He looked at his watch. “We don’t have time for procrastination. Hurry up, get your essentials and a change of clothes together. A friend of mine will be taking off soon. If we hurry, we can get there in time, we can’t miss the slot.”
The slot? In a daze, I wandered into my bedroom, found a suitcase at the back of my closet, and began to throw a few things in. He followed me, watching, to make sure I was doing as told—meanwhile speaking on his cell, in French, so I didn’t understand a word except “jet” and “passport.” Then he ordered a cab.
“Passport?”
“It’s in my purse,” I said.
“That giant ogre of a thing?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to do something about that.” His eyes narrowed, then he ran them up and down my body like he wanted to fuck me once more. Not again! How potent can his libido be?
He clapped his hands together. “Okay, done. Let’s go.”
“Wait, my toothbrush and stuff.”
“We don’t have time—I can buy you anything you need.”
“That’s a cute offer, but I usually buy my own things, thanks.”
“Yes, of course you do. Hurry up,” he ordered, slapping my nude backside.
I scrambled into the bathroom, ran some water over a washcloth, and wiped in between my legs, then raced back into the bedroom and grabbed the first dress I saw from my closet and tossed it over my head. It was an old 1950’s flowery thing, cinched at the waist, full-skirted with a tight bodice and low neck. It was the last thing I wanted to wear, but Alexandre was tapping his polished shoe on the floor with impatience.
“Perfect. You look like a little girl.” He dragged me from the room by my wrist and grabbed my suitcase.
“Wait! I haven’t put any underwear on.”
“No time.”
“Where are we going?”
For the first time today he smiled. “Surprise.”
IT WAS A RACE to get here, but we were finally ensconced in the swanky private plane, luxuriating on beige leather seats, while each of us was offered an apéritif’ by the flight attendant.
Alexandre’s “friend” turned out to be some high-ranking, government official, next in line, it seemed, to the French president himself. The man was on his way back from a secret, unofficial meeting—in other words, he was using the jet for his own personal use.
He and Alexandre spoke to one another in their native tongue, and it was translated to me that the politician didn’t want to seem rude, but he had a ton of work to do before we landed, so did we mind if he kept to himself during the flight? Thank goodness. My pidgin French would have been an embarrassment, coupled with the fact that, while we were walking up the ramp to embark, a breeze of air blew the skirt of my dress up above my thighs, and I was sure this high-ranking government man saw my bare, private parts. Alexandre laughed—the man, he decided, was too ugly to pose a threat. “I don’t know,” I teased, “I could be the next Carla Bruni.”
“Socialism in action for you!” Alexandre said with a wry grin. “Our government was probably paying for his mistress somewhere, maybe a private apartment, here or in Paris—don’t you just love the double standards?”
“And what about us? Is this flight a freebie, courtesy of the poor French tax payers?” I asked.
“Let’s just say the French government owes me a couple of big favors. I’m sorry to say, I have no control, whatsoever, with how they manage their budget. We’re coming along for the ride, Pearl, that’s all.”
“We’re taking advantage of a dishonest situation. That could be construed as immoral.”
“I’m an opportunist, Pearl.” His smile was bad-boy. “Just like you.”
“I . . .” I stammered.
“You knew what you wanted and you came after it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way you sucked your iced cappuccino through that straw when we first met at the coffee shop. Flicking your tongue around your lips.”
“It was you! You were doing that—licking your lips, staring into me with those startling eyes of yours, getting me all hot and bothered.”
“I wanted to fuck you there and then.”
“Well, why didn’t you?” I demanded. “What took you so long?”
“Because I was hoping you’d be . . . how can I say this?”
“Begging for it.”
He laughs. “You said it, not me.”
I stared out the window as we took off. I loved that dip in my stomach the plane made—it reminded me how I’d felt these past few weeks. Alive. On the edge. I watched the twinkling city of New York gradually fade below—the lights of matchbox cars turn to tiny dots. Alexandre had one hand on my bare thigh and the other tapping on his iPad, writing notes.
“Sorry, just doing a list,” he explained, “of things I need to get done.”
“You’re a list writer then?”
“That way, the problems are no longer swirling about in my head, but committed to paper, or these days, my iPad. That way they have less power over me, I don’t have to think about them anymore, at least not until I look at my list and systematically knock each thing off when the time is right. It ensures a good night’s sleep.” He shot me a sly glance. “One of my secrets of success.”
“Like Madonna.”
He knotted his brow. “Madonna?”
“She also writes lists of things to get done.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because my brother is obsessed by her. He also informed me that Beyoncé wears four pairs of pantyhose on stage to keep it all in place.”
“She must get very hot.”
“To use your expression, ‘tricks of the trade.’ Secrets of success.”
“And what’s your secret of success?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Ah, that would be telling.”
Alexandre nodded over to the direction of his highfaluting friend. “So much for him getting important work done—he’s already fast asleep. Look, he’s snoring.”
We are at one end of . . . I would like to say, “room” – it was so spacious—and this man, wearing old-style spectacles, was at the other. He looked like a schoolteacher, not a politician. If I’d known anything about French politics, I suppose I would have been impressed, but I didn’t have a clue whom he was.
“Are you a member of the Mile High Club?” Alexandre suddenly asked.
I rolled my eyes. “That is such a cliché.”
Secretly, though, I had always wondered what it would be like to make love thousands of feet in the air. Probably uncomfortable—didn’t people always do it in the bathroom?
“In all seriousness, Pearl, are you a member of the Mile High Club?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Should we join?”
“The membership comes at a price.”
“I can afford it.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “Maybe you can, but me? I’m not so sure.”
“What kind of price are we talking about?”
“The price of discomfort.”
He laughed. “Oh, you assume we’d have to do it in the toilet?”
“Well, yes, isn’t that par for the course?”
“No, it certainly is not. There’s no way I’m scrunching myself up double in some toilet,” he exclaimed with a look of mock outrage, smoothing his tailored suit pants with his hands.
“Well, where then?”
“Right here, baby. Right here, on these luxuriously comfortable seats. They’ve been very thoughtful—even made them of leather for us—easy to wipe down,” and he mumbled in my ear, “because I know how wet you get.” He slipped his hand higher up my thigh.
“Shush, stop that dirty talk! The politician will wake up. Or the flight attendant will see us.”
“No, he’s out for the count, I doubt very much he’ll stir for several hours. And the flight attendant, well I’m sure she’ll make herself invisible. The staff aren’t meant to hang about with the VIPs i
n private jets, unless they’re needed.”
“Are we Very Important People?”
He laughed. “Hell, yes.”
“You’re just kidding,” I said, “about doing it in public.”
“Don’t be so sure. Haven’t you ever had sex in public before?”
“No, I certainly have not. You?”
He templed his fingers and brought them up to his face as if in great thought. “Let’s see. On a beach in the Bahamas once, on a yacht, in a swimming pool, on a ski slope just off piste, in the Bois de Vincennes, in a—”
“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. I get the picture.” I was in a jealous sulk for a second, furious at the ex-girlfriend(s) who had dared to be so brave with him in all those places, but then, I asked, “By the way, where’s the Bois de Vincennes?”
“It’s a huge park in Paris, on the eastern side. The lungs of the city.”
I said nothing. Back to my silent, jealous ravings.
“You’re beautiful, Pearl, especially when you’re green-eyed.”
An unwanted smile stole itself across my face. How did he know? I pummeled him, my mock angry fists coming up against his hard abs.
“I’ve never done it on a plane though,” he told me. “Promise.”
“No. Forget it, Alexandre. I won’t be part of one of your lists. Crossed off as something ‘done.’ ” I stuck my tongue out at him like a seven year-old.
He laughed again. “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“You’ve touched several nerves, actually. Did you know that,”—and I lowered my voice to a murmur—“the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings?” I squeezed my thighs tightly together so he couldn’t get his hand any farther. “Not here, Alexandre. Stop it.”
“Well you are a mine of information—Madonna, Beyoncé, now this. No, I had no idea, but it does make sense. I’ll remember,” he whispered in my ear, “all those sensitive little nerve endings when I’ve got my tongue up there.” He was trying to force my legs apart and, although I desired his hands all over me, I crossed my legs rigid and clenched my thighs super-tight like closed scissors.
He nibbled my lobe and a frisson ran down my spine. “Careful now, we know what happens when you do that, sexy girl, when you cross your legs too tight. Especially with no panties on.”
It was true. The pressure was turning me on, and I squirmed in my seat, even though I had my seatbelt on. He eased his hands underneath me, cupping both his palms below my buttocks, lifting me a few inches off my seat. His fingers slipped into me from behind, then traced up the crack of my ass and back down. His thumb was now inside me, that magic thumb which seemed to know where my G-spot was. I started moaning quietly. I had my eye on the flight attendant, still strapped into her seat. She was reading a magazine, and the seats between us almost blocked her view. Almost.
“Haven’t you had enough of me for one day?” I asked in a whisper, conscious that we could be seen.
“Don’t forget, you’re still being punished for being an ambitious little American brat.” He punctuated the ‘brat’ with pressure from his thumb on that elusive spot. It felt amazing.
“What kind of punishment?” I asked softly—the throb more intense as his thumb circled inside me.
“I think a bit of slow torture, don’t you? I think you need to be taught a real lesson.”
“What kind of lesson?” I breathed.
“I’m sure I can think of something.”
“Oh yeah? Like some more whipping me with your tongue? Or beating me again with the feather?” The idea of it made me shudder with anticipation.
“No. Not that.”
I could feel my breath quicken. “What?”
“You’ll see.”
My legs were still crossed tight. The full skirt of my pink flowery dress covered his hand, but the plane had leveled out . . . oh no! The flight attendant was un-strapping herself from her seat, and was making her way in this direction.
I wriggled. “Alexandre take your hand away,” I hissed at him, but he was laughing, and he wouldn’t move it. His thumb was pressing harder on that sweet spot. Ah . . . panic –she was meandering towards us, smiling at us. This was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me. Oh my God! I crossed my legs tighter, my thighs acting as clamps to try and force his hand away, out from in between my legs. She was now upon us. I could feel it building up. At the last second he took his hand from out beneath me, but it was too late because seconds before he released it, he pushed hard with his thumb, and I felt a volt surge through me and explode in a massive spasm . . . the fear of being caught, the excitement, the shame, all merged into one thundering orgasm, pounding like an adrenaline-rushed heartbeat shooting right into my core. My legs were still crossed. I kept the pressure up and squeezed my muscles together even tighter and a second rush was upon me. Boy, oh boy, this was gloriously intense. But very embarrassing.
“Can I get anything for you both?” she asked sweetly.
My body was shuddering with delicious contractions. Every nerve was concentrated between my legs, as if the rest of me were a rag doll. I was coming in both places: Alexandre’s thumb’s final press on my G-spot, coupled with the clench of my thigh muscles putting pressure on my clit, had sent me over the edge.
Alexandre laughed. My eyes were half closed, my mouth hanging open, my breath caught in what seemed like a seizure. My stomach muscles juddered. I was shaking all over.
“Are you okay, madame?” she asked in a French accent, with a look of great consternation. She was bending over me, frowning, her eyes worried.
“She gets a little queasy,” Alexandre replied, and then burst out laughing again.
“Is she going to be sick?”
“No, she’ll recover,” he uttered with an ironic smirk. “If you could bring us some champagne that would be great.”
The hostess looked shocked. She must have thought he was crazy to ask for champagne, when I seemed as if I was about to barf, or worse, have a heart attack. “Are you sure?” she double-checked.
“Quite sure. Champagne is good for her, eases up the muscles a bit. Don’t worry, I know what her body needs.”
Oh yes, I think, still shuddering. You know my body better than I do.
The flight attendant walked away. Thank God. I was aware that Alexandre could have said all this to her in French, but he obviously wanted me to experience full humiliation. His punishment.
“Are you having fun, Pearl?” He chuckled again.
I couldn’t speak—the mini aftershocks of that 9.1 earthquake on the Richter scale were still giving me ripples of intense pleasure. Tremors, like bells inside my body, had every part of me shimmering and quivering.
“Such a disrespectful little hussy, aren’t you? Have you no decorum at all?” He broke into another grin.
I finally uncrossed my legs. “You bastard.” Then a smile forced its way onto my lips.
“Well I did say we were ‘coming along for the ride.’ But to be honest, I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.”
“Coming along for the ride. Really, Alexandre,” and then I joked, “don’t rub it in.”
We both laughed. “Don’t think you’re off the hook yet, Ms. Robinson, we still have to fill in our membership form. I’d like to come along for the ride too, don’t forget.”
“Fill in—ha, ha, very funny. Forget it. I refuse to be a member of this silly Mile High Club. Won’t do it. Just won’t. You can put a giant tick against the ‘Pearl – Public Humiliation’ box on your goddam list, and leave me alone in peace for the rest of the flight.”
The chilled champagne arrived. I looked up at the flight attendant from under my lashes and smiled furtively, sheepishly, then keep my gaze down, mortified that she could guess what had just happened. Perhaps it was part of her job, to pretend she didn’t know what was going on.
Egged on by thirst and a sense of shame, I found myself glugging down my champagne like water, wondering what else could be on Alexandre’s proverbia
l (or actual) list of things to “encourage” me to do. He was clever; it all appeared as if it was coming (no pun intended) from my own free will . . . and it was . . . yet . . .
Why did I feel I was being controlled by him?
I curled up against his strong shoulders, and the next thing I knew, my body collapsed into an exhausted, profound sleep.
When I woke up, all the lights were dimmed and it was pitch dark outside the plane windows. I found myself, not curled up next to him anymore, but stretched out, the seat down like a bed. He must have moved me when I was asleep. I glanced over and he was working on something—charts or graphs—it looked very mathematical.
“Hey, baby, you’re finally awake,” he said, winking at me. I was glad to see the gentle Alexandre had returned.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“About four hours.”
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“Haven’t I,” he said, distracted, still concentrating on his task.
“No.”
“Hang on, I’ll be all yours in a minute, just have to finish this.”
I got up, grabbed my purse and went to the bathroom. Even though it was a private jet, the toilet lights were disconcertingly bright. Yuck. It showed up every wrinkle, every blemish. I had to stop myself from launching into a full facial, there and then. I peed, then washed my hands and face, underarms and private parts, and brushed my teeth. I noticed panda rings around my eyes, how did that happen? I cleaned them up and re-applied my mascara, brushed out my hair, and dotted myself with my perfume, which happened to be French, a heady but fresh scent of figs that always made me feel invigorated. I dabbed some under my arms and a teensy bit on my mound of Venus. I looked in the mirror. That’s better, I’m ready. Ready for what? I asked myself.
Ready for anything.
When I got back to my seat, Alexandre had Bob Marley’s Is This Love? playing softly on his iPad. A good sign, I thought. He welcomed me with a grin.
“Sexy woman,” he commented, and he then unwittingly bit his lower lip. Uh, oh.
“Alexandre, we need to talk.”
He looked me up and down. “I’m listening.” But he wasn’t listening, his eyes were roving all over me. I was standing—a trick I learned about self-empowerment; when you have something important to say, take the high ground.
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 4
