breasts aren’t huge. A small C-cup makes them full enough that I usually have to wear a bra, but sometimes, if I want to dress up for someone special, I can go without.
Below my right arm, where my breast curves out, I have a small beauty mark that I have hated for as long as I can remember. As I stand here now, looking at myself, I find that I don’t mind it. I think it adds a certain character to me.
I gently brush my red-painted fingertips against my nipple and let out a small gasp. Biting my bottom lip, I watch my fingers in the mirror as I run them around the sensitive tips. I remember Chantel talking about how good Phillipe’s shirt felt against her nipples. Probably as good as my fingers now feel against mine.
I pinch and tug them between my thumb and index fingers, pulling the tight little tips. I sigh as I feel myself get wet. Shocked by my own brazen behavior, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from myself.
That’s when something in the room changes, and I feel like I’m going a little crazy. I swear I’m seeing dark hair falling over my shoulder. Instead of my red-tipped fingers, I’m seeing long, elegant ones with blunt-cut nails tracing my body.
Feeling my lips part, I watch as the hands in front of me cup my breasts and squeeze. I’m mesmerized by the scene. The hands gliding over my body have morphed into hands I know. They are hands that shock me.
They’re hands I have seen before, hands I’ve studied, hands that have created music I’ve listened to, and hands I have just read about.
“Ah,” I groan as my nipples are plucked and twisted. They are pinched hard and teased. Transfixed on the mirror, I can feel myself becoming increasingly wetter.
“Fuck.” I pant as my right breast is squeezed, and my left nipple is pulled. Crossing one leg over the other, I close my eyes and imagine beautiful, pale, talented hands caressing me. I can hear music flowing over me,violins, and I can feel my aching core clenching with each moment of my pleasure.
Arching my back and pushing my breasts forward, hands now squeezing my supple curves, I swear someone whispers, “Do you like that?”
As my climax crashes into me, I find myself calling out a name I never thought to say in a moment such as this.
“Chantel.”
Eleven
COURAGE
THAT NIGHT, PHILLIPE stands at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee in his hand, staring out to the lit arbor. He can see Gemma under the large branches, sitting on the bench he placed down there many months ago.
He wonders about Gemma Harris.What does she really think about everything she’s heard?She doesn’t really give him a good indication of her opinion either way.
One thing he does know is that although she’s attracted to him, there’s definitely a wary and suspicious side of her.Oh, she lets me into her body, but there is no way that the woman who flinched away from me this morning trusts me.
Feeling a headache coming on, he places his empty cup in the sink, turning to make his way up the stairs. When he reaches theRhapsodypainting hanging on the wall, he stops for a moment and allows himself to look overher.
Taking in a deep breath, he sighs. As he lets it out softly, he shakes his head. “What am I doing?” He knows he won’t get an answer, but he feels the desire to voice his request. Reaching out, he runs his finger down the sweet curve of flesh on the canvas before dropping his hand as though the memory burns him. Turning on his heel, he makes his way to the studio.
Tonight, he is paintingArmor. He is painting strength. He needs to remind himself of that, especially when familiar words keep running through his mind.Don’t let them make a villain out of you.
Sheis still in his head.
Spreading the drop cloth out under his easel, he moves to where he wants Gemma to stand and angles a soft spotlight on the area. Everything is ready. All he needs is her.
The only problem is that he has no clue which woman he’s referring to at that precise moment.
I glance up to the studio window and watch as a light is turned on in the west turret. After what happened this morning, I am unsure of how this evening will go.
I know what Phillipe wants from me. He made that clear earlier today. I am finding it hard to gather the courage I need to actually go up there, remove my top, and stand before him—a man who, for very good reasons, is still annoyed at me.
I look down at the bench and the inscription,Love looks not with the eyes, and try not to envy a woman who had eyes she could not see from. Because at this very moment, I would do anything not to have to stand before his perceptive and annoyed gaze.
