I silently begged for an answer. I needed to know that she wanted me in other ways, too; spiritually, mentally. My dick was a fucking double-edged sword. But her pussy, so snug around every stiff inch of me, clenching me like a fist, pushed me over the precipice. I let myself go, the rush of climax spurting hard inside her as her extended orgasm kept rippling through her beautiful body, uniting us in one detonating, fire-cracking explosion. She quivered and trembled under me as I groaned with deep, carnal satisfaction.
Only to be replaced with a flutter of insecurity, seconds later. Say yes, God damn it, say the word, I willed her silently.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, baby,” she whimpered, “this is . . . oh my God . . . oh . . . YES!”
That wasn’t a ‘yes’ in my book! Then again, asking a woman to marry you while you’re fucking her was hardly playing it by the rules. “What are you saying yes to, Pearl?” I breathed into her mouth as her orgasm wavered through her quiet moans, her body still writhing, her kisses still wet on my tongue.
But she still wouldn’t reply coherently, only languid, brain-numbed yes moans escaped her lips.
I decided I’d ask her properly the following night. I’d just have time to buy the piece of jewelry that had been put aside for me: a vintage pendant that belonged to a white Russian princess. I’d have it adapted into a ring, especially for Pearl. Big bucks shout. If I paid the jeweler silly money, maybe he could have it done in time. I’d set up a dinner à deux at the top of the Empire State: king of all skyscrapers worldwide, at least in my opinion. I knew the owners, and I was sure they’d do me that favor.
And if that didn’t bloody well get me a bona fide ‘Yes,’ from Pearl then I’d be lost like a wayward ship on a stormy ocean about to go down.
I had to have Pearl.
For my own sanity.
THE PROPOSAL
ALEXANDRE
PEARL WAS SO BUSY at work that it took me three days to pin her down for our rendezvous. She was free for dinners, but I needed to know that she could take a day off, too—I wanted her to be reeling, delirious, drunk on love for me.
I was nervous about popping the question—as my old friend Shakespeare so rightly put it: There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip. Those three days crawled by, my heart jumpy, my solar plexus churning with anticipation.
Edgy as I was, it gave the jeweler time to do a beautiful job on the ring. It shimmered brightly, its myriad hues and unusual oval cut made it glitter, even in the dark, and it was so huge that it almost looked vulgar. Eat your heart out Elizabeth Taylor—this was a rock to be reckoned with.
Although they will tell you that it is “impossible to accommodate requests to close down the Observatory at the Empire State for proposals,” when you pay the right person the right price, anything is possible. Pearl and I had the rooftop to ourselves.
It was perfect. The sirens and sounds of the city were muted by distance, the buildings—in a panoramic sweep below—were almost like glittering pieces of Lego. The cars were just toys, smaller than my thumbnail, and the lights of Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, and New Jersey twinkled as far as the eye could see. The breeze was cool because we were so high up, but not chilly; the summer evening caressed our skin amidst a cloudless night, the stars blinking with swathes of the Milky Way dusted above the skyline like a pastel painting. The Empire State’s saxophone player was there, playing haunting jazz tunes that set the mood.
Pearl was wearing a long, flowing gown in silk chiffon. Pale pink. I donned a Nehru jacket and suit that I’d had tailored in India. I kept dinner simple; I didn’t want it to distract from the evening; champagne throughout—Dom Pérignon1953, with fresh strawberries and a selection of endless hors d’oeuvres (prepared by a French chef I’d hired), that kept arriving at our table—treats to nibble on while we gazed at each other, or walked about admiring the glorious view. Pearl looked exquisite. I hadn’t seen her in a long gown before. I was glad that I was giving her a diamond that belonged to a princess because she looked every bit the part. We wandered about the observatory, peering down to the nuggets of light below, glittering, shimmering—the way Pearl glittered and shimmered.
A whoosh of breeze blew Pearl’s thick blonde hair, making it billow behind her like swathes of gold, and in that moment I took her hand and got down on one knee. Her lips quivered into a knowing smile.
“My knight,” she said. “The name Chevalier does you justice.”
Still on one knee, I kissed her hand and said, “Pearl Robinson, will you do me the honor of being my damsel, of sharing the Chevalier name, of being my wife?”
Tears sprang to her eyes and she didn’t answer. Was she about to reject me? I asked again, third time lucky, “Pearl, will you marry me?”
“I thought you’d forgotten, gone back on your word,” she whispered, choking back tears.
I stood up and laid my arms around her shaking shoulders. Note, she still hadn’t bloody well answered my question! “What do you mean?” I said, bewildered.
“You asked me to marry you when we were making love, and I said ‘Yes,’ and then you didn’t mention it again. I thought you’d changed your mind.”
I laughed. “Oh, Pearl, what am I going to do with you?” And then I put it to her once more, “Pearl Robinson, “Will you marry me, goddamn it?”
She squeezed me close and I smelled the sweetness of her hair, her breath. She leaned back and I kissed her in the hollow of her neck, on her lips, and on the tears that were flowing down her cheeks. “Of course I will, you fool,” she told me with a little laugh, “I’ve wanted to marry you since forever.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a ring,” I said. “Things are a little tight with HookedUp right now. Do you mind waiting?”
She wrinkled her nose and gazed at me, love dancing in her blue eyes, “I’d be happy with a ring made of tin as long as the world knew I belonged to you. And, as for HookedUp going through a rough patch? I make enough money for us both to live on. We won’t starve, don’t worry.”
You see, that’s why I wanted to marry this girl. She didn’t care about money. She was genuine and true. She didn’t show even a flicker of disappointment about not being given a ring.
I led her back to our table and poured us both some more champagne and looked over to the saxophone player and gave him a quiet nod. He began to play Manhattan Serenade, and then the waiter brought out a tall, tiered cake, covered in fresh white lilies.
“Cake?” Pearl exclaimed. “And such a grand one? This beautiful evening has me speechless.”
“It’s not just any cake,” I said with a wink. “Here, I’ll cut you a slice.”
“Really, I’m sure it’s delicious but I don’t think I can eat anything more,” she said, patting her stomach. “Can we do a doggie bag?” she half joked.
“What? And let Rex get his chops all over this masterpiece? Just a small slice,” I insisted, cutting a large chunk.
“Really, I couldn’t, I’m so full . . . what on earth is that inside . . . it looks like . . . Alexandre, what the . . . ?”
I pulled out a small red box from inside her slice of cake, licking the icing from my fingers and wiping the box with a napkin. “Open it,” I said. “Go on, it won’t bite.”
Pearl gingerly took the box and bit her bottom lip in concentration, bracing herself—maybe for a ring made of tin? She looked at me, and then at the box again. She opened it and gasped. It was almost the sort of gasp she made when she came—blown away, as if in shock, as if that sort of thing could never happen to her.
“You like it?” I asked with a sideways grin. How could she not? But then again, after what I’d said about HookedUp being in trouble, she might have imagined this ring was from a Cracker Jack box. It was so flashy, so ridiculously sparkly that it could have been fake.
“Alexandre Chevalier,” she said. “Alexandre Chevalier . . . what am I going to do with you?”
“You’re going to marry me,” I said.
ENGAGED
ALEXANDRE
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IN THE NEXT couple of months that followed, I got to know a new facet of Pearl’s nature: her stubbornness.
She refused virtually every offer of mine.
“Pearl,” I implored, as we strolled through Central Park with Rex, golden orange leaves falling before our feet, “please be reasonable. See sense. I don’t want to do a bloody pre-nup.” I took her by the hand and stood in front of her. She needed to look into my eyes. She wanted to sign this unromantic contract stating that if we were to ever split up she would take nothing that wasn’t hers before the wedding.
She sighed and said, “Alexandre, I’m just being practical. You’ve worked so hard for your money.”
“I’ve worked hard so I can share it with someone special, have a family, live a real life. I don’t give a shit about the money itself.”
“Ah, you say that, but what about your fancy classic cars, your house in Provence which needs looking after, your apartment, and Rex’s nanny? That stuff doesn’t come for free.”
She was right. I’d gotten so used to having money I didn’t even think about it. “Our apartment,” I corrected her. I laced my fingers through her thick mane and drew her close to my face. “Anyway,” I said, with a brooding look in my eye. “I will. Not. Hear. Another. Fucking. Word. About. A. Pre-nup. Is that crystal clear?”
She threw her head back and laughed as Rex jumped up on me, concerned about the raucous I was making. “You see? You’re upsetting Rex when you’re so bossy!”
I walked along, silently brooding. Furious with her stubbornness. I’d have to fuck that out of her later, when we got home from work that evening. Make her acquiesce to my wishes. Worse than the pre-nup nonsense, was the wedding itself. She’d decided to wait until winter—had always, she told me, fantasized about a white wedding. But I knew the real reason. She was testing me. Using our engagement as a trial period to make sure she was doing the right thing. Fair enough, but it did little to ease my anguish . . . Many a slip twixt cup and lip. Why, I asked myself, couldn’t we just get on with it? She was stalling, and I didn’t know the real reason behind her breezy, casual façade.
“White wedding,” I mumbled, knowing at least that Sophie had made amends and was paying for a designer wedding gown that was going to cost her a cool seventy grand. “We could get married right here, today. Have a golden wedding—all these autumnal colors—wouldn’t that be beautiful? In the boathouse, right here in the park? I could serenade you in one of those little boats like a Venetian gondola man and sing you that Italian aria. And Rex could be our witness.”
Pearl laughed again and nuzzled her head into the side of my neck. Hmm, she smelled so wonderful; the essence of woman, of sweet, sensual delight. The sort of smell that cannot be described however hard you try. She was sensual, all right, but as stubborn and unpredictable as a beautiful wild rose.
She stroked her hand over the bicep of my arm and nipped her bottom lip between her teeth. I could feel my cock flex. Yup, I’d really fuck her good and hard when we got home. I couldn’t wait.
“You know, Alexandre,” she said squeezing my arm, “you must be about the fittest male specimen I have ever laid eyes on.” Then she slapped her hand on her mouth and cried, “No! How can I say that? There is someone, who, I have to admit does have a better body than you. Is even more toned than you. Maybe stronger. I know it’s cruel to be honest . . . but . . . ” She winced with a pitiful, sympathetic look on her face.
Slam! A wave of jealousy surged through me. I squinted my eyes at her and asked coolly, “Who?” I imagined my leg swinging into this character’s chest and knocking him down flat in one, easy, Taekwondo kick—I’d show him who was stronger.
She burst out laughing again. “So easily roused with envy, aren’t you?”
“Who is this buffed-up character?”
“Well,” she began, “he’s black.”
“A black guy?”
“Black and very beautiful. Younger than you. Loves running. Very active. Friendly. Handsome. Adorable. Actually, it was love at first sight. The second I saw him I knew he was special. Stole my heart, really. Definite competition for you, Alexandre. I mean, I know I shouldn’t be saying this to my own fiancé, but it is the truth.”
I finally twigged. I pinched her butt, teasingly. “So wicked, aren’t you? So femme fatale to get me worked up about my own bloody dog! I knelt down and Rex came bounding up to me, skidding along the wet leaves, careening into me like a block of concrete. “Black and beautiful, friendly, adorable and very . . . ” I slapped my hand against his rock-hard thigh muscles, “very compact.”
Pearl knelt down, too. She was dressed for work, wearing her sexy, navy blue suit. She kissed me lightly on my nose and whispered, “I love to provoke you, love it when you get just that little bit jealous.”
“What, me? Jealous? Don’t be silly,” I said. “I knew you we’re kidding all along,”—I winked at her—“I’m far too self-assured to let envy get in my way. You’d better get yourself to work, chérie, or you’ll be late. I’ll walk you there.”
We made our way behind the Metropolitan Museum, where we could cut through the park to her new office building.
In an attempt, not only to cement Pearl’s career and make her dream come true to work in feature films, but to also keep her under my wing, I’d bought out the company she worked for, Haslit Films, making it part of a new firm, HookedUp Enterprises. It was separate from HookedUp and had nothing to do with Sophie. I designed the deal so that Pearl and her ex boss Natalie could be equal partners.
But Pearl wouldn’t accept HookedUp Enterprises as a gift. No. That stubbornness again. Stubborn as the hook of a woman’s bra on a first date. Pearl would only accept the position as director, working for a salary, refusing a share—just a percentage of future deals, instead. With me as silent partner. No special favors. She even insisted on having a contract drawn up with lawyers. She was the consummate professional—very irritating for me. I could have made her an extremely wealthy woman. But there was no way in this world I was going to convince her to take the profit and call the company her own.
She wanted to earn her riches, herself.
Another thing: she refused to sell her apartment. Just in case. In case of what, I wondered? She was renting it to someone on a one-year lease, while living with me, but would not sell it. It was her nest egg, she explained. I tried to convince her that she could have thousands of nest eggs. All the bloody eggs she could ever dream of. Enough to make soufflés with. Omelets. But no. She wanted it her way. Financial independence from me, obviously. Just in case. She felt she had to prove herself.
I supposed it was from all those years of being self-sufficient. Two people had died on her: her brother, John, from an overdose, and her mother from cancer. Her surfer-dude dad had abandoned them when she was just a little girl, and Anthony, her other brother, was a self-centered jerk, or had proven himself to be, thus far.
Pearl was used to fending for herself, and however hard I tried to cajole her, to comfort her into believing that I could look after her, and would look after her, she was adamant that she could do it all on her own.
That should have been a warning siren, but I just put it down to her pride and a reluctance to change the status quo.
I had told her that I felt more comfortable with “a mature woman who had lived, who had suffered knocks and bruises,” but I was beginning to pay the price; Pearl didn’t trust me a hundred percent, however much in love she was.
All in good time, I told myself as I gazed at her beside me, her golden hair shimmering in the morning autumnal sun. I needed to be patient. She had a broken wing that had not completely healed.
At that point, I still didn’t know what, or who, had broken that delicate wing.
PEARL
I LAY BETWEEN the glorious Egyptian cotton sheets in Alexandre’s bed, relaxing against the plumped-up pillows. I felt satiated. Complete, both physically and spiritually. Beyond satisfied. More glorious lovemaking had left me fe
eling like the luckiest, most appreciated woman in the world.
Of all people, I knew what it was like to be stuck in a sexual desert without another human being to fulfill my needs. For almost twenty years I had convinced myself that work could be a substitute. I’d given up. I’d learned to be self-sufficient in every way—yes, in every way—and I never, in a million years, believed that at forty years old I would meet anyone special, let alone a man fifteen years my junior. And not only a younger man than me, but ridiculously successful, kind, devastatingly handsome, and last but not least, a veritable god in bed.
And to top it all off; completely in love with me . . .
Alexandre Chevalier.
I still felt as if I had walked into a modern day fairy tale.
It was tough being riddled with insecurities the way I was. Hard to believe that a man so gorgeous could covet you and feel the same intensity of passion that you felt for him. Yet there he was, Alexandre Chevalier, co-founder of the social media sensation, HookedUp—a company that had taken the world by storm and, at the tender age of twenty-five, had made him into one of the wealthiest men in the world. There Alexandre was, wanting to date me.
And if that wasn’t enough, he had chosen me, Pearl Robinson, a forty year-old with my girl-next-door looks, to be his wife.
Yes, I decided, I do believe I’m dreaming.
I looked at my left hand, which I was turning this way and that, and admired my diamond engagement ring; proof that all this was real. It was glinting, catching rays of morning sunlight that was pouring in through the long bedroom window. The ice-blue silk drapes were half open. Alexandre hated to sleep with them closed, as if darkness could swallow him up at dawn.
I’d learned a lot about Alexandre in the two months since we’d been engaged. There was a shadow that lived within, a dark mood that could encompass him at times, and it frightened me. I could never be sure when it would possess him, but it was there, deep inside his soul. He was a damaged man—that much I knew. Yet he seemed to be an expert at hiding the phantoms that lurked within.
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 15
