What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG)

by CJ Roberts

  Now he’s moving closer, lifting up his hips with each thrust and doing his mantra… “I…. Love…You….Fucking….Me.”

  His pubic bone is rising to meet my clit like a secret weapon, his whopping great shaft 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’s all too much of an irresistible cocktail of pleasure and beauty….

  A thunderous bolt pushes up through me, shudders roll over my body – I can feel the hot center of us united as one – I’m coming all around him – I start to moan, kissing his lips hard, then closing my eyes in concentration as I’m still fucking him. His penis is widening now – the spasms, his and mine together, are intense as I feel him spurting inside me, more than ever before.

  “I’m coming Pearl – you sweet, sexy goddess.”

  “Me too,” I gasp. I’m moving hard now. Slamming up and down on him – almost in tears with the power of my deep orgasm which I’m still savoring.

  I feel like there’s liquid honey down there. I keep moving, gently now, letting the tingles and ripples fade, until I collapse on his chest. I put my finger down below and feel a sticky pool leaking out everywhere. Then suddenly it clicks. Duh, he didn’t put a condom on! He’s come inside me!

  I am not on the pill.

  “Welcome to the Mile High Club.” He grins. “We’re fully-fledged members now.”

  13

  Not even my childhood memories can compete with this. I look out the wide open French doors in my bedroom, which lead onto a Juliet balcony. I see rows and rows of deep blue lavender fields buzzing with activity – bees perhaps? Beyond, are pine trees, bright, deep green, and in the shape of giant parasols. The sky is like crystal, a pale morning blue which I know will brighten up as the sun gets higher. It’s already hot but there’s a small breeze shimmering through the doors, enough to blow a tendril of hair off my face. The smell of lavender is rich and heady; the faint air wafting the perfume towards me. It’s so divine it knocks me back and I lie on the bed, looking up at the ceiling in a daze. I didn’t see any of this last night in the dark, nor on the way here, as I fell asleep for most of the journey. The politician was also coming to his summer house. We landed in Avignon and his government limo picked us up and deposited us here, at Alexandre’s house, en route. I still hardly know where I am – nor where the nearest village is. I guess I’ll soon find out.

  Alexandre must be downstairs, or even outside. I heard quiet activity earlier, voices chatting in French. I sit up amongst the fresh linen sheets and ease myself against the plumped-up pillows, thinking, I am in Provence at Alexandre’s beautiful house! The bed is four-poster yet with no cloth, just the tall wooden posts reaching high. The room is like something out of Interiors Magazine – eclectic, yet somehow luxurious. The walls are white-washed and with dips and crevices – I could practically climb them if I had those rock climbing shoes. There is a vast fireplace of ancient stone with an antique gold mirror hanging over it. The floors are oak, I think, with different sized and shaped floorboards which creak as you step on them. Everything creaks here. Everything is crooked and topsy-turvy. There are paintings on the walls but the best painting of all, of course, is the view. There are massive wardrobes, the old-fashioned kind which you could walk inside and if you kept going you might end up in Narnia or some fabulous kingdom.

  There is someone at the door. I sit up and fasten another button of a big white shirt I’m wearing which I found strewn across the end of the bed. The footsteps are not his, but light – a lady’s footsteps.

  “Bonjour?” I call out.

  A slim woman enters, carrying a tray. She’s wearing an apron and is petite the way only Europeans can be petite, with fragile bones like a bird. The tray swamps her and I immediately jump off the bed to help.

  “Ah no, madame,” she protests. “I put Break Fast on bed. You eat.”

  The way she says breakfast is split in two and reminds me about the origins of the word. She is smiling and gestures for me to get right back into bed. I do. She sets the tray before me, laying it carefully on the bedspread – it is replete with a variety of goodies that smell of oven baked freshness.

  I breathe in. Heaven. Fresh-baked brioche and croissants, home-made jellies and jams of three or four different 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 which must be from the patisserie. All this combined with the view, the perfume of lavender blossom. Did somebody plunk me in Paradise?

  She is shy and trots out of the room as soon as she is done. I begin to delve into the feast. Breakfast in bed. I can’t remember the last time this happened – maybe only in some hotel when I’ve been on business. But the experience has never rivaled this. I spread the croissants with butter and it melts – naughty, I know. They probably don’t need butter at all. You couldn’t do this every day of the week. Or could you? I saw a book called, French Women Don’t Get Fat, about dieting and food which says you can have it all, but in moderation. Is this moderation? I plunge the croissant into my mouth-watering jaws and feel the butter, the freshness of the pastry, mix with the home-made cherry jam, melting into one happy symphony on my tongue. The coffee is also delicious. French women might not get fat but this American sure as hell would – if she lived in this country!

  As I’m chewing and savoring all the calories, I think of the possible consequences of what happened on the plane with Alexandre. I could get pregnant. The idea sends shivers of excitement through my body, but then my sensible, don’t be an idiot you hardly know him, voice makes me stop chewing for a minute. When I pointed out what he’d done, he 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 was 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 happened to me before with my ex. He looked pensive when I said that, squinted his eyes as if he needed to find some sort of solution and then said, “no, we can’t have that, a miscarriage won’t do at all.” Is this the Latin man-must-sow-his-seed thing, I wonder? Or does he seriously want my baby? I can’t believe a man so young would consider getting tied in with a family. Certainly American men aren’t keen for that at age twenty-five – most are commitment phobes.

  Perhaps he doesn’t want a family at all, but various replicas of himself running about the world – a woman, as my brother reminded me, in every port. Children in every port, too? He can afford child maintenance, so why ever not?

  I’m so wrapped up in this train of thought and am beginning to feel furious at him when he enters the room. His charming smile soon makes all wrathful thoughts dissipate and, within seconds, I’m back to wanting his offspring again. Did I rush into the airplane toilet yesterday and frantically rinse off the sticky mess of the lovemaking aftermath inside me? No, I have to admit, I did not. Instead, I lay back on my beige leather seat with my legs up – a trick I read about when trying to conceive. I am as guilty as he is, if he is to be condemned for fantastical castle-in-the-air desires. Yet he started the ball rolling, not me.

  Alexandre is standing before me now, his legs astride – a pose he often assumes. Very masculine. It’s all Alain Delon again, and I’m melting all over just looking at his face and body. He’s wearing loose black swim trunks and is all wet, his hair slicked back off his handsome face, his green eyes gleaming.

  “Enjoying your breakfast?” he asks, kissing me and stroking my cheek.

  “Dee-licious. Have you just been for a swim?”r />
  “Yes, the pool’s very inviting. Come down, I’ll show you the garden.”

  The garden is more lavender, and paths meandering through secret entrances and archways, all divided naturally by hedges and plants. It is like a formal garden in a chateau, yet more rustic, matching this pretty stone house which he keeps referring to as a ‘farmhouse’ yet seems far too grand for that.

  “You know why you can see the stone on my house and it isn’t covered up?” he asks.

  “Because it’s so pretty? Why would anyone want to cover it?” I ask, my eyes distracted by white butterflies – like snowflakes everywhere.

  “True, but in those days, the peasants who once owned houses like mine couldn’t afford the crepi, the plaster rendering, so the stones remained bare. Each and every stone was collected by hand from the fields. Can you imagine the labor? They built their own houses in the past, maybe getting their friends and neighbors to help. Little by little, carrying sacks on their backs, or with mules and horses if they could afford them.”

  “And now it’s some of the most expensive real estate in the world,” I comment.

  “I know. Sad in a way. A shame the billionaires have moved in and all the summer vacationers have pushed up the prices even more.”

  The billionaires…he’s one of them, I think to myself. “I thought the English were the guilty ones. I read that book, A Year in Provence. Didn’t that start it all?” I ask him.

  “Well, it didn’t help. But the British did us a favor, in a way. They went about restoring houses back to their original condition, ruins that were falling apart – things we French didn’t even want at the time. Okay, they put in tennis courts sometimes, or pools, but they showed us how important our patrimoine was. They genuinely loved the land and all the quirkiness of the damp, crooked houses. But now, some people only want to live here to bolster up their status symbol. Still, I have an interesting bunch of friends around – some film directors, artists and such. It gets quite busy in summer.”

  “So who looks after everything when you’re not here?”

  “As you can see, even when I am here, I have people. You met Madame Menager this morning. She and her husband run the place, and a couple of others, too, who come and go. It may look quite rustic but a lot of care goes into this garden and house.”

  “Yes, I can see,” I reply, looking around. The pool is now in view, the water rippling with a myriad of colors reflecting the blue of the lavender and the sky. It is bordered with real stone and has grass surrounding it, and trees shading one end. No Hollywood blue here. It’s discreet. “I love the color of the water,” I say.

  “I had it rendered with a gun-metal gray – keeps the temperature up and gives off that natural, been-here-forever sort of impression. Come for a swim, the water’s warm.”

  Like a schoolgirl desperate to impress her older brother and his friends, I do a back dive into the deep end, careful to keep my legs straight and my toes as pointed as a ballerina. I come up for air and then start the crawl – fingers out in a torpedo point, legs smacking the water with a fiery, rhythmical kick, and breathing only to one side. I clear a few lengths but realize my breakfast has hardly settled – my showing off has got the better of me. When I spring up with a splash, his eyes are fixed on me. Thank God. What if I’d done that show for nothing?

  “Very impressive,” he claps. “I can tell what country you come from. You really are a Star-Spangled girl, aren’t you?”

  I feel self-conscious. Is that an insult or a compliment?

  “Most Europeans don’t know how to swim like that,” he explains.

  “I swim a lot.”

  “I bet you were competitive at sports and games,” he jibes.

  I was. Ridiculously so. I always wanted to ace everything.

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask. “Are you taunting me for being an American?”

  “Being number one is important to you lot, isn’t it? Winning?”

  “What’s wrong with winning?”

  “It’s partaking in the game that counts,” he tut-tuts. “Not just the result.”

  “You can talk, Mr. Winner Takes All,” I tease.

  “Haven’t taken all yet. Not quite. Still working on it.” He narrows his eyes.

  “What more can you ask for?”

  “You. I want you.”

  You’ve got me, buddy, I want to scream out. But I don’t. Let him think I’m a challenge. Let him believe I’m special. I’ll play along with that.

  Cool, calm and collected. That’s me.

  We spend the day lolling about the house and garden and meandering through the lavender fields. Madame Menager prepares a delicious lunch outside, under a canopy of vines, which shades us from the hot sun. The crickets are chirping a high song, and there is a gentle crooning from a pair of doves in a pine tree. We drink a pale, pale pink rosé wine, so chilled, so refreshing, that I find myself flopping onto one of the living room sofas, unable to do anything.

  Oh, this is the life.

  The living room has a terracotta floor as old as the hills, and like hills, it undulates and buckles with a life of its own. The fireplace is at least eight feet wide and inside is a vast wrought iron fire-back of a dragon – iron to reflect the heat of the fire, I suspect. The room is lined with bookshelves and, amidst plays by Voltaire, Jean-Paul Sartre, Camus, I notice a lot of English titles of novels – smart sets printed by a publisher called The Folio Society. I inspect some. Several have stunning, color plate illustrations. He has The Wind in the Willows! I open it up and read an inscription: Darling Alexandre, this was my childhood favourite, hope you enjoy. All my love, Laura. Favorite spelled the British way. My heart starts pounding with an unfathomable jealousy. How dare she know about The Wind in the Willows? Who is this Laura? Laura, who must have been lining his shelves with classics in the English language! There is Doctor Zhivago, The Greek Myths I and II, The Grapes of Wrath, Vanity Fair, Madame Bovary – not in French but Madame Bovary in English!

  Alexandre comes into the room. “Ah, there you are, I thought you’d done a runner.”

  “Where did you learn expressions like that?” I demand in a ridiculous way, my eyes turning from blue to emerald green.

  He laughs. “Ah, I see, you’ve been having a look at my English books.”

  “Yes, I have. Who’s Laura?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “She’s a friend now. She was my girlfriend. From London. You’d like her.”

  I’d hate her, I think to myself, but say, “Oh yes? She has good taste in books. She must have been a great reader.”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Somewhat? There are piles of them here. Did she live here?”

  “She comes in the summertime.”

  ‘She comes,’ not ‘she came,’ Oh my God – he’s still seeing her!

  He says casually, “Why d’you think my English is so colloquial? It was Laura who taught me. She was ruthless – she’d correct all my mistakes.”

  “How long did you date her for?” I ask nonchalantly, trying not to show my envy.

  “We didn’t date, we lived together.”

  “Oh.” It gets worse!

  “We were engaged.”

  I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. “What happened?”

  “She left me for someone else.”

  Was she nuts? “She dumped you?” I ask with disbelief.

  “I don’t like the sound of that word, but yes, I suppose she did ‘dump’ me.”

  “Are you still in love with her?”

  “No, but I still care for her. A great deal.”

  I need to stop this conversation now. I feel whoozy. Stay cool, calm and collected, Pearl. Don’t be a bunny boiler.

  “That’s nice that you’re still friends,” I say, and then smile sweetly at him.

  “Hey, tonight there’s a party and I said we’d go.”

  “Where?”

  “A few kilometers away. At Ridley’s house.”


  “Ridley?”

  “He’s a film director. You’ll like him.”

  “I have a feeling I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  “All sorts will be there, it should be fun,” he says with enthusiasm.

  “Okay, great. Actually no – not great.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have nothing to wear. I was in such a rush I threw the worst outfits into my suitcase.”

  “Pearl, you could wear a potato sack and you’d look amazing.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence but I don’t see myself in such a positive light.”

  “Alright then, let’s go shopping.”

  “It’s okay, Alexandre, I’ll make something work.” I say this because I don’t want him buying me things. Ridiculous, but I’m not used to shopping with a man. “The truth is,” I add, “it’s so beautiful here, I’m loath to go anywhere.”

  “That’s how I always feel when I’m here; it’s hard to get away. But let’s go for a drive and you can see some of the surrounding countryside. The party doesn’t start till about eight – we have a few hours.”

  Alexandre’s garage is a low stone building covered in pink, climbing roses. Perhaps they are the roses he uses for his homemade rose jelly. The garage blends in beautifully with his house. Madame and Monsieur live in a small guest house next door, and behind is a walled-in garden bursting with rows of organically-grown vegetables, dominated by tomatoes which are a dazzling sunny red – and other produce like cucumbers, onions and even strawberries. The garage houses a host of shiny vehicles, even a Deux Chevaux, the quintessential French car. Batman’s car is there, too, in its full glory, the Murciélago, proud and intimidating but Alexandre opts for a royal blue, vintage Porsche.

  “She’s a 1964 356SC Coupé with an electric sunroof. I had to have her the moment I laid eyes on her,” and he looks at me, his gaze roving from my toes up to my face where he fixes his stare. I catch my breath. I’m just wearing shorts, a thin cotton top, and flip-flops – nothing special, and am amazed how desirable Alexandre makes me feel. Each time he looks at me like that, his green eyes piercing me, my solar-plexus leaps and circles around itself. I feel like a teenager inside.