Hooked Up: Book 2 (34 page)

I flexed my hips even closer to the blond one’s mouth. I could feel the need building, the need to be penetrated as the guy working on my torso, flicking his tongue again on my hard nipple, making it pucker. He then kneeled up and I saw his erection press towards my face.

“Suck my dick,” he commanded.

I felt the other guy’s finger slide inside me. “Gotta fuck this pussy,” he said.

The other one shoved his penis in my face. I held my breath—the reality of what I had got myself into suddenly hit me.

I heard him say to his friend, “Wait up, dude, she’s gotta suck my dick first. I wanna come inside her mouth. I want her to lick her sweet tongue all over my cock and suck it till my hot, creamy cum jets out to the back of her throat. Then I’m gonna fuck her, fuck that tight, horny little cunt—fuck it till she’s begging me to stop.”

“Dude,
I’ve
gotta bone her first—she’s got my dick so pumping and hard—gotta fuck that wet cunt—gonna make that cunt come all over my cement-hard dick.”

I need air. I need space.

“Wake up!”

I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to see.

“Darling, wake up!”

I dared to peel open my eyes and saw Alexandre’s concerned face staring at me. I let out the breath I’d been holding in . . . my lungs expired with relief.

Alexandre shook his head. “There’s something wrong. I don’t understand. Why are you having these nightmares all of a sudden? Baby, what’s
wrong
?” He gripped me tight and covered my face with kisses.

“Just a bad dream.”

“You were moaning—muttering in your sleep. Everything seemed fine at first, your lips were even curved in a smile, but then you started thrashing about the bed and crying out. Tell me about your dream, Pearl, baby. Maybe if you speak about it, these nightmares will go away.

“I can’t remember,” I lied. “I don’t remember. Please just hold me, Alexandre.”

W
HEN PEARL suggested we go to LA, I jumped at the chance. Her nightmares had gotten out of control, but she wouldn’t discuss them with me, just insisted she couldn’t remember what had happened each time. Yet I could sense her pulling away. Her desire for me was wavering like a flickering candle. Why all of a sudden? As if something had triggered the bad dreams, which in turn were making her jump when I touched her as she slept. What and why?

I wondered if I was somehow responsible; if I’d been too sexual with her—too dominating, too insatiable. She was holding something back, but I had no idea what. So I put it down to the documentary she and Natalie were making on child trafficking. The tales she told me of young girls being raped and beaten were pretty horrific. Selfishly, I was glad that Pearl wanted to take a break from making controversial documentaries and move into something less harrowing: feature films. Although, dealing with actors’ egos could also be pretty tough, but at least her day-to-day work would be somewhat more lighthearted.

So LA would be a breath of fresh air, I thought. We’d go, take a vacation, and then I’d leave her there if she wanted to stay on as I had a business trip in Canada coming up. I hoped that it would calm her down a bit; a change of scenery would stop these nightmares. She could tinker with the
Stone Trooper
script with the scriptwriter, as Alessandra Demarr had insisted on changes. Being a Tony award-winning actress, Alessandra had some clout, and Sam Myers seemed to be bending over backwards to keep her sweet.

As I was turning all this over in my thoughts, the dreaded phone call from Claudine came, buzzing like an irritating mosquito about to strike.

I picked up my cell. “How did you get my number?” I asked Claudine. She hadn’t even spoken but I suspected it was Claudine because of the weighty silence that I knew I was expected to fill. Responsible as I was for her misery.
Not
.

“Alexandre, I’m so down. My boyfriend and I—”

“I know,” I cut in. “Sophie told me. I’m sorry it didn’t work out but don’t lose hope—there are plenty of other men out there who would be delighted to date you.”
Delighted until enlightened . . . to the psycho side.

“You’re the only man I’ve ever known who knows how to fuck me properly, Alex.”

Uh, oh.
“You’re being dramatic. Don’t be silly.”

“I’ve been on a binge. I’ve fucked eight men in eight days and not a single one of them has gotten me even close to feeling turned on, let alone having an orgasm.”

“Claudine, that’s not the way to go about things. Men usually don’t care if a woman comes or not. They’re in it for themselves. That’s why you need to develop a
real
relationship with someone. So he cares about your needs.”

“I tried. You think I didn’t try? My last boyfriend. But it was a disaster in the end. Even
he
was crap in bed.”

I sucked in a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. What I can do is pay for you to see someone. A psychiatrist or a counselor—someone you can discuss all this with you in depth.”

“All those bloody book boyfriends don’t help.”

“What?”

“I feel so
inadequate.
All the women in those stories come in thousands of different positions as easily as if they were brushing their teeth. They even come on command. On command for fuck’s sake! All the guy has to say is,
‘Come
for me baby,’ and the woman comes, one point zero seconds later. Just like that! As fast as clicking a finger. Is that even possible for a woman? Because it sure as hell isn’t possible for me! I can’t come at all, let alone on bloody command. What’s wrong with me?”

“Claudine, that’s fantasy, not reality. In reality things are more complicated. Don’t believe what you read. I know . . . my mother’s into that shit. You think if all women were coming on command they’d be reading those books? No, they’d be busy fucking instead.”

“It’s not just the novels but the magazines, too. It’s all about the men. How to please
the man
. How to be a sex goddess. What about
us?
Why aren’t they being taught how to please
us?
”

I thought of Sophie. This was her next business plan—to set up a “romance spa” as she described it. Very chic. Expensive, where men would be trained to please women—women would be the only clientele—no male clients allowed. The sex workers cum “escorts” (yes, the word cum is very appropriate here) would be handpicked. Models—really good-looking types, would learn everything from scratch. Have their bad habits wiped clean. Learn how to make a woman come from just a foot massage. How to give her mind-blowing orgasms, even if she’d never experienced one before. There would be sex workers to accommodate gay women too. It would be fantasy haven. But better than fantasy, fantasy made reality.

“Alex? Are you there?” Hell . . . oo . . . o?”

“Yes, Claudine, I’m still here. I was just thinking about my sister’s business plan, sorry. Listen, I’m serious—I’ll pay for a shrink or someone you can talk to, but I can’t see you myself. I told you I was serious about Pearl. We’re getting married.”

“But you’re not married
yet?
”

“As good as. We’re engaged.”

“But you haven’t got a ring on your finger.”

“Claudine—”

“Which means you’re still
technically
single.”

I took another deep breath and looked at my bare left hand. I wanted that wedding band on my finger more than I imagined Rex wanted a big, fat, juicy bone.

And damn it, I wasn’t bloody well going to wait until winter.

L
OS ANGELES did not let us down. The sky was so blue that just looking at it made you feel warm and happy, as if you’d never had a problem in your life. The palm trees lining Sunset Boulevard, the leaves shimmering in a gentle breeze, as we cruised along in our rented 1960’s Cadillac convertible. Powder blue no less. Only in LA.

I remembered that when I lived here, brief as it was, I felt I was on vacation every single day even though I had a nine to five job. People are easy in Los Angeles and constantly in a good mood. They don’t call it La La Land for nothing. Beneath the veneer of perfection lie secrets and a dark interior, but why delve deep when you can savor the trappings of glitz? At least for a little while.

Sunset Boulevard is a winding road over twenty miles long, linking the urban streets of downtown to the grand and glamorous residential avenues of Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, and Brentwood. It continues to the Pacific Coast Highway, in Malibu, passing some of the most beautiful properties that money can buy.
Why take the freeway when you can soak up the ambience of the old-style Hollywood allure along this stretch?
Gloria Swanson immortalized this place with her 1950’s film,
Sunset Boulevard
. As we cruised along I imagined the debauched parties that were held in the exquisite homes here, the deals, the passion and the backstabbing divorces that followed.

Alexandre’s left elbow rested languidly on the sill of the open window, a content smile on his handsome face, the wind lapping his dark hair—neither of us speaking, just enjoying the music; a golden oldie,
Hotel California.

We were headed to Alessandra Demarr’s house in Topanga Canyon, an interesting choice for an abode, once famous for being an artists’ colony. She had invited us for lunch. I didn’t know why, but I was feeling nervous.

We arrived at our destination, although it was not quite as elegant as I had imagined. Our low automobile had trouble on the bumpy, pot-holed driveway, which crossed a creek where frogs were croaking—not your typical Hollywood mansion. Who was this woman? Everybody had been raving about her acting abilities and her brooding beauty. I was already intimidated by her.

Alexandre parked the car in an opening where the driveway seemed to come to an abrupt end. There were no houses about, or at least, none that I could see.

“Did we make a wrong turn?” I asked him.

“This is where the GPS directed us,” he answered, looking about. There were some lemon trees and rolling, scrubby hills in the distance, and exposed bedrock. I even saw a vegetable plot, and beyond it a sort of shack. There was a black vintage Porsche, dusty from passing along this makeshift driveway, no doubt, parked in a corner.

Just then, a figure appeared from behind a hedge. A sunbeam of light caught her and she was wearing a long, black dress. She was slim and when she walked she glided as if she were not part of this world. For a second I thought I’d seen a ghost. But I knew it must be Alessandra Demarr.

She grinned at us and called over, “You made it! Shows you must be in the top four percent of the intelligent population—you’d be amazed how this place has most people flummoxed.” Her accent was vaguely Italian, but obviously she had mastered the English language with a word like ‘flummoxed.’ I looked at Alexandre to see if he was as bowled over as I was by her beauty, but he seemed nonchalant as if seeing stunning women was part of his daily routine. He walked over to greet her and she immediately offered both cheeks.

I did the same. When I kissed her I felt her skin, soft as down, and she smelled delicious, of flowers and sweetness; femininity seeping from every pore. I stepped back and my breath hitched. Her thick wavy hair was almost wild, like a teenager who hadn’t brushed it in days. The dark locks hung down her bronzed back, her shoulders strong but slight, her breasts pert but not large—you could see straight away that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Again, my eyes flitted over to Alexandre to gauge his expression, but he seemed unimpressed by her. Her teeth were flaming white and her smile stretched across her face—a Julia Roberts sort of smile, warm and friendly.

“You know what? I’m starving,” she cried, “I skipped breakfast. Do you mind if we eat something straight away? I’ve prepared some antipasti to nibble on. Then I have a home-baked pizza cooking away in my wood-fired pizza oven.”

I licked my lips. “Wow, you have a special pizza oven?”

“Made by hand by an Italian guy who lives nearby.”

“Count me in!” I said.

“Where are you guys staying?” she asked.

“In Santa Monica,” Alexandre told her, edging towards the old Porsche. Is this car yours? It’s a 356B, isn’t it? Let me guess, 1962?”

“Yes, you’re right. Poor thing, she needs a wash,” Alessandra said with a laugh, and then linked her arm in mine and pulled me towards the gap in the hedge from where she emerged five minutes ago like a dark angel. “Boys—always obsessed by bits of metal. Sniff about her, Alexandre, why don’t you. Take her for a spin if you like—the key’s under the matt. Meanwhile I’m going to feed your fiancée some snacks and give her a Bloody Mary. Come join us when you’ve finished with your testosterone boost. Anyway, I want to have your beautiful Pearl all for myself for a while and talk shop. Go for a drive, Alexandre, take my car along the coast.”

Alexandre laughed out loud. “I can see you’re desperate to get rid of me.”

“Just for a little,” she admitted, tossing her dark mane. “Come back in half an hour.” She pulled me close and walked me away from him. I looked behind and he winked at me in amusement, settling himself in the driver’s seat of her classic car.

“See you in a bit,” he called out, but Alessandra ignored him and raked her gaze over me, from my head to my toes. I was wearing just a dress and some flat Greek sandals. A frisson of nervousness shot through my body. No woman had ever looked at me this way before.

Once through the secret entrance in the hedge, I set my eyes on her house; a glorified barn made of wooden clapperboard, and with a garden surrounding it of roses and more lemon trees. There was a little tree house looking like something out of
Robinson Crusoe
and a hammock resting between two small oaks. Beyond, a swimming pool, the water shimmering and breaking up into fragments of wavy light from dark blue mosaic tiles. The place was magical and from another world. The antithesis of “Hollywood” or how you’d imagine it should be.

“He’s cute your husband-to-be,” she noted. “Very sexy French, yet with a body like an American movie star—before and during filming, you know, when they’re in perfect shape.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Very Alpha male. I bet he’s a great fuck.”