Hooked Up: Book 2 (40 page)

“The best way to relieve tension is through climax,” she said quietly. “If you ever have a migraine you know what to do.”

Sensations of shameful bliss were still pulsing through me, my clit tingling with aftershocks, the base of me beautifully released.
I am not a lesbian! How has this happened?
“Alessandra, this was a one time thing. I can’t let this happen again.”

But she just laughed. “Don’t be so serious, Pearl. It’s just a release, that’s all. Your body needed it.”

“I’m not going to reciprocate,” I warned her. I couldn’t see her expression because she was behind me, but I could imagine it. I had a picture in my mind’s eye of a cool smirk etched across her beautiful face.

And it scared me.

No woman had touched me like this. Ever.

And I was shocked at how I responded with so much desire.

I
AWOKE TO the sound of the Skype ring on my iPad and hazily turned on my side. I hadn’t had any nightmares during the night, I’d had night mares, or should I say, a night of
mares
. No stallions. I dreamt about females: beautiful breasts, slender long legs.
This was crazy!
Still, I guessed it was better that visions of women erased the grotesque, panting images of what had been there before.

Ugh, I couldn’t even think about it.

I unlocked my tablet. It was Alexandre.

I quietly recounted my yesterday evening’s adventure. I wondered if he’d be as delighted as he said he’d be. Perhaps he might get jealous?

But no . . . jealousy didn’t seem to hold a place with him when a woman was involved. He responded huskily, “If my plane wasn’t about to take off right now, I’d want a full recount of every single, tiny, sexy detail, and I’d get myself off while you recounted each horny moment. I swear to God you’ve got me all worked up thinking about it.”

I could hear the jet’s engines roaring in the background. “I’m not proud of what I did,” I said tentatively. “It just sort of . . . unfolded. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Pearl, have some fun, don’t take it all so seriously.”

I froze. Isn’t that exactly what
she
had said? “I have something really important to tell you. Something that’s been responsible for my bad dreams . . . hello? . . . Alexandre?”

The line went dead. I called him back on both Skype and his cell number. Nothing.

I rolled out of bed and ambled to the bathroom. I missed Alexandre. It struck me that all I really wanted to do was be with him and Rex, cozy together, watching a movie or enjoying a walk in the park. Work had been too important to me in the past, but now less so. I mulled over the “lady of leisure” fantasy he had sold me yesterday, lying by the beach reading novels. Or the pair of us escaping to Thailand and living in a tree house—leaving the “real” world behind. Usually when you cook up a fantasy it’s unattainable, but for us it was a reality. A sweet thought.
But the Devil makes work for idle hands, doesn’t he?

With this in mind, I showered quickly, got myself ready, and set off for work in my outrageous low and vast, powder blue Cadillac that felt like a ship. I swung by my favorite smoothie stall, feeling cruel that I’d blamed it for my “food poisoning.” In a few hours I’d be able to speak to Alexandre and we could have a long talk. I wanted to get those nightmares off my chest and lay it all out in the open. I was sick of harboring this secret.

As I cruised along Pacific Coast Highway, sipping my strawberry smoothie, I wondered if I’d be able to adapt to this city . . . smoothies, the ocean, palm trees swaying in a warm breeze, beautiful people everywhere—what wasn’t there to love?

This was my last day with Alessandra—our last day working on the script. I had to admit that it had been fun, but right now the last thing I needed was the possibility of more complications. It had been a highly pleasurable once in a lifetime experience in the bathtub, but I knew I mustn’t let her have her seductive way again.
Watch out Pearl, be on your guard.

It was cooler today so we wrote inside, settling in the living room, which was an extension of her open-plan kitchen. The place was decorated with Navajo hand-woven rugs and an eclectic mix of oil paintings that were copies of Klimt and Frida Kahlo. There was a wood-burning stove in the corner, with a brick surround, and bookcases stuffed with self-help books and . . . Russian novels. Spooky—a woman after my own heart.

“You have the same reading taste as me,” I remarked, setting down my bag and sitting on a big armchair.

“I knew we’d think alike, Pearl. We’re mirrors of each other.”

I wanted to tell her she was the female image of Alexandre, not me, but I said nothing. The less we talked about my fiancé, the better.

She pulled back her long, dark hair into a ponytail, settled cross-legged on the sofa and said, “I told you so much about my life, my family in Italy and stuff, but you’ve revealed nothing about yourself.”

Only the most personal thing ever.
“Oh, my life has been very normal,” I hedged. “You know, school in New York, college, jobs, marriage, divorce, and now I’m engaged.”

“Engaged to one of the richest men in the world.”

“Well, I don’t focus on that aspect. Money doesn’t motivate me.”

“What does motivate you, Pearl?”

“Passion. In work. In love. In ideas. I think you have to really believe in what you do on every level. You know, morally and spiritually speaking.”

“Do you believe in
Stone Trooper?”

Her question grabbed me by the throat. Did I believe in this Hollywood blockbuster? Was it important on the grand scale of things? Or was what Natalie was doing so much more significant? “Of course I do,” I replied with a half lie. “I mean, I think the fact that your character Sunny is gay is important. A movie with a message. So many people are homophobic.”

“Are you homophobic, Pearl?”

“No! Of course not. I believe in gay rights, I believe in same-sex marriage, I believe in—”

“You kept trying to convince me last night that you weren’t gay. Why is it okay with you that others are gay but not yourself?”

“But I—”

“Why label things? Why is it so important for you to limit yourself, to pigeon-hole yourself?”

“I—I . . . ” I stammered, “I guess I’ve never thought of myself as being locked in some pigeon-hole.” For some strange reason I felt hurt by her accusation.
I am liberal-minded!

Her voice softened at my injured expression. “You’re so tender, Pearl. So vulnerable. I hope your husband-to-be realizes how lucky he is.”

“He tells me every day.”

She locked her eyes with mine and said quietly, “When you came, by my hand, yesterday in the bath, I could feel you tremble, feel your beautiful little pussy quiver—you know, just the thrill of it, the excitement gave me an orgasm too.”

But how? You didn’t even touch yourself.

She went on in her husky voice, “All I had to do was give myself a tight clench and I felt little ripples of pleasure. Not a bumper-big, mind-blowing orgasm but, you know . . . a little thrill. Touching your hard nipples and those beautiful breasts of yours—seeing how turned on I got you . . . well . . . you got me horny, Pearl.” She bit her lower lip. “My pussy flutters a little when you look at me with your big blue eyes. But you know that, don’t you? You know you penetrate me with your intense, come-on stare, don’t you?”

“Alessandra! I’m not trying to seduce you!”

She chortled with laughter. “Just kidding. Where’s your sense of humor? Lighten up.”

I sighed with relief, but was alarmed when I could sense my panties had got a little damp after what she’d just said. I shuffled my position on the couch and sat up straight. “We need to finish this script,” I said assertively. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

She pouted her full red lips. “Such a shame. We’ve had so much fun together.”

I spent the next twenty minutes with my legs firmly crossed, listening to what Alessandra had to say about
Stone Trooper
and the ideas she had for the love scenes. Somehow she had convinced Sam that a full-on sex scene between her and her onscreen girlfriend in the film was a must. “To titillate the audience,” she explained.

I had Lucifer purring away on my knees, while I was also trying to type on my laptop. I looked up. “Alessandra, there’s no way our kind of audience will be up for that.”

“Oh, stop being so backward-thinking. People are more open-minded these days. Mid-American housewives are reading about bondage and sex toys, for God’s sake—hell, they’re even experimenting with it all.”

“Yes, but
gay
sex in a mainstream movie? A blockbuster, buddy movie?”

“Why not?”

“Because, because . . . ”

“It hasn’t been done before?”

“No, I don’t think it has. This is not some French or Italian art-house film. This will be screened in shopping malls across the USA.”

“Then give them something to talk about with their popcorn and soda.”

I put my laptop aside and gently unhooked Lucifer’s claws from my skirt. I got off the couch and stretched my arms. “I’m going to have to talk to Sam about this, Alessandra. Personally, I don’t think it will work. I mean, I know that gay characters in movies are either marginalized or made the punch-line for degrading jokes a lot of the time, and so having your character being gay, and you yourself being gay, is already a big leap forward. We can hint at sex, show a kiss or something, but a full-on lesbian love scene?”

“I thought a little light BDSM.”

I laughed. “Okay, now I know you’re kidding me. It’s that crazy Italian sense of humor. You Europeans . . . really. Alexandre does the same thing to me . . . you know, that poker face thing? Which is what you’re doing now. Very funny. You guys are expert at getting us Americans all worked up for nothing.”

I thought back to that time when Alexandre tied my ankles to the bedpost when he said I’d been disrespectful and needed to be punished—his wacky sense of humor had me fooled at first.

As if reading my mind, Alessandra said, “I think we should play it out. Do a little improv acting—we thespians love that.”

I burst out laughing at her unintentional (or perhaps intentional) onomatopoeia with the word, thespian. “Lesbian bondage?”

She still donned her poker face. “Yes, why not?”

“Not even my fiancé would approve of that.”

She widened her eyes innocently. “He’s not into a little dominance play? A little S&M? He looks the type. So manly . . . so controlling, alpha male.”

“No way. He won’t come near me with a whip. Personally, it’s something I wouldn’t mind experimenting with, but him? Not a chance.”

She rolled her eyes. “My ex girlfriend’s like that. Can’t play Dom and Sub with her ever—she has an aversion to any kind of physical power play. Except, I think in the past she got pretty tough with men. You know, when she was kinda straight. But she would never lay a hand on me.”

“Yeah, well, in my fiancé’s case, he has good reason. A violent childho—”
Shut up, Pearl!
I stopped my sentence midway and changed the subject. “Who did these paintings on the wall? They’re lovely copies. Got the colors just right.”

“I did.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re an artist as well as an actress? Why does that not surprise me?”

I wandered about the room, feeling extremely uneasy. I’d promised Sam we’d get this script done and dusted, but I was feeling like I wanted out of this part of the project altogether. This whole movie process was giving me the willies. Something about it just didn’t seem right. The procedure didn’t feel normal . . . both of us tinkering about with the script and we were not the official scriptwriters. Then again, having only ever worked on documentaries, who was I to judge? This was Hollywood, not a world I knew well.

“Do you mind if I make us some coffee?” I asked, stalling my decision as to whether I should throw in the towel and let her get on with it with the script doctor. I didn’t have time to play her silly games right now, nor second-guess what was going on in her nutty mind. Besides, I found her disconcertingly attractive, mixed with my anti-male mind-set after my needle-dick nightmares—I was an easy target. I didn’t want to succumb to her sexual charms again.

Alessandra got up, the folds of her dress falling like ripples of water about her willowy body. “Let me help you.”

“No, really, I can do it. You relax. You take sugar, don’t you?”

“Just half a teaspoon.”

“Sure.”

I slipped off to the kitchen, relieved to get away from her for a moment and her quirky, oddball demeanor. I took two funky pottery mugs down from a shelf. They looked like they were hand-painted by a child. I turned on the coffee percolator. The kitchen was chaotic: piles of scripts, and baskets of fruit also stuffed with stray papers, magazines and bills. Lucifer came in and jumped on the kitchen table, his tail up vertically, swishing from side to side. He leapt across to the kitchen counter, landing on a pile of papers in one of the baskets that he then began to use to sharpen his claws. “Lucifer, you naughty boy.” I prized his paws away from the basket and took him in my arms. But something caught my attention. A name.

Sophie Dumas.

My heart was beating fast. It was a business letter about
Stone
Trooper
from Samuel Myers to Alessandra.

Producers: Sophie Dumas / HookedUp Enterprises.

Executive producer: Samuel Myers.

Sophie is not meant to be involved with this project!
In any shape or form!
I stood there for a moment, staring at the letter, a rush of blood pumping in my ears—I could feel myself redden with fury.
This must be some sort of mistake.

I marched into the living room, still with Lucifer in my arms, and said to Alessandra. “Who is the producer on this movie?”

She sat up and looked at me surprised. “Sam Myers with HookedUp Enterprises.”

“He’s the Producer or executive producer?”

“Oh, you must have seen some paperwork in the kitchen.”

“Yes. I wasn’t snooping. Lucifer landed on a very interesting piece of information, which I, as co-producer and director of HookedUp Enterprises . . . ” I stopped myself short. This was so unprofessional. Alessandra had been contracted as an actress—she didn’t need to know about this cock-up. It made me look incompetent to be so in the dark. To have been hoodwinked like this. To be such a frigging, freaking
idiot.