Hooked Up: Book 2 (19 page)

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and said, “Will. You. Marry. Me. Pearl?” When he said each word he gave tiny punctuation thrusts, which were like mountains moving inside me. I grabbed his butt and pulled him deep into me so he was close. He stilled and I could feel his throbbing. Something about his heartfelt words brought on a rush of pleasure, fireworks inside me, the waves of bliss rolled through me, the unexpected orgasm upon me now in flashes of white stars. Intense. Sublime.

I cried out, “Yes, oh yes.”

He jutted his hips forward, and I felt his release, filling me. He held me tighter, closer. “Yes, what, Pearl? What are you saying yes to?”

“Yes to everything,” I moaned, still coming hard.

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER I clanked my way up the fire escape of Pearl’s building on the Upper East Side, carabiners jangling off my belt. Before climbing up I had told the young doorman that someone had called 911 about smoke in the building, and he believed me.

I was clad in all the right firefighter gear but had abandoned the jacket somewhere farther down below because it was still very hot from the late summer sun—I was sweating—beads of moisture trickling down my chest and abs. I felt bad for firefighters; they had to wear this stuff to work, yet not so bad that I didn’t know the magic it spun. Women have always gone wild for them. I was hoping that Pearl would be no different. Perhaps, I thought, she’d just laugh at me—I looked like a cliché, a centerfold model. At least I’d get her attention.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I said, peering through the kitchen window after I’d made my way up to the eleventh floor, “I heard there was a fire in this apartment.”
True. The fire of Pearl’s wrath.

Pearl stared at me, her mouth dropped to the floor, but then her expression changed. She wasn’t angry, nor did she laugh at me. A naughty smirk—yes—and a suppressed giggle at my outrageous outfit, but the second I laid eyes on her through the glass that separated us I knew I was forgiven.

I pulled up the sash window and gatecrashed my way inside, surprised that the burglar alarm hadn’t gone off by now; my big black boots stomping on the tile floor as she appraised my sweaty body, her melting blue eyes taking me in with approval.

“You nearly had me fooled but your accent gave you away,” she said with a grin, no doubt brought on by the incongruity of the scenario: a faux French firefighter.

I wanted to ravage her she looked so beautiful: her golden arms hung cool by her side, her blonde hair loose about her shoulders, her scent of flowers and magic, which always had me intoxicated. But I felt so much more than just pounding physical attraction for her. My heart was bursting through my sun-warmed chest: I was going to ask this woman to marry me. I yearned to start a family with her. All this, I was going to spell out to her.

When the moment was right.

I longed for her whole; her heart, her soul, her body, and every tiny emotion that came along with that trinity.

The good, the bad, the happy. And even the miserable. Because I knew there’d always be tough days up ahead. I’d be there for her. I wanted to wake up next to her every morning, smell her scent, hear her smooth voice. I’d even settle for a grumpy voice, as long as she was there beside me.

I was brimming over with love for Pearl Robinson. And I knew that if I carried on without her, I would only be half the man I was capable of being. Rich, powerful, successful; all those things men strive for in this world are nothing without the right mate—just sand in an egg timer that will come to an abrupt stop if you can’t turn your life around.

We kissed, our mouths as one. I licked her all over, devouring her taste, her nectar, her essence, then carried her over my shoulder to the bedroom, where I deposited her on her four-poster bed. I needed to lie with her, make love to her—feel her every muscle, soak up her every cell. The firefighter garb seemed absurd by this point. It had helped me achieve my goal—to catch her attention. Get me into her apartment.

I jested with her, teased her with “spanking” (an excuse to slap my cock against her glorious behind). I nipped her, pretending, with a sulky, downcast face, that she needed to be punished for running away from me, abandoning me. An old trick to re-balance the equilibrium of the relationship. I could sense myself falling and I needed to pick myself up.

“Get this garb off me,” I said in a solemn voice. “I feel claustrophobic. I need to lie with you, Pearl. We’ve played enough silly games, it’s time to get serious.”

She was the student and I was the teacher—at least that is what I was striving for. Hoping to have some kind of command over her so she wouldn’t run from me again. But in my soul, I knew that Pearl was her own person. She would never truly be mine. How can you own a free spirit like Pearl?

She put on some music, which answered my question.
Je T’aime, Moi Non Plus
—I love you, Me Neither.
The “me, neither”
said it all. Yes, she loved me, but I knew she wouldn’t take any crap from me. I had a memory of her by the sea in France, looking over her smooth tanned shoulder, shrugging as if to say,
Catch me if you can
, and with a toss of her blonde mane, she dove into the water like a mermaid from the rock where she was perched.

Here I was, coming to catch her, but a presentiment, deep down inside, told me that in the end Pearl would never be completely mine.

But I soldiered on, determined. I stroked her soft, golden hair and laid all my cards on the table, face up, “You’re unique, Pearl, I’ve fallen in love with you.” There—she had my vulnerability, my weakness laid out before her like a crudely woven carpet for her to walk all over if she wished, each thread visible, each weave part of my soul.

She smiled serenely and took in a long breath, but didn’t answer me. She still hadn’t told me she loved me yet. I did what came naturally when I felt insecure: my cock flexed at the softness of her velvet skin, her erotic scent, and I entered her, stretching into her wet, welcoming warmth. My power, my security: my big cock that had never let me down. It was the only tool I had that I knew how to use with precision. Everything else was new to me. I was ill equipped in the art of love. I hadn’t known
true,
burgeoning love before—how it can burst your chest open and bring tears to your eyes. How it can sneak up on you and take hold of your gut and twist it into a pit of fear and loneliness when you think it has escaped you. Those twenty-four hours without Pearl had me as vacuous as a shooting star on impact—reduced to a particle of pale dust.

I controlled her sexually, but in every other respect she held all the cards in her realm. She was the Queen of Hearts, the Queen of Cups. All I could do was fill her in the way I knew how. I pushed myself into her until I felt her tightness cling to me, my security returning like a welcome friend.

I punctuated each word with a thrust, “Will. You. Marry. Me. Pearl. Robinson?”

I hadn’t meant to ask for her hand in marriage this way. It was cheating. Using my sexual prowess to reach my goal. My insecurity had me thrusting harder inside her, grinding my hips slowly; making small figures of eight. The number eighty-eight. Infinity. A number that would keep going infinitum and would last forever, unbroken. I could feel myself expand as her walls gripped about my throbbing cock—she was on the brink. I sucked her hard nipples, which I knew would push her over the edge, and then slammed my mouth on hers, my tongue ravishing her as I fucked her slowly, pulling out so my crown massaged her sweet clit, and then pushing back inside again, rolling back into the figure of eight, my hands like a vice about her smooth shoulders. She started screaming, writhing about beneath me. I had her, yet I
didn’t
have her, and it was killing me.

So I asked her again, “Will you marry me, Pearl?”

She was coming hard, her orgasm so intense that I felt her unraveling beneath me, her fingers knotted in my hair, her tongue lashing on mine with so much carnal desire that she couldn’t even speak—she just moaned. She bucked her hips at me, her skin misted with sweat, and hooked her legs about my calves as she dug her nails into my ass. Christ, she was like a tigress with her prey. Her climax was consuming her so intensely that her mind was blank.

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.

P
EARL 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?”