Hooked Up: Book 2 (37 page)

I opened my legs and clung to his firm torso, my arms gripping around his muscular back, and I clawed my nails into him without meaning to. “Please fuck me,” I begged, confused as to the double emotions I felt inside. I wanted to prove to myself that everything was okay. That no past ghosts could come between me and the man I loved. “I need you and only you,” I murmured.

He slipped inside me, his mouth again on mine, and he slowly pushed his way farther inside, his erection taut and full, stretching me open, his pubic bone pressing deliciously on my clit. He stared into my eyes, took my clawed hands one by one away from his back and held my wrists together above my head with just one hand. Claiming me, dominating me—I couldn’t escape from this position, but it was okay because it was him. I felt the power of his extensive thick cock cramming me full, pumping into me. I pushed my hips higher to meet him and we thrust together in a natural rhythm, each time we met, all my nerves tingling with need.

“Don’t stop, I think I’m going to come—keep doing what you’re doing,” I moaned.

“I’ll never stop. Never.”

I could feel it building, feel that glorious sensation of blood rushing up inside the core of me when he said, “I love being inside you, baby . . . fucking you . . . and you know what else?”

“Tell me,” I pleaded. “Tell me what you love.” I was gyrating my hips—I needed to be as close as was humanly possible.

“I love kissing you, running my tongue along your sexy lips when I’m deep inside you.” His mouth was on mine as he said this.

I thrust hard, pressing my clit against him . . . it felt incredible. “Tell me what I can do to please you,” I said with urgency. “Tell me what you love.”

“When you suck my cock tightly with your pretty lips, when my cock is deep inside your hot mouth.”

Suddenly, a vision of the needle-dick guy flashed through my mind. I caught my breath but not in a good way. I had been on the brink of orgasm, but not any more. I closed my eyes to make the image go away and then opened them again to drink in Alexandre, to reassure myself that he was different, that he had nothing to do with these repulsive snap-shots. I got back to my rhythm . . . I needed this release, but more images came crashing through me: being forced, pushed, pulled, not being able to escape. Needle-dick again, suffocating my mouth. I felt panicked, claustrophobic and smothered. Alexandre was pressing his body against me passionately, and all I could think of were dirty, smelly cocks and rape and tequila and my body as weak and helpless as a rag doll . . .

“Alexandre, I can’t . . . sorry, I feel sick . . . I think I’m going to barf . . . please . . . ”

He froze his position and released my wrists, but it was too late—I felt his cock swelling and a hot rush spurt deep inside me. He was instantly contrite and said, “I’m sorry, baby, I couldn’t help myself; you’re so fucking sexy, the way you move. What’s wrong, chérie?” Slowly, he pulled out. He rolled off me to give me the space I craved.

I lay there, hyperventilating.

“Are you okay, baby?” He looked shocked with concern, put his hand in mine and kissed my fingertips softly. He pulled me off the bed and ushered me to the bathroom. I stood there with my face in my hands, my head bent down. I turned on the shower faucet. I needed to get clean. Needed to wash this morning’s dream away. I felt the sticky mess of Alexandre’s cum trickling down my inner thighs and even though it emanated from pure love and goodness, from a man who would lay his life down for me, I felt sickened.

Penises. Cocks. Dicks. Blowjobs. Semen.

I was disgusted.

I HAD HOPED this feeling would fade, but as the day drew on it got worse—the straw that broke the camel’s back was a video clip Natalie sent me of her documentary about child trafficking for the insatiable sex industry. Men were pigs whichever way you looked at it. Aided, sadly, by women sometimes, even by mothers selling their own daughters. But still, who was fucking these young girls (and sometimes boys) . . . women? No, men were the devils with their penises ruling their brains. Not women, but
men.

Poor Alexandre was the innocent victim of my sudden repulsion towards all things male, although when I looked into his beautiful eyes I didn’t feel anything but love and compassion for him. My heart ached—he was my everything. None of this was his fault.

But the idea of being penetrated revolted me.

Please God, let this feeling go away. I love sex with him so much . . .

Luckily he was flying out late that night so I wouldn’t have to explain myself. On two occasions that afternoon, my whole story had nearly escaped my lips but something held me back. Why subject him to my baggage? Give it a few days, I decided. Let the memory ride itself out and I’d be back to normal. At least the dreams were unleashing it all, revealing the truth of what really happened that night—things my conscious mind had blocked out.

It wasn’t my fault as I had always led myself to believe. Or was it? If I told Alexandre, I’d have to explain to him how I’d gotten myself into that predicament in the first place. A threesome with two football players? His vision of me as the perfect summa cum laude student with an unblemished past would be shattered. No—let his perception of me remain untainted, at least until I felt confident enough to reveal everything. Remembering all this was bad enough, but if he found it hard to accept? If he had it lurking in the back of his mind every time we had sex, then what? Daisy was right . . . Alexandre was a Latin man at heart.

I needed time. I needed a few days to think this all through.

Alexandre and I spent the day walking along the beach and then passed by Venice to see the wild and wonderful attractions. There was a hippie guitar player zipping along on roller-skates, and a bottle-blond Tarzan character working out in an outdoor gym with massive weights, right by the Boardwalk for everyone to see. There were volleyball and paddle tennis courts, and funky shops, cafés, and vendor booths lined along this long stretch on Ocean Front Walk. We meandered, people-watching, taking in the sights of colorful street performers and beautiful young things strutting their stuff in skimpy outfits; Venice Beach was an exhibitionist haven.

The distractions were perfect; enough for Alexandre to not realize that anything was particularly wrong. When he’d asked me earlier what had happened in bed that morning and I told him that it must have been the smoothie I drank the day before—a mild case of food poisoning–he believed me.

And like food poisoning I
would
kick this out of my system. I had to. It was in the
past
, something that had happened so long ago it had no business screwing up my present life. I wouldn’t let it dominate my thoughts; I wouldn’t let it make me bitter and angry. I was a different person then, anyway. I’d made a foolish decision, and I paid a price for it. Did that mean it had to affect my life now? That I’d have to keep paying that price? Affect the person I was today?

As Alexandre and I continued our walk—arm in arm—I noticed people looking at my fiancé, eyeballing him up and down with come-on stares, and I felt proud.
Yes, he’s handsome, girls and boys, and you know what? He’s
mine.

Perhaps the break of a few days would be good for us. I could sort my scrabbled head out. I’d call Daisy and talk it through with her. Maybe even see a therapist here.

I crooked my arm tighter with Alexandre’s. “I’ll miss you.”

He winked at me. “It’s only five more days. You’ll be so busy you won’t even notice.”

“And you? What will you be doing?”

“Making money for us to get a pad here.”

“A pad?”

“Something wonderful. Farther up the coast in Malibu. A house overlooking the water, where I can surf and you can walk along the beach with Rex and swim if you’re brave enough to brace the cold. Would you like that?”

“No, it would make me miserable. Too much of a punishment.”

He laughed and pulled me closer. “You don’t have to go to work, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to me. I know you’re clever at your job, but if you feel like packing it all in and do nothing but read novels and lie about in the sun, I wouldn’t think any less of you.”

I grinned. “I don’t know how long I’d last doing that. Sounds tempting, though. But I’ve always worked. Even at school I had a Saturday job—I don’t know if lazing about is my style.”

“Well, just letting you know that you have a get-out clause. Just because we started HookedUp Enterprises doesn’t mean you have to be chained to it for forever.”

“What about you? You wouldn’t ever have to work another day in your life if you didn’t want to, either, but you keep going with all these endless meetings all over the place.”

“Just say the word, baby, and we can go and live in a tree-house in Thailand. Or join your father in Kauai.”

“You mean that?”

“I think so. Although, the truth is, I’ve always worked, too. I’ve had jobs since the age of nine.”

“But that’s illegal in France, isn’t it? Children working?”

“Nothing about my life was legal when Sophie was playing mother to me, after we left home—after we left that monster,” he spat out between his teeth, his mouth bitterly tight.

“Your mother must feel so guilty about not having come with you when she had the chance.”

“She does. Her guilt is almost tangible. Every time I see her, her eyes spell out regret.”

“You know that Edith Piaff song?”

“Why is it, Pearl, that you and I can read each other’s minds? I was just thinking the same thing!
Non, je ne regrette rien . . . ”

He started singing. He had a good voice, perfectly in tune.

“
Do
you regret anything, Alexandre?”

He squeezed my hand. “I regret not having kissed you sooner.”

“No, seriously, if you could re-live your life what would you choose to do differently?”

“I am who I am because of all my choices, the good and the bad. Perhaps if I’d done everything in the perfect order I’d be married to Laura, and you and I would have never met.”

“Do you still think about her?”

“She’s a friend, we shared a past, of course I still care for her and worry about her wellbeing.”

A clown came bounding in front of us, interrupting our heart-to-heart conversation.
Not Now!
I glared at him and his painted face and turned my head back to Alexandre, “So you don’t agonize over choices you made in the past or about things you wish you hadn’t done?”

“Sometimes you don’t have a choice, Pearl. Sometimes external forces choose for you.”

“Natalie says we always have a choice.”

“Well maybe Natalie’s had a relatively lucky life. Perhaps she’s never been a victim of circumstance or ever had to battle with personal demons.”

“Your main demon being your father?”

“And the tidal wave he left behind.”

“What happened to your father, anyway?” I asked, relieved that for the first time Alexandre was opening up about his past. I needed to strike while the iron was hot. I may not get this opportunity again.

“He disappeared.”

“Really?”

The look on Alexandre’s face was a chilling mask when he said, “Yes, really, Pearl. The nasty piece of shit just disappeared into thin air.”

“Aren’t you worried he could re-surface one day? I mean, not that he could hurt you now that you’re a grown man, but psychologically speaking. He could come back to haunt you in some way.”

“No. He won’t come back. He’s gone for good.”

“How can you be so sure? Sometimes when you think something’s buried it can come back with a vengeance just when you least expect it.”

“Because as far as I’m concerned, that bastard’s buried for good.” Alexandre’s eyes were cold fire, the green in them flickering to a pale, icy gold, and for just a second I felt as if I was looking into the gaze of a man capable of murder.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, while Pearl and I were making love—and I say “making love” because it was far more than just a fuck—she pushed me off her, saying she felt sick. It was sudden. A click-of-a-finger sudden. One second she was squirming beneath me in ecstasy, and the next she was repulsed, looking as if she really
was
about to throw up. Was I going crazy? Was this Alessandra Demarr thing for real?
Jesus. Is my woman a fucking full-on lesbian?

As the day unfolded, I still wasn’t sure what was going on. Pearl thought she had food poisoning. Then I decided that perhaps she was pregnant.
Hallelujah!

We were walking along the oceanfront, by Venice Beach. I sensed Pearl’s aloofness. Normal, I decided, pregnant women often push their males away—human nature.

“Could you be pregnant?” I blurted out after a long bout of silence.

“I wish,” she said in a sad voice. “No, if I were pregnant my breasts would feel swollen, and I’d have missed my period by now.”

“What’s wrong then, baby? I get the feeling that you’d rather I weren’t around for a while.”

“Just that smoothie I drank yesterday, I think.”

I was hoping that she’d say,
Don’t be crazy, of course I want you around.
Or,
I’m coming back with you, coming with you to Montreal.
But she didn’t. She just clutched my arm and walked ahead in silence, her private thoughts ticking away in her head. Not letting me in. Mentally pushing me out. Everything seemed more interesting to her than opening up to me. She people-watched the assortment of nutters that passed us: a guy on roller-skates with a guitar, a bodybuilder wearing a leopard-print leotard, a woman with huge round breasts that looked as if they would pop any second, a dog wearing shades.