“We haven’t had a chance to discuss what happened—the way I behaved, my reasons.”
“It’s in the past now,” he answered, running his gaze to my cleavage.
“Well, it’s not. You were so angry with me. You didn’t call me for a week.”
“You received your little punishment, it’s over now.”
“It’s just . . . before I met you, I expected you to be some kind of geek. I’d only seen one photo of you—”
“I don’t do photos or interviews, nor red carpet.”
“I know. You took me by surprise. I didn’t want you to think I only wanted to get to know you just because of what you did—your job. I wanted to—”
“You wanted,” he clarified, “to fuck me the second you saw me, and you worried that if we were involved professionally it would spoil things. That you might blow your chance with me.”
“You are so arrogant!”
“I’m French, what do you expect?” But he was laughing in a self-depreciating way, so I began to laugh, too.
“What am I going to do with you?” I said, waving my finger at him. I was still standing.
He angled his seat into a flat bed and then grabbed my legs, pulling me onto his knee. “You’re going to ride me.”
“No way, we’ve been through this. I won’t.”
“Oh yes, you will.”
I looked around the cabin. It was quiet, and the politician was fast asleep. The flight attendant was nowhere to be seen. “No, Alexandre. And after your ‘rape’ earlier today, in my apartment, to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit sore.”
“You’re right. I behaved like a thug. It was just that . . . all I could think about was you. All week. I was going crazy. Just picturing your ass in my mind made me hard. All I could think about was your ass, your tits, your face. Relax now, Pearl, sit on my knee for a bit and I’ll tell you about where we’re going.”
I sat on his lap, feeling all warm with the knowledge that he had been obsessing about me as much as I had been about him. “I’m so excited about this trip. Paris?”
“No.”
“Provence?”
“That’s right, baby.” He pulled out the kingfisher feather from his pants’ pocket and blew on it.
“I never got a chance to see this,” I remarked.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” He brushed it lightly across my brow. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.
I let my eyes fall shut and felt the lightest touch. He stroked my nose with it, my lips. “Hold up your hair,” he said in a soft voice. “And bend your neck down.” I did, and he traced the feather along the nape of my neck. I purred with pleasure. “The lavender fields should be in bloom,” he told me. “There are wonderful markets everywhere, with fresh produce sold directly by local farmers. Hundreds of cheeses to choose from, and olives, and pastries. Pretty hats. Delicious treats to eat. Thousands of wines. Chilled rosé at lunch, pale as rainwater, tapenade on home-made bread.”
His beautiful voice became distant as I was in a zone all of my own, enjoying the sensation of the feather on my neck. He drew it up behind my ears, and I shivered. Then around to my front. It wisped across my cleavage—my body with a mind of its own doing its tingling. I wanted to say no . . . I did say no, but I found myself silently willing him to unzip my dress at the back. He did. I wiggled on his thighs, pushing my panty-free ass into his groin and felt that familiar hardness. I started throbbing. Groundhog Day, all over again, but in the best possible way. I wanted to keep doing this forever. He was kissing the back of my neck so gently, and running the feather around my breasts, circling them, grazing the feather over my nipples.
“Oh Pearl,” he whispered in my ear. “Sweet, delicious Pearl—so addictive.” I could feel his hands pull his erection free from his pants, and he lifted the skirt of my dress so it was flesh on flesh. His hardness against the soft pad of my butt. “I love you . . .so close. I love you . . . near me.”
“Are you trying to tell me you love me, Alexandre?”
He lifted my leg over so I was in a straddling position, facing him. He kissed me on the mouth. There was no turning back now. I simply didn’t have the willpower. He pulled the top part of my dress down from my shoulders and his tongue flipped and rolled over one nipple. He lay back flat, pulled me down, and eased me on top of him, by maneuvering my hips.
“So wet, baby,” he cooed as I slipped right onto him. “Oh yeah, that’s good. Soo good. Oh yeah. So ready. Now what I’m going to do is just lie here and you ride me as you see fit. You have the reins, okay?”
I nod. I was loving this horse. This stud. Something about knowing we could be caught mid-act turned me on even more. He felt incredible. I straightened my legs so we were flush—flat body to flat body.
“Here,” he said, popping a little cushion under his tight buns. This way I’m closer to you, you’ll feel me more. Remember, go as slow or as fast as you want. You dictate the rhythm, chérie.”
The cushion under him had his pubic bone pushing on my clit every time I came back down. I was pulling out almost completely so that only his tip was at my opening. My clit brushed against his taut stomach, the hard points of my nipples grazed against the muscles on his pecs. I took another pillow and pushed it under his head so he was closer. He sucked my tits like they were fruits, rimming his tongue around them, nibbling them. I launched back down again so I was all filled up, swollen and hot with his size. Then I pulled up, slowly. Aah, this was bliss. I squirmed about on him, making little circles and then came hard back down. It was making him groan, and he grabbed my hips so I couldn’t move.
“I thought you said I was in charge,” I scolded, lightly biting his neck.
“Baby, if you do that one more time I’m going to come. Easy, you sexy rider.”
I was loving this . . . knowing that it was just me and my movements that were turning him on so much.
“Suck my tits again,” I whispered. He did.
I lay there languidly on top, his throbbing cock only an inch inside me. The pleasure from his nibbling and sucking was immense. I started moving again, just a little bit, and could feel myself building up to it. I circled some more, and he had his hands tight on my ass.
Then he moved closer, lifting up his hips with each thrust and doing his mantra: “I . . . Love . . . You . . . Fucking . . . Me.”
His pubic bone was rising to meet my clit like a secret weapon, his whopping great shaft deep inside, pressing my sweet places, his abs, the sweat beading on his muscular chest, his lips, his hair mussed about his face, the biceps of his lean arms . . . it was all too much of an irresistible cocktail of pleasure and beauty . . .
A thunderous bolt pushed up through me, shudders rolled over my body . . . I felt the hot center of us united as one . . . I was coming all around him. I moaned, kissing his lips hard, then closed my eyes in concentration as I was still fucking him. His penis was widening now—the spasms, his and mine together, were intense as I felt him spurt inside me, more than ever before.
“I’m coming Pearl—you sweet, sexy goddess.”
“Me too,” I gasped. I was moving hard now. Slamming up and down on him, almost in tears with the power of my deep orgasm that I was still savoring.
It felt like there was liquid honey down there. I kept moving, gently now, letting the tingles and ripples fade until I collapsed on his chest. I put my finger down below and felt a sticky pool leaking out everywhere. Then suddenly it clicked. Duh, he didn’t put a condom on! He’s come inside me!
I was not on the pill.
“Welcome to the Mile High Club.” He grinned. “We’re fully-fledged members now.”
PROVENCE
ALEXANDRE
I TOOK PEARL to my house in Provence. The ultimate test: does it travel well?
It did travel well, very well indeed.
In fact, she traveled so well that we both joined, for the first time ever, the Mile High Club. We hitchhiked a ride on a French government jet—they owed me a few favors a
nd I thought I’d cash in on one. No point contributing to global warming by taking a private jet ourselves—cadging a lift seemed like a good option.
Sex on a plane (there should be a cocktail named after that) was better than I had ever imagined. Of course, most mere mortals have to suffice with doing it in the toilet. Not us. We did it in full view, so to speak. Now Pearl and I were fully-fledged members. Not only that, but I found myself coming inside her without using a condom, without even consulting her first. What was that all about? A stake to claim? My dick acting as if it had a brain of its own, again? A mixture of the two, I guessed. I felt such relief to have her back in my arms after that week of lonely torture without her that claiming her as mine in every way I possibly could felt natural. The beast in me. The instinct to mark her as my property took over. Making her pregnant was the surest way, I supposed. Although I truly was acting on instinct. The logical side of my brain was AWOL.
Did I forgive Pearl for not having come clean with me when we first met? Yes, I did. We spoke about it briefly on this flight. She told me that before she met me she had imagined that I was a computer-nerd-geek. So when she bumped into me in the coffee shop she was taken off guard—surprised by her beating heart and the powerful physical attraction we shared within the first few seconds of setting eyes on one another. She didn’t want to blow it (that sounds like a bad joke, doesn’t it?) She didn’t want to jeopardize a possible romantic liaison because of a work project (which Sophie and I never would have agreed to anyway—and I think Haslit Films had cottoned on our reluctance by that point). So Pearl kept quiet about who she was. I understood. She presented herself, not as Pearl Robinson-documentary-producer, but as Pearl Robinson-look-into-my-eyes-and-tell-me-what-you-see. And what I saw was a beautiful woman needing attention. Lots of attention.
Besides, I wasn’t the type of person to milk a grudge with a woman. I realized that, during the week I hadn’t seen her, I’d been climbing the walls.
Yes, I was falling in love with Pearl Robinson despite her faults. Maybe even for her faults.
Although it was obvious that Pearl was in control when it came to her career, she certainly wasn’t when it came to her heart. I had captured her heart and that thrilled me. It was instantaneous for both of us. Cupid was in a good mood that day in the coffee shop and decided to zap us with his bow and arrow. I had her tongue-tied, confused, disarmed.
It was evident that neither of us could keep away from each other.
Love is not logical. If it were, we would all be able to follow the rules and live in a nice, neat, square box. Love is a hurricane or a tsunami. It hits you when you least expect it. And what you have to work out . . . is how to survive it.
With Pearl I had a premonition that I was up for a roller coaster ride with her, but I also had a very strong feeling, even then, that if I tried to get off I’d fall flat on my face.
PEARL
NOT EVEN MY childhood memories could compete with this. I looked out the wide open French doors in my bedroom that lead onto a Juliet balcony. I saw rows and rows of intense blue lavender fields buzzing with activity—bees, perhaps? Beyond, were pine trees, bright, deep green, and in the shape of giant parasols. The sky was like crystal, a pale morning blue, which I knew would brighten up as the sun got higher. It was already hot but there was a small breeze shimmering through the doors, enough to blow a tendril of hair off my face. The smell of lavender was rich and heady; the faint air wafting the perfume towards me. It was so divine it knocked me back and I lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling in a daze. I hadn’t seen any of this last night in the dark, nor on the way here, because I fell asleep for most of the journey. The politician was also coming to his summerhouse. We had landed in Avignon, and his government limo picked us up and deposited us here at Alexandre’s house, en route. I still hardly knew where I was nor where the nearest village was. I guessed I’d soon find out.
I deduced that Alexandre must be downstairs, or even outside. I’d heard quiet activity earlier, voices chatting in French. I sat up amongst the fresh linen sheets and eased myself against the plumped-up pillows, thinking, I am in Provence at Alexandre’s beautiful house! The bed was a four-poster yet with no cloth, just the tall wooden posts reaching high. The room was like something out of Interiors Magazine; eclectic, yet somehow luxurious. The walls were whitewashed and with dips and crevices—I could have practically climbed them if I’d had those rock climbing shoes. There was a vast fireplace of ancient stone, with an antique gold mirror hanging over it. The floors were oak with different sized and shaped floorboards that creaked as you stepped on them. Everything creaked here. Everything was crooked and topsy-turvy. There were paintings on the walls, but the best painting of all, of course, was the view. There were massive wardrobes, the old-fashioned kind that you could walk inside, and if you kept going you might end up in Narnia or some fabulous kingdom.
There was someone at the door. I sat up and fastened another button of a big white shirt I was wearing that I had found strewn across the end of the bed. The footsteps were not Alexandre’s, but light—a woman’s footsteps.
“Bonjour?” I called out.
A slim woman entered carrying a tray. She was wearing an apron and was petite, the way only Europeans can be petite, with fragile bones like a bird. The tray swamped her, and I immediately jumped off the bed to help.
“Ah no, madame!” she protested. “I put Break Fast on bed. You eat.”
The way she said breakfast was split in two and reminded me about the origins of the word. She was smiling and gestured for me to get right back into bed. I did. She set the tray before me, laying it carefully on the bedspread. The tray was replete with a variety of goodies that smelled of oven-baked freshness.
I breathed in. Heaven. Fresh-baked brioche and croissants, homemade jellies and jams of three or four different kinds of fruits, a mound of yellow butter, a pot of steaming coffee with hot milk in a jug. Melon dripping with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon, and some little mousse-like cakes that must have come from the local patisserie. All this, combined with the view, the perfume of lavender blossom made me wonder if somebody had plunked me in Paradise.
She was shy and trotted out of the room as soon as she was done. I began to delve into the feast. Breakfast in bed. I couldn’t remember the last time this had happened—maybe only in some hotel when I’d been on business. But the experience had never rivaled this. I spread the croissants with butter and it melted—naughty. They probably didn’t need butter at all. You couldn’t do this every day of the week. Or could you? I’d seen a book called, French Women Don’t Get Fat, about dieting and food, which says you can have it all, but in moderation. Was this moderation? I plunged the croissant into my mouth-watering jaws and tasted the butter, the freshness of the pastry, mixed with the homemade cherry jam, melting into one happy symphony on my tongue. The coffee was also delicious. French women might not get fat but this American sure as hell would—if she lived in this country!
As I was chewing and savoring all the calories, I thought of the possible consequences of what happened on the plane with Alexandre. I could get pregnant. The idea sent shivers of excitement through my body, but then my sensible, don’t be an idiot you hardly know him, voice made me stop chewing for a minute. When I had pointed out what he’d done, he’d just laughed and said, “And what’s so terrible about you getting pregnant? I think a baby would be a wonderful addition, don’t you?” I’d been so stunned I didn’t know what to say except, “you’re not HIV positive, are you?” He laughed again and said that no, he’d had a test only six months ago and that the last person he’d had relations with was a recently widowed woman who hadn’t even done it with her husband for the two years previously, let alone anyone else. Then I told him that the chances of getting pregnant at my age were very slim, and that even if I did manage, I’d probably have a miscarriage, as that is what had happened to me before with my ex. He looked pensive when I said that, squinted his eyes as if he needed to f
ind some sort of solution, and then said, “no, we can’t have that, a miscarriage won’t do at all.” Was this the Latin man-must-sow-his-seed thing, I wondered? Or does he seriously want my baby? I couldn’t believe a man so young would consider getting tied in with a family. Certainly American men weren’t keen for that at age twenty-five—most were commitment phobes.
Perhaps he didn’t want a family at all, but various replicas of himself running about the world—a woman, as my brother had reminded me, in every port. Children in every port too? He could afford child maintenance, so why ever not?
ALEXANDRE
I KNEW WHEN Pearl woke up the following day in our bedroom in Provence (note how I say our bedroom—yes, it was getting that serious), she would be enchanted. The lavender fields were in full bloom, the scent of jasmine was also wafting through the French doors which looked out onto the stunning view below.
Who wouldn’t fall in love with an old stone farmhouse in the middle of the French countryside? In the olden days, in the South of France, people built their own houses stone by stone, getting friends and family to help them. A far cry from the multi-million dollar properties they have become nowadays. When I restored my house, I wanted to pay attention to each stone, bring out the beauty and detail of the workmanship—the sheer labor of what they had achieved by hand (no machines), all that time ago. So I left it exactly the way it was originally; crooked walls, wobbly oak beams, wonky floors. I kept all of its charm, just added a swimming pool. Not a Hollywood-style pool—no bright blue or anything. I wanted it to look as if it had always been there and blend in with the landscape, organically.
I woke up early that morning as I had house business to attend to—I needed to ensure that the elderly couple (who look after it when I’m away) had everything under control, and that the garden was in order. I wanted to let Pearl rise and shine on her own—soak up her new surroundings. I’d instructed Madame Menager to take her up some breakfast, while I took care of a few business and personal phone calls.
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 5
