I pull myself up a little higher so that his erection is poised at my entrance. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, even when I didn’t know it,” I breathe through the kiss – “all my unhappiness, my loneliness before I met you was so I’d know what it was to really feel loved. You can’t appreciate true love until you’ve been in a desert, looked Despair in the eyes. I don’t want to be like that ever again.”
“I’ll never let you go, I promise.”
A hot tear trickles down my cheek and Alexandre licks it before it falls. We’re now lying side by side and I feel him enter me slowly. I gasp. My Venus is throbbing, my nipples hard and rosy. He thrusts himself into me and I cry out at the surprise.
His eyes flutter half closed in ecstatic reverie and he murmurs, “Jesus, you’re so tight but so warm and juicy - coupled with that kiss - I think I’m gonna come.” He holds his hips still. I can feel the pulse of his cock flexing inside me, stretching me, blood pumping through his taut veins, filling my walls – but he doesn’t come, he has too much self-control. “I don’t want to fuck you,” he whispers, “I want us to make love,” and I sense myself shudder at the deliciousness of his lips grazing against my ear, sending shivers all through my body.
He may have self-control but I don’t. The shaft of his penis is rubbing delicately against my clit and I start to make little circles tilting upward with my pelvis, my arms hooked about his neck. I can feel it building – the double pleasure of his huge girth inside me pushing all the right places – still motionless – and my clit rubbing against the thick base of his penis - pushing me to my limits.
Then Alexandre starts licking my tongue again in slow swipes and under my tongue, too, at its sensitive root….faster now - little flicks as if he’s fucking me with it. The sensation is exquisite. My clit is tingling like a thousand little bells – as if there’s a golden thread linking it to my nipples and tongue. Never has a kiss been so sensual. He then presses his thumb on that little space just behind the base of my entrance and I climax in a shudder, riding myself up and down his huge cock, the only movement made by my own friction – he’s still motionless. I’m moaning. He clasps both of his large hands around my buttocks and pulls me on top of him in one smooth movement - “That’s right, baby, ride that orgasm all the way - ride my big hard throbbing cock.” I’m still climaxing around him when he lunges at me from his position underneath. “Pearl—”
“Alexandre,” I moan. I can feel the zealous spurt of him shoot inside me, squirting into my depths in a hot fountain of desire. Both of us are as one – an extension of that kiss now melded into an orgasmic zenith of emotion.
Fucking is great but making love is even better. And that is what I feel emanating from Alexandre’s psyche, his soul – the force and power of pure Love with a capital L.
We stay like this for a long time. He’s still hard inside me but relaxed as miniscule ripples fade little by little contracting deep inside me. His breath is on mine; he’s still looking into my eyes – the orgasm spent but the love surrounding us like a halo of light. No words are needed for how we both feel. I can behold it in his gaze and my core is flashing with a radiant energy from within. I am alive. If I were to die right now I would have tasted Heaven on earth. My gentle smile creeps into a grin paired with my teary eyes. My emotions are raw and so are his. Like me, he is vulnerable. He, too, has misty eyes but a smile is also dancing on his lips.
We are united in every way.
The essence of true love.
Chapter Five
A week has gone by, both of us busy with work but having lunch every day together and then meeting up later at home where we usually order something in for dinner. In New York City you are spoilt for choice, whether it be Thai, Indian, Chinese, Mexican or Japanese - even Ethiopian; you name it, you can get the best of it all in Manhattan. Sometimes, Alexandre whips up something mouth-watering himself. He has a knack with any type of cuisine, but especially French and Italian. Alexandre’s chef, Vincent, is on vacation.
I need to start getting used to saying things like, ‘our chef’ and, ‘our apartment’ but it’s still taking a while for it all to sink in. Also, this is not my money paying for all this luxury so I find it difficult to use the word ‘we’ when it concerns ‘necessities’ that most human beings live quite happily without.
Alexandre set up a mini movie theatre in the apartment so we get to watch movies on the big screen and eat popcorn. Occasionally, Sophie’s step-daughter, Elodie, comes over, still painfully shy and only just eighteen. Alexandre refuses to speak French with her so she’s learning fast. He’s also paying for her to have private English lessons, so movie night is extra tuition as far as he’s concerned – nothing like a good film to make you absorb a language. With a head on her shoulders for anything technical and frighteningly nerdy, Elodie is being groomed as a future heiress to HookedUp – at least that is how it appears to me, although it’s unspoken. Alexandre even wants her to spend some time working with me. He’s set her up in a pretty apartment in Greenwich Village. He suspects that she rarely goes out and neither of us has seen any evidence of her making friends, hence the choice of Greenwich Village; he thought it would be the right ambience for her to mingle and meet people. So far, she seems to keep to herself, though.
Anthony was right. I feel like Kate Middleton must have felt preparing for her big day. The thought of Sophie spending $63,000 on my wedding gown brings goose-bumps to my flesh. She’s an old client of the Malaysian-born designer, Zang Toi – a star who dresses stars and who’s been based in New York for the last thirty years or so. I was nervous at first but then I met him and knew straight away that he was special. He’s adorable with an infectious laugh and a sense of humor that brings out the child in you. Like many Chinese people, he looks way younger than his fifty-one years. The first time I saw a photo of him he was wearing a mini kilt. Now he usually goes about in a black suit.
Today, I’m off for my first fitting at his showroom, an atelier on Fifty Seventh Street, just a few blocks over from HookedUp Enterprises. He has already promised me that I’ll look like a princess on my wedding day. When I saw some of his designs, both vintage and new, I knew that he was right. He’s a genius.
I take the elevator up to his floor and am greeted by one of his assistants, a sweet, unassuming girl who could be a teenager but no doubt isn’t – those Asian, wrinkle-free genes again. She ushers me into his showroom where there are floor to ceiling windows overlooking Fifty Seventh Street below, and rows of to-die-for gowns and outfits draped from hangers. There is a large desk in the center of the room where he is sitting, his blue-black glossy head bent, busy and in deep concentration. I’ve heard that he’s a shrewd businessman as well as an artist – he learned from a young age, helping out in his parents’ grocery store when he was just a boy. He is the seventh child and his lucky number, Sophie told me, is thirteen.
He looks up from his task, rakes his eyes over me quickly and smiles, saying, “You are making my life very easy, Pearl, you’re perfect sample size, so no snacking before your wedding!”
I laugh but know he’s probably serious. This is not going to be the type of dress to favor a last-minute nip and tuck. “Tell me, Zang, what do you envision for me?” I ask, kissing him on both cheeks. Somehow a hand shake seems too formal for such a friendly person.
“I have planned for you a floor length ivory, silk velvet cape with dramatic train and ice crystal beaded blossoms cascading down from the shoulder, and matching strapless gown with ice crystal beaded blossoms cascading up the dramatic flared hem.”
“Wow, it sounds beautiful.”
“You will be the perfect ice-princess for your handsome French prince,” he says with a giggle.
We spend the afternoon discussing the design and all the different options for shoes. He has me there like a manikin, being draped with muslin cloth, pins going here and there - the fabric itself, the silk velvet, will not be touched until later. He loves the idea of a winter w
edding in Lapland and asks me a hundred questions about what food and drink will be served – but even I’m not sure about that yet - this is all stuff I have to decide with the wedding planner.
Elodie, of course, will be my maid of honor – she has yet to come in for her fitting, but slim as a pencil, I’m sure Zang will love her – no chance of her pigging out before December; she’s like a little waif. With her long brown hair styled with crystal beads, Zang is confident he can transform her into a character from a fairytale.
I leave late, bubbling with excitement and hope – Zang’s giggly demeanor is catching and I’m in the highest of spirits.
That’s until the elevator door to his showroom opens and Sophie is standing there with a fixed grin on her face.
My heart sinks.
She looks ravishing, impeccable - but then Sophie is always impeccable. She’s wearing her thick dark hair loose, the cut chic with Parisian perfection. Her pinstripe pantsuit is tailored. I instantly feel straggly and unkempt next to her mature sophisticated demeanor, even though she’s five years younger than I am.
“Pearl, darling,” she says in her heavy French accent and air-kisses me on both cheeks.
“Sophie, what a lovely surprise, how long are you in town for?”
“Didn’t Alexandre tell you I was coming?”
“He must have done, but I guess I lost track of time passing,” I lie. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I fear her and that Alexandre is keeping anything from me. No, he did not let me know she was coming to New York.
I smile sweetly. I feel like the two of us are in that scene from Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest – two women’s saccharine smiles and sweet-talk hiding dagger-like intentions. Although my only intention is to avoid her as much as possible. What her plans are for me, I still cannot begin to guess. Except I’m sure they include ousting me from her brother’s life in whatever way possible.
She says excitedly, “I thought I’d pop by and see what Zang has designed for Elodie.”
“Sophie, I can’t thank you enough for this generous gift. I mean, you’re really pulling out all the stops.”
“Pearl, you’re going to be my sister-in-law. Part of my life. If you make Alexandre happy, zat’s all I care about.” She wrinkles her nose cutely and I wonder, for a second, if she can twitch it like Samantha on Bewitched - something I practiced as a child watching endless re-runs on TV - but never mastered. I wouldn’t put it past Sophie to be able to come up with a few sorceress tricks, or to cast some sort of wicked spell on me.
Or am I being unjust? Maybe her intentions are good and I’m just a jaded, unforgiving bitch.
Time will tell.
***
I go back to the office to work and when I get home I find Alexandre on the roof terrace with Rex.
“Hi Pearl, darling,” he says, “come and sit on my knee. I’m just finishing up a couple of things.” He’s tapping away distractedly on his tablet, making lists.
I run my fingers through his thick dark hair and tell him, “I bumped into Sophie at Zang’s showroom. You never told me she was coming to New York.”
“Sophie’s here, in Manhattan?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? She said you knew.”
“I can’t remember her telling me, no.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering which one of them is fibbing. Sophie, no doubt.
As if the Devil herself were listening in on our conversation, Alexandre’s cell goes. I can tell it’s Sophie by the way he talks – not just because he’s speaking French but the easy expression on his face; the relaxed way you speak to an old friend. My French is getting better every day, namely by hearing him chat on the phone. They’re discussing dinner. Great. Just when I was feeling more at ease than ever, our lives perfect, Sophie has to nuzzle in on us. I tense. Is Alexandre now telling her, that yes, I will make dinner tonight? Please, God, no. He knows cooking is not my forte. He ends the conversation and looks at me, his slightly crooked smile showing a hint of irony.
“Did I hear right?” I ask him. “Did you just tell Sophie that I’d cook supper?”
“She asked especially. She wants to taste typical, home-made American food.”
“Well, there are a lot of restaurants that do it way better than I do.”
“Nonsense, your cooking is great.”
Little does Alexandre know that it’s Dean & DeLucca’s and Zabar’s cooking which is great, or our local delicatessen. Not me.
He brushes a lock of hair from my face. “Make your hamburgers, they’re delicious.”
“Really? You like them?”
“I love them. Or you could do your BLTs – the best this side of New York.”
“But Sophie will be expecting something fancy.”
“No, she won’t. She gets gourmet food in Paris. Give her BLTs.” He presses his mouth on mine and whispers through his kiss, “You’re my Star-Spangled girl, remember? I don’t care if you don’t cook flashy, haute cuisine. I love you just the way you are. Don’t ever change.”
***
Sophie and Elodie arrive at eight o’clock sharp. Needless to say, every second has been spent by me preparing for their dreaded arrival. Patricia helped me lay the table with the best silver and crystal champagne glasses – BLTs in style with match-stick French fries and Bollinger Champagne. Because I’m the only native English speaker, the language du jour is soon French. Sophie has ways of looking as if she’s the most charming person in the world while quietly stabbing me simultaneously. Alexandre doesn’t seem to notice and Elodie is so busy stuffing her face with the BLTs, that she is blissfully unaware.
“So Pearl,” Sophie begins. “How is everything going in zee Enterprise’s department?”
“Great,” I reply sweetly.
“She’s just made a deal with Samuel Myers,” Alexandre interjects proudly. “He’s a tough nut to crack and Pearl got what she wanted, namely a woman for one of the leads in Stone Trooper.”
Sophie smoothes her manicured hand over her sleek, chignon. “No! You’re kidding me? Very talented actress, Alessandra Demarr.”
The way she says that makes me wonder if she knew about this already. Although I do remember telling her I wanted women for the lead roles I don’t remember anyone mentioning Alessandra Demarr. I wish Alexandre hadn’t let her in on my business but answer simply, “Yes, I’m very pleased with the way things are going.”
“I’m sure you’ll be even more delighted as sings unravel zemselves to you,” she says ominously - although the ominous vibe could just be my imagination. She’s French – the translation may have come out wrong – ‘things unravel themselves’ – what things?
Alexandre puts his hand on mine. “Pearl’s going to do some re-writing of the script, aren’t you, darling? She always wanted to be a script writer and now’s her chance.”
Sophie’s hand envelops both of ours, her eagle talons cupping us, her nails long and sharp. “Let’s have a look at your engagement ring. Beeeootiful,” she coos, gawking at it, her eyes wide.
“Thank you.”
Alexandre looks pleased. “It belonged to a Russian princess, a lady in waiting, so to speak, to Catherine the Great.”
Sophie cackles. “Cazerine zee Great - isn’t she zee Empress who used to fuck horses?”
Elodie almost chokes on her champagne. “Maman!”
“No, seriously, rumor has it zat zay had to lower zee horse on top of her as no man’s penis was big enough nor insatiable enough for her. Zay said she was a ‘beastite’ – I think zat’s zee correct term. She died, in fact, trying to have sexual intercourse wiz a horse – she got crushed to death in zee act.”
Alexandre bursts out laughing. “Nonsense. That was a myth, gossip spread by French aristocracy and her Polish enemies at the time to belittle her.”
“Well, she certainly had a voracious sexual appetite which contributed to her downfall.” Sophie turns to me and stares, her last sentence directed at me, for sure. I think of th
e Freudian dream I had about a black horse at the hotel in Cap d’Antibes, after Alexandre had been talking about me getting me to ‘ride’ him. Can Sophie read my frigging dreams? She knows that I can’t keep my hands off her brother. She knows my sexual appetite has been awakened. I look down at my empty glass awkwardly. Alexandre doesn’t seem to notice what she has said and Elodie looks hazily at the Tromp l’Oeil of the dining room, settling her gaze onto the painted lake with swans and the fake view beyond that looks so disconcertingly real, obviously choosing not to follow the conversation.
“Well, I love your ring, Pearl,” Sophie continues with a syrupy smile. “But why didn’t you want a new piece of jewelry?”
“Pearl and I didn’t want a blood diamond,” Alexandre breaks in.
“A blood diamond?”
“A conflict diamond,” I clarify. “A war diamond. A lot of top-grade diamonds are mined in war zones, particularly Africa. We didn’t want to contribute to that in any way so Alexandre chose a vintage piece instead, and I’m glad he did.”
Elodie pipes up, her pretty eyes wide, her interest piqued. “It’s true, Natalie Portman does not wear real diamonds to Oscars or red carpet – she wears fake knock offs for five bucks for same reason.”
I’m marveling at Elodie’s colloquial English, using words like ‘knock-offs’ and ‘bucks’, and add, “It used to be a pendant and Alexandre had it made into a ring.”
Sophie lets me know in a soft voice, “Well, I don’t sink wearing someone’s old jewelry is so lucky – bad Feng Shui, you know, could be bad vibe.”
For the first time Alexandre looks angry. His mouth tenses as he says quietly between his teeth, “Actually, Sophie, I had the ring cleansed by a priest. By two different priests, in fact. Blessed with holy water. The ring is as pure as snow.”
Shadows of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 2) Page 6
