Hooked Up: Book 2 (5 page)

“Gotta love this pussy,” he murmured in a rumbling voice. “It’s warm and welcoming. So sweet and glistening.”

I felt demeaned. He kept using the word “pussy.” But something about feeling like a whore turned me on. I kept moving. I could feel my juices oozing, tempting the head of his thick shaft. I was bent over almost double, my ass high in the air as I pressed hard against the table corner, the cushion acting as a soft buffer. He rimmed the wet slits of my lips from behind, controlling his penis with his hand. Round and round—all my nerve-endings were alert and begging. Begging for him to thrust it all the way in. Every now and then he unexpectedly changed the rhythm and plunged deep inside, then pulled back, then continued with the tease. I was moaning, “Please Alexandre,
please
.”

My forearms were flat on the table, my body in an L shape, my panties around my ankles, my nipples like torpedoes. I could feel his suit pants rubbing against my thighs, his big balls slapping slowly against my pulsating opening—it felt so sensual. Three places were being stimulated at once, all zoned like targets in between my legs. There was a whole empire going on there. Aah! I pressed backwards with each thrust to meet him, each and every time he eased into me and then nearly all the way out. Then he started pumping hard, really fucking me, and I could feel an expansion of sensation building up, blood rushing up inside me—one more thrust, any more friction on my clit against the pillow—one more thrust inside me and I knew it was coming . . .
I
was coming . . . ah . . . AH!

My body was a convulsing, quivering nerve-mass. He continued to pump rhythmically, but slower now and as I climaxed around him, I could feel his penis thickening even more. I was still enjoying the intensity of my orgasm when he cried out my name, and I felt a throbbing against my insides. He was coming too, simultaneously—emptying himself into my depths, expanding against my inner walls. My muscles contracted and opened, contracted and opened, clenching tightly around him. I was still coming . . . it hadn’t finished . . . wow this was great. So intense. I was crying out.

“What am I going to do, baby?” His voice was almost a whisper. “What can I do, I can’t keep away from you. I have to fuck you. I just have to.” He sounded anguished, almost tormented.

I felt mini after-waves undulating inside me, less like a tsunami now, but the sensation of fluttering butterflies. I was groaning softly as he kissed my back, the nape of my neck, and cupping my buttocks with his strong hands like he owned my ass, I collapsed on the table, my chest flat down, my legs still splayed wide open on either side of the table corner, and I released a sigh. I wanted to tell him I was crazy about him but I bit my tongue.

Cool calm and collected.

That’s me.

“P
ACK YOUR SUITCASE.” He started doing up his slacks.

“What?”

“It just occurred to me now. I’m taking you away for a long weekend.”

“Well, I don’t think I can go just like—” I click my fingers—“
that
.”

“Yes, you can. Don’t argue, just get some stuff together.”

I was standing there, naked, in nothing but high heels.
Who does he think he is
?
He barges through my back door unannounced, fucks me like I’m a whore, and is now demanding I go away for the weekend with him?
Then my faux irritation relented.
Isn’t this exactly what you fantasized about, Pearl?

He looked at his watch. “We don’t have time for procrastination. Hurry up, get your essentials and a change of clothes together. A friend of mine will be taking off soon. If we hurry, we can get there in time, we can’t miss the slot.”

The slot
? In a daze, I wandered into my bedroom, found a suitcase at the back of my closet, and began to throw a few things in. He followed me, watching, to make sure I was doing as told—meanwhile speaking on his cell, in French, so I didn’t understand a word except “jet” and “passport.” Then he ordered a cab.

“Passport?”

“It’s in my purse,” I said.

“That giant ogre of a thing?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have to do something about that.” His eyes narrowed, then he ran them up and down my body like he wanted to fuck me once more.
Not again! How potent can his libido be?

He clapped his hands together. “Okay, done. Let’s go.”

“Wait, my toothbrush and stuff.”

“We don’t have time—I can buy you anything you need.”

“That’s a cute offer, but I usually buy my own things, thanks.”

“Yes, of course you do. Hurry up,” he ordered, slapping my nude backside.

I scrambled into the bathroom, ran some water over a washcloth, and wiped in between my legs, then raced back into the bedroom and grabbed the first dress I saw from my closet and tossed it over my head. It was an old 1950’s flowery thing, cinched at the waist, full-skirted with a tight bodice and low neck. It was the last thing I wanted to wear, but Alexandre was tapping his polished shoe on the floor with impatience.

“Perfect. You look like a little girl.” He dragged me from the room by my wrist and grabbed my suitcase.

“Wait! I haven’t put any underwear on.”

“No time.”

“Where are we going?”

For the first time today he smiled. “Surprise.”

IT WAS A RACE to get here, but we were finally ensconced in the swanky private plane, luxuriating on beige leather seats, while each of us was offered an
apéritif
’ by the flight attendant.

Alexandre’s “friend” turned out to be some high-ranking, government official, next in line, it seemed, to the French president himself. The man was on his way back from a secret, unofficial meeting—in other words, he was using the jet for his own personal use.

He and Alexandre spoke to one another in their native tongue, and it was translated to me that the politician didn’t want to seem rude, but he had a ton of work to do before we landed, so did we mind if he kept to himself during the flight? Thank goodness. My pidgin French would have been an embarrassment, coupled with the fact that, while we were walking up the ramp to embark, a breeze of air blew the skirt of my dress up above my thighs, and I was sure this high-ranking government man saw my bare, private parts. Alexandre laughed—the man, he decided, was too ugly to pose a threat. “I don’t know,” I teased, “I could be the next Carla Bruni.”

“Socialism in action for you!” Alexandre said with a wry grin. “Our government was probably paying for his mistress somewhere, maybe a private apartment, here or in Paris—don’t you just love the double standards?”

“And what about us? Is this flight a freebie, courtesy of the poor French tax payers?” I asked.

“Let’s just say the French government owes me a couple of big favors. I’m sorry to say, I have no control, whatsoever, with how they manage their budget. We’re coming along for the ride, Pearl, that’s all.”

“We’re taking advantage of a dishonest situation. That could be construed as immoral.”

“I’m an opportunist, Pearl.” His smile was bad-boy. “Just like you.”

“I . . .” I stammered.

“You knew what you wanted and you came after it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you sucked your iced cappuccino through that straw when we first met at the coffee shop. Flicking your tongue around your lips.”

“It was
you!
You
were doing that—licking your lips, staring into me with those startling eyes of yours, getting me all hot and bothered.”

“I wanted to fuck you there and then.”

“Well, why didn’t you?” I demanded. “What took you so long?”

“Because I was hoping you’d be . . . how can I say this?”

“Begging for it.”

He laughs. “You said it, not me.”

I stared out the window as we took off. I loved that dip in my stomach the plane made—it reminded me how I’d felt these past few weeks. Alive. On the edge. I watched the twinkling city of New York gradually fade below—the lights of matchbox cars turn to tiny dots. Alexandre had one hand on my bare thigh and the other tapping on his iPad, writing notes.

“Sorry, just doing a list,” he explained, “of things I need to get done.”

“You’re a list writer then?”

“That way, the problems are no longer swirling about in my head, but committed to paper, or these days, my iPad. That way they have less power over me, I don’t have to think about them anymore, at least not until I look at my list and systematically knock each thing off when the time is right. It ensures a good night’s sleep.” He shot me a sly glance. “One of my secrets of success.”

“Like Madonna.”

He knotted his brow. “Madonna?”

“She also writes lists of things to get done.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because my brother is obsessed by her. He also informed me that Beyoncé wears four pairs of pantyhose on stage to keep it all in place.”

“She must get very hot.”

“To use your expression, ‘tricks of the trade.’ Secrets of success.”

“And what’s your secret of success?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Ah, that would be telling.”

Alexandre nodded over to the direction of his highfaluting friend. “So much for him getting important work done—he’s already fast asleep. Look, he’s snoring.”

We are at one end of . . . I would like to say, “room” – it was so spacious—and this man, wearing old-style spectacles, was at the other. He looked like a schoolteacher, not a politician. If I’d known anything about French politics, I suppose I would have been impressed, but I didn’t have a clue whom he was.

“Are you a member of the Mile High Club?” Alexandre suddenly asked.

I rolled my eyes. “That is such a cliché.”

Secretly, though, I had always wondered what it would be like to make love thousands of feet in the air. Probably uncomfortable—didn’t people always do it in the bathroom?

“In all seriousness, Pearl, are you a member of the Mile High Club?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Should we join?”

“The membership comes at a price.”

“I can afford it.”

I give him a lopsided smile. “Maybe you can, but me? I’m not so sure.”

“What kind of price are we talking about?”

“The price of discomfort.”

He laughed. “Oh, you assume we’d have to do it in the toilet?”

“Well, yes, isn’t that par for the course?”

“No, it certainly is not. There’s no way I’m scrunching myself up double in some toilet,” he exclaimed with a look of mock outrage, smoothing his tailored suit pants with his hands.

“Well, where then?”

“Right here, baby. Right here, on these luxuriously comfortable seats. They’ve been very thoughtful—even made them of leather for us—easy to wipe down,” and he mumbled in my ear, “because I know how wet you get.” He slipped his hand higher up my thigh.

“Shush, stop that dirty talk! The politician will wake up. Or the flight attendant will see us.”

“No, he’s out for the count, I doubt very much he’ll stir for several hours. And the flight attendant, well I’m sure she’ll make herself invisible. The staff aren’t meant to hang about with the VIPs in private jets, unless they’re needed.”

“Are we Very Important People?”

He laughed. “Hell, yes.”

“You’re just kidding,” I said, “about doing it in public.”

“Don’t be so sure. Haven’t you ever had sex in public before?”

“No, I certainly have not. You?”

He templed his fingers and brought them up to his face as if in great thought. “Let’s see. On a beach in the Bahamas once, on a yacht, in a swimming pool, on a ski slope just off
piste
, in the Bois de Vincennes, in a—”

“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. I get the picture.” I was in a jealous sulk for a second, furious at the ex-girlfriend(s) who had dared to be so brave with him in all those places, but then, I asked, “By the way, where’s the Bois de Vincennes?”

“It’s a huge park in Paris, on the eastern side. The lungs of the city.”

I said nothing. Back to my silent, jealous ravings.

“You’re beautiful, Pearl, especially when you’re green-eyed.”

An unwanted smile stole itself across my face.
How did he know?
I pummeled him, my mock angry fists coming up against his hard abs.

“I’ve never done it on a plane though,” he told me. “Promise.”

“No. Forget it, Alexandre. I won’t be part of one of your
lists
. Crossed off as something ‘
done
.’ ” I stuck my tongue out at him like a seven year-old.

He laughed again. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

“You’ve touched several nerves, actually. Did you know that,”—and I lowered my voice to a murmur—“the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings?” I squeezed my thighs tightly together so he couldn’t get his hand any farther. “Not here, Alexandre. Stop it.”

“Well you
are
a mine of information—Madonna, Beyoncé, now this. No, I had no idea, but it does make sense. I’ll remember,” he whispered in my ear, “all those sensitive little nerve endings when I’ve got my tongue up there.” He was trying to force my legs apart and, although I desired his hands all over me, I crossed my legs rigid and clenched my thighs super-tight like closed scissors.