Hooked Up: Book 2 (7 page)

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.”

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 and 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.

N
OT 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 find 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?

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.

Last but not least, Laura, my ex. As I stood by the pool, white butterflies darting by me, the gentle sound of water tinkling from the fountain, I called her on my cell.

As I expected, she was not too thrilled.

“Laura,” I began, “how are things?”

She had ears like a bat. “Is that your fountain I hear by the pool? Are you in Provence?”

“Yes, I am,” I replied evenly.

“Alex, you promised!”

“No, actually, I didn’t.”

“I said you should wait for me! How long are you there for? I’ll get on a flight today.”

“Laura, no.” I walked slowly from the pool area into the house and sat down on the sofa in the living room, where coffee, fresh-baked
brioche
and croissants awaited me. I spread some homemade jam I’d concocted myself (from my very own cherry trees) onto a croissant and took a large bite. I was half listening to Laura and her protestations and wondering what Pearl’s reaction would be when she woke up here, in this beautiful, peaceful haven.

Laura droned on, “What do you mean,
no?
I told you I was planning a visit, I told you—”

I cut her short. “I’ve met someone, Laura, and I wanted to tell you directly.”

Why I even felt I owed Laura an explanation, I have no idea. But I did. I suppose it was the whole wheelchair thing, the guilt I felt about her having suffered for so long. As silence rang in the air, my eyes strayed to the bookshelves where several of Laura’s hardback books still lined the shelves. I needed to return them to her. Now that I had met Pearl, it didn’t seem right to have my ex’s belongings in my house. There was something else in those shelves I needed to deal with, too. Something top secret, hidden inside a multi-volume encyclopedia. I had cut out the middle and buried the incriminating evidence inside. Now that we had Wikipedia online, nobody used encyclopedias anymore—the stuff was safe.