Blind Obsession

Chapter Eight ~ Impulsive

Canon in D ~ Pachelbel

Link: http://blindobsessionbook.com/canon-in-d-major/

“Have you ever heard

Pachelbel’s Canon in D

played live with a full orchestra?” Phillipe asks me later that night as we walk into the studio.

“No, I haven’t heard any orchestral pieces live. Isn’t that one of the songs people play for the wedding march?”

Looking at me over his shoulder, he moves toward the stereo system on the shelves. He tells me with the barest hint of humor, “I don’t know, Gemma. I’ve never walked down an aisle.”

I shake my head at him with a smirk. “You know what I mean.”

Nodding, he concedes. “Well, when put that way, then yes, I suppose it is the song that a lot of brides walk down the aisle to.”

Pressing what I presume is play, he turns back to make his way toward me as the deep base starts. I keep my eyes locked with his as he crosses the space to stop before me, holding out his hand like a gentleman from a forgotten era. Curious about his mood, I go with it.

I slide my hand into the palm that so expertly touched me this afternoon, and I gasp when he tugs me in close to assume the waltz position. Looking up into his blazing green eyes, I have to admit that I can quite easily understand Chantel’s quick fall into love, although Chantel would never have seen those eyes.

Before I have too long to consider that, he slowly starts to waltz me around his studio. Holding on tight, I can’t help but smile. It feels wonderful to have a moment of such simplicity when things here have been so intense and so confusing. This feels simple.

Two people dancing. Two people enjoying a moment. Until that moment is gone.

“This piece was originally scored for three violins and a basso continuo. Listen…” He pauses in his explanation as he moves me effortlessly around his studio.

My mind spins with each expertly executed turn.

“All three instruments work together in breathtaking synchronicity, Gemma. The fourth is there just to keep them in order because three of anything is bound to get messy.”

I can feel my breath picking up as his meaning takes root, and I’m left wondering, What is he getting at? He’s always playing such head games with me.

Twirling me away from him, I stare at our joined hands, and I bring up my eyes to meet his, which are now focused on me with absolute intensity. He tugs me back to him, and I go because the music is still floating through the air. It seems this waltz isn’t over, not by a long shot.

“They feed off one another,” he tells me as his lips brush a kiss against my head. “They’re each so flawless in their transitions that you start to believe they’re all one and the same.”

He stops talking as the music swells, and I close my eyes as I’m pulled under. I’m swept away by the beauty of the piece and again by the seduction that is Phillipe. His arms, strong and solid, wrap around me as I allow myself to really let go. I feel as though he’s given me permission in some way, like he’s telling me that what I’m feeling is okay—even when I know that it’s not.

How can I be so fascinated with him and, at the same time, be so captivated by her?

These are questions I have no answers for as the music softens and his lips move to my ear.

“That’s right, Gemma. Close your eyes. To really feel the music, you have to listen…blindly.”

That’s when it hits me. The complete picture unfolds. The moment of joy he’s feeling plus the confusion I’m experiencing all mixes together to equal the total mindfuck I’m having.

“This is her playing, isn’t it?” I ask, stiffening in his arms.

“Yes, she recorded it for me after I saw her play it one night.”

He holds me tight, refusing to let me go. As the music rises once again, he spins me away.

“Why are you sharing this with me now?” I demand of him.

I’m more annoyed than I probably should be, but all I can think about is the fact that she’s here again. She’s always here.

“Because, Gemma, this is us,” he explains in a voice that’s now become somewhat detached. “We are three. Can’t you see that? Just like any moment of beauty, we’re all working in synchronicity to find that elusive moment, like that moment you and I found out in the vineyard…with her.”

Finally, the music stops, and I’m staring up into a face that seems oddly serene, almost as though he’s made some calming realization, just as I’m having a major fucked-up one.

“No, I can’t see that, Phillipe,” I snap as I step back.

I’m trying to disentangle myself from the web he’s once again drawn me into. I’m also silently berating myself. Although I’m outwardly telling him no, knowing he’s delusional, I realize deep down that he’s right. I’m just as entangled with Chantel as I am with him.

“Okay, Gemma.” His voice breaks through the tense silence, sounding defeated. “Have it your way.”

I’m standing only a couple of steps away from him, but as he moves forward, I cross my arms over my chest like a shield.

“Do you want to pose this afternoon and continue with your questions?” He reaches out, touching my cheek gently. “Or do you want to leave?”

Looking up at him, my eyes land on his full sensual lips. I’m reminded of this afternoon and the way his mouth moved over my skin. I find myself wanting to reach out and touch that mouth. He must sense a change in me because one corner of those incorrigible lips tilts up.

He demands quietly, “Undress for me.”

God help me, I do.

Impulsive ~

I asked Phillipe to come and watch me tonight.

When my mother had first mentioned I should go and stay with Uncle Beau, my first thought had been, Where would I get to play? I didn’t want to be anywhere I couldn’t play my music.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy losing myself when I’m on my own, but there’s simply no better feeling than playing at the front of a full-scale orchestra.

It’s hard to explain, but imagine you’re in a smooth body of water as you effortlessly swim along. You’re just rising up with each movement and then flowing back down. Now, add a stormy ocean, and as each loud and powerful wave hits you, it pushes you up, higher and higher toward the sky, before crashing you back down into the turbulent ocean.

You might be scared and terrified, but you love feeling the exhilaration and power of that ocean along with the sheer force and beauty of it.

Well, that’s how I like to think playing in front of a full orchestra feels, like one big powerful wave that crashes down over you.

I use to play as a guest performer with the local orchestra back home. I had told my mother that before I would even consider moving here, we would need to find one close by, and we did.

Tonight, Phillipe is coming to watch me.

Gemma surprises Phillipe when she silently walks to the drop cloth and removes her clothes.

After the way she pulled away from him, he was positive that she would have tucked tail and run. Instead, she is now sitting in pose, nude, with her back to him and the blindfold firmly in place. Probably cursing my name.

He doesn’t understand why every move forward they take feels as though it’s somehow enhanced by the memory of Chantel.

When he originally went into this bargain with Gemma, he did it with the expectation that she would understand Chantel better, and as their story unraveled, she would get to see a side of him he found so difficult to show. He did not count on the intense feeling of connection to Chantel through Gemma. Perhaps it is Gemma herself?

Maybe, if she didn’t seem so bewitched and curious about Chantel, he wouldn’t feel this way. Maybe if she just asked him questions in a perfunctory manner, he wouldn’t be feeling this aberrant entanglement of desire that he can’t seem to shake.

As he looks over to the woman seated on the floor, he remembers the way she came with such force. He can still feel the sweet tight squeeze of her pussy. He knows he isn’t the only one baffled by this strange connection that they seem to share.

“You’re very quiet,” he states, waiting patiently for her reply.

“I’m trying to decide what I want to ask you today.”

“Ahh, I see. I thought you might be sitting over there plotting out a way to leave my evil clutches.”

When she turns her head to face him over her shoulder, he glances at her over the top of the easel. Her eyes are covered, but he can almost guess that they are narrowed on him. Phillipe has to admit that he enjoys the slight annoyance he can sense in her posture. It’s almost a shame this isn’t a frontal pose.

“Who said anything about leaving?” she queried.

“No one. I see there’s no answer about my evil clutches though, hmm?”

She harrumphs softly, but he hears it as she turns back to face the wall.

“Did you enjoy our afternoon together, Gemma?” he finds himself asking her, seemingly out of nowhere. He strokes the paintbrush down the canvas, creating the curve of both her back and hip, making them appear seamless.

“I think you know I did,” she whispers so faintly that he almost doesn’t catch it.

“Then, why are you acting so ashamed?”

He dips the brush into the color before bringing it back to the material. He isn’t here to create a masterpiece. He is using this time to show Gemma how Chantel felt as she sat there in pose.

“I’m not ashamed, and I’m not here to answer your questions. You’re here to answer mine.”

Phillipe finds himself holding back a smile at her pretentiousness. “Well, maybe you should ask me some.”

He turns and puts the paintbrush down on the table beside him, watching as she shifts slightly in her position. Is she uncomfortable or aroused?

Either way, he takes selfish delight in telling her, “Try not to move, please.”

She blows out a deep breath. “When did you ask Chantel to move into the chateau with you?”

Phillipe was waiting for a question, but somehow, he didn’t expect it to be that one.

“Why would you just assume I asked her? Unless, you already know better.”

Silence, thick and tense, stretches out between them.

“Well, with the way you talk about her and the way she writes about you, it automatically makes me think you asked her.”

Phillipe steps around the easel. He walks over to the perceptive Gemma and crouches down behind her. He must have been quieter than he thought because she flinches when the back of his finger traces down her naked spine.

Without moving so much as an inch, he confesses, “I didn’t ask. I begged.” He stands, walks over to the journal, and taps the cover. “But this, you already knew.”

Tonight, when I arrived at the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux, my uncle led me down to the dressing rooms, and I was greeted by the music conductor who would be up front tonight.

I was nervous about playing this evening. It was not because there would be an audience but because he was going to be there. Tonight, Phillipe was going to watch me play with the local orchestra, and I wanted it to be perfect for him.

I was led to the stage door to start the warm up.

One of the other violinists I was going to be playing alongside for the opening piece told me, “I’m so excited to play with you tonight. I think you’re amazing. To be able to play in such a way and be completely...” She paused as I smiled in her direction. She too was American.

“Blind? It’s okay. You can say it.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not very polite for me to point out something so obvious. I’m sure you get sick of it. When they told us who was going to be playing here tonight, I was thrilled. I know all about you. You inspired me to play.” The girl giggled. “Sorry. I went a little crazy there, didn’t I? I’m Jessica. I’ll be playing second chair violin.”

I liked Jessica immediately. She showed me to my seat, and I began warming up.

Running through the usual warm-up exercises, I felt the music as it flowed through my fingers and vibrated through my ear. It made its way into my heart, and as silly as it sounds, it touched me deep down into my soul.

Thirty minutes later, the orchestra was introduced, and I heard my name along with Jessica’s and two others mentioned. We each stood, and applause filled the room as we made our way—me with the assistance of Jessica—to the center of the stage.

The audience hushed and waited in complete silence.

I felt the warmth of the spotlight as it moved to focus on the four of us. This evening, we were going to be playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and lifted Diva to my shoulder.

That was when it happened. I felt him.

Somehow, I knew exactly where he was in reference to me. Like a compass being pulled north, I found myself pivoting toward the left, and I opened my eyes. I knew that was where he was. I knew he was sitting up there.

Closing my eyes once again, I listened as the basso continuo started, and I swayed slightly as I let the wave crash down over me.

“So, you asked her the night you went to see her play?” I ask, knowing he has moved back behind the easel now.

He seems further away each time he speaks.

“Yes. What can I say? The moment I went and saw her play, I knew.”

His voice fades out toward the end of his thought, but I’m not letting him get away with it that easily. I need to know exactly what he means.

“You knew what?” I press, finding courage in the darkness I am now inhabiting.

Not having to face him when asking such personal and probing questions makes me bolder. It makes it easier to dig deeper into the heart of a man who I know is wounded. It makes me ruthless in my pursuit of his story. This story is so provocative that it has captured the attention of the whole world. That’s when, I hear him confirm what I already suspect.

“I knew I had to keep her.”

She is mesmerizing, he thought as he watched the spotlight move in and focus on the four musicians now at the front of the orchestra.

After she had told him she was playing tonight, she had invited him to come, and he had bought a box seat. There was no way he was going to miss out on this.

So, here he was. For some reason, he held his breath when she stood and closed her eyes. She raised her beloved Diva to her left shoulder, and that was when it happened. She opened her eyes, turned her head, and looked up right at him.

Phillipe felt his breath leave his body on a sigh while his chest ached and tightened with the knowledge that she somehow knew. She felt him inside her very being, proving that theirs was a connection he couldn’t explain to anyone.

She smiled slightly before closing her eyes once more, and he found himself blocking out the other three people standing by her along with the fifty orchestral members who also disappeared from his view. All he saw was Chantel, standing center stage, playing the most beautiful and spellbinding rendition of one of the most famous pieces ever scored.

He had known the minute he saw her out in his vineyard that first morning that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to know her. Just as he knew, right this second, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.

“So, after the show, you…what? Went back to the dressing room? To the chateau?” I stop and sigh. “Why are you being so difficult about this part in the story? If you didn’t want to talk to me about it, then you should have let me finish reading her journal.” I pause before muttering, “At least, she answers my questions.”

“You seem frustrated,” he tells me.

“I am frustrated. I want to know what happened, Phillipe.”

Pausing, I realize I am still sitting on the floor naked, and he seems to have moved his position. He isn’t over where he was when he was painting. No, he sounds as though he’s sitting in the chair that’s over in the other corner of the room. Reaching up, I remove the blindfold, twisting my body around to see that my suspicions are correct.

“Why didn’t you tell me you stopped for the evening?”

His eyes travel over my hair that has now fallen across the shoulder that is twisted toward him.

“Because I was enjoying looking at you.”

Completely annoyed at this stage, I reach for my clothes that are strewn across the floor. “Well, isn’t that nice?” I mutter while I tug my sweater over my head.

“I thought so.”

Bending down, I pick up my panties. “I can’t believe you. Well, I’m not going to sit here just for you to look at.”

“Well, this view is working pretty well, too.”

Looking at him over my shoulder, I turn and attempt to cover myself with the pants and panties bunched in my hands. He stands and slowly walks closer. All the while, he’s twirling a paintbrush in his fingers, which seems to be a habit that comes second nature to him.

Standing my ground, I look up at him when he stops only inches from me.

“I keep catching you without your pants on today,” he muses.

His eyes look down to where I’m clutching the two items in front of me.

“Both times, need I remind you, are due to no fault of my own,” I point out with as much dignity as I can find.

Reaching forward, he takes hold of the material in my hand and tugs gently. I don’t want to let it go because I know that if I give in, he’s going to do something. Something that will make me forget why I’m annoyed. Something that will turn me into a person I don’t quite understand.

“Let go, Gemma.”

Reluctantly, I obey, and he drops the clothing on the floor, leaving me in just my sweater.

“I stopped talking because she tells it much better, which you will discover when you read it.”

I shiver at the mention of her, and I swallow as he brings his hand up, still holding the paintbrush in it.

“And I stopped painting because I realized you are missing something important.”

My heart almost stops at the thought that this man finds me lacking in anyway. As ridiculous as it seems, I now want him to want me, no matter how wrong it is.

“Well, I’m sorry you felt that way.” I stand there, staring up into eyes that are daring me to run.

I try not to flinch when he reaches down with the paintbrush, running the soft bristles across my vulnerable mound that is still naked and on display for him. I bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning, as he raises a brow and moves his hand lower, letting the brush bristles tickle and flirt their way down between my thighs.

Looking down our bodies, I find my eyes transfixed by the scene I’m witnessing. With his big fingers wrapped around the paintbrush, he gently continues to stroke it against my clit. I can’t help but reach up with one hand to grip his inactive arm, steadying myself.

Widening my stance, I raise my eyes to his as he leans his head down and traces my bottom lip with his tongue.

“Gemma.” He sighs against my mouth.

“Yes?”

“You like this, Gemma? The soft tickle of the brush against your clit?”

I don’t know what he expects from me at this stage because I seem to have lost the ability of speech. All thought disappears as the brush dips lower, and I feel it stroke between my tender folds as he slides it through my juices. I wonder if he’s going to do what I think. Will he take it there?

Panting heavily, my lips part against his, and I can’t help myself from taking a bite of his full bottom lip. That’s when I feel his depraved smile appear. He shifts his hand, and the brush disappears deep inside of me.

Gripping his arm tight, I know I’m going to leave nail marks. I moan and open my eyes to stare into green ones filled with decadence and desire. His desire is so hot that it’s literally burning me, melting me from the inside out.

“Now, this is much more fun. Don’t you think, Gemma?”

I blink at him, my breathing accelerating. He starts to slowly pull the paintbrush from my body, the bristles tickling me on their way out.

“This is the way I think I should always paint you—with a size twenty-four round brush in my hand as you coat the bristles.”

Leaning down beside my ear, he asks me, “What do you think, Gemma? Do you like being painted this way?”

All I can think is that being painted by him feels a lot like being fucked by him, but he already knows that.

“Phillipe,” I beg.

He thrusts the brush back up inside of me, and my hips start to flex against his sinful hand. I turn my head, so our mouths are almost touching. I feel myself getting impossibly wetter, and he licks his lips as his hand shifts again.

“This is wrong,” I say, panting.

He grins demonically, nibbling my lip. “All the best things are,” he agrees. He drags the brush out from my confused and needy body, and then he pushes it back up inside of me again. “Now, close your eyes, Gemma, and go with it. Who cares if it’s wrong? How does it feel?”

I have no words for him as I stand there, grinding down on the brush that is now deep inside of me. All I can do is what he told me—feel.

He starts to thrust it in and out of me, quicker with each movement, and that’s when I hear him softly humming the strings of Pachelbel’s Canon in D in my ear. Everything about the situation is fucked up.

What he’s doing and how I’m responding is beyond fucked up, but there’s not one thing I can do when he bites my ear. I scream out my shockingly intense and inappropriate climax. Once again, I find myself unsure and ashamed of how I’m left feeling.

Phillipe took me back to the chateau after my performance and told me how moved he was when he watched me play. I could tell by the way he spoke to me that something was different.

He was touching and talking to me as though he had never seen me before. Maybe he hadn’t.

My mother always told me that I came alive when I was on stage. Maybe that’s what he saw.

“I knew you’d be amazing tonight, but, Chantel, I have no words.” He paused and sighed. “You were simply breathtaking.”

I kissed him softly. “Well, I don’t want you to stop breathing.”

His lips covered mine in an almost desperate kiss. When he pulled away, he stroked a hand down my cheek. “I don’t plan to, not for a very long time, and neither will you.”

He kissed me again, and almost as though he couldn’t stand to be still, he lifted me off the ground, twirling me around as I laughed. He slowly lowered me down his body. “Will you come and stay with me, Chantel?”

Automatically, I went to say yes, but he kissed me before I could even make a sound.

“Don’t say no, please. Tell me you’ll move in with me? Let me see you when you awake. Let me be inspired every time I turn a corner, and you’re there.”

Laughing at his eagerness, I stroked my fingers over his impossibly high cheekbone. “My parents and Beau wouldn’t understand why I would choose to stay here in France or why I would move in with you, a man I have just barely met.”

He kissed my mouth, and I felt myself sliding under the waves again.

I asked him, “Is this wrong? Are we crazy?”

This time, his lips pressed against my forehead. He whispered, “Probably. But who cares? How does it make you feel?”

My answer was simple. It made me feel complete.

The next day I moved into the chateau.