Hooked Up: Book 2 (6 page)

He nibbled my lobe and a frisson ran down my spine. “Careful now, we know what happens when you do that, sexy girl, when you cross your legs too tight. Especially with no panties on.”

It was true. The pressure was turning me on, and I squirmed in my seat, even though I had my seatbelt on. He eased his hands underneath me, cupping both his palms below my buttocks, lifting me a few inches off my seat. His fingers slipped into me from behind, then traced up the crack of my ass and back down. His thumb was now inside me, that magic thumb which seemed to know where my G-spot was. I started moaning quietly. I had my eye on the flight attendant, still strapped into her seat. She was reading a magazine, and the seats between us almost blocked her view. Almost.

“Haven’t you had enough of me for one day?” I asked in a whisper, conscious that we could be seen.

“Don’t forget, you’re still being punished for being an ambitious little American brat.” He punctuated the ‘brat’ with pressure from his thumb on that elusive spot. It felt amazing.

“What kind of punishment?” I asked softly—the throb more intense as his thumb circled inside me.

“I think a bit of slow torture, don’t you? I think you need to be taught a real lesson.”

“What kind of lesson?” I breathed.

“I’m sure I can think of something.”

“Oh yeah? Like some more whipping me with your tongue? Or beating me again with the feather?” The idea of it made me shudder with anticipation.

“No. Not that.”

I could feel my breath quicken. “What?”

“You’ll see.”

My legs were still crossed tight. The full skirt of my pink flowery dress covered his hand, but the plane had leveled out . . . oh no! The flight attendant was un-strapping herself from her seat, and was making her way in this direction.

I wriggled. “Alexandre take your hand
away
,” I hissed at him, but he was laughing, and he wouldn’t move it. His thumb was pressing harder on that sweet spot. Ah . . . panic –she was meandering towards us, smiling at us. This was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me. Oh my God! I crossed my legs tighter, my thighs acting as clamps to try and force his hand away, out from in between my legs. She was now upon us. I could feel it building up. At the last second he took his hand from out beneath me, but it was too late because seconds before he released it, he pushed hard with his thumb, and I felt a volt surge through me and explode in a massive spasm . . . the fear of being caught, the excitement, the shame, all merged into one thundering orgasm, pounding like an adrenaline-rushed heartbeat shooting right into my core. My legs were still crossed. I kept the pressure up and squeezed my muscles together even tighter and a second rush was upon me. Boy, oh boy, this was gloriously intense. But very embarrassing.

“Can I get anything for you both?” she asked sweetly.

My body was shuddering with delicious contractions. Every nerve was concentrated between my legs, as if the rest of me were a rag doll. I was coming in both places: Alexandre’s thumb’s final press on my G-spot, coupled with the clench of my thigh muscles putting pressure on my clit, had sent me over the edge.

Alexandre laughed. My eyes were half closed, my mouth hanging open, my breath caught in what seemed like a seizure. My stomach muscles juddered. I was shaking all over.

“Are you okay,
madame
?” she asked in a French accent, with a look of great consternation. She was bending over me, frowning, her eyes worried.

“She gets a little queasy,” Alexandre replied, and then burst out laughing again.

“Is she going to be sick?”

“No, she’ll recover,” he uttered with an ironic smirk. “If you could bring us some champagne that would be great.”

The hostess looked shocked. She must have thought he was crazy to ask for champagne, when I seemed as if I was about to barf, or worse, have a heart attack. “Are you sure?” she double-checked.

“Quite sure. Champagne is good for her, eases up the muscles a bit. Don’t worry, I know what her body needs.”

Oh yes
, I think, still shuddering.
You know my body better than I do.

The flight attendant walked away. Thank God. I was aware that Alexandre could have said all this to her in French, but he obviously wanted me to experience full humiliation. His punishment.

“Are you having fun, Pearl?” He chuckled again.

I couldn’t speak—the mini aftershocks of that 9.1 earthquake on the Richter scale were still giving me ripples of intense pleasure. Tremors, like bells inside my body, had every part of me shimmering and quivering.

“Such a disrespectful little hussy, aren’t you? Have you no decorum at all?” He broke into another grin.

I finally uncrossed my legs. “You bastard.” Then a smile forced its way onto my lips.

“Well I did say we were ‘
coming
along for the ride.’ But to be honest, I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.”

“
Coming
along for the ride. Really, Alexandre,” and then I joked, “don’t rub it in.”

We both laughed. “Don’t think you’re off the hook yet, Ms. Robinson, we still have to fill in our membership form. I’d like to
come
along for the ride too, don’t forget.”

“Fill in—ha, ha, very funny. Forget it. I refuse to be a member of this silly Mile High Club. Won’t do it. Just won’t. You can put a giant tick against the ‘Pearl – Public Humiliation’ box on your goddam list, and leave me alone in peace for the rest of the flight.”

The chilled champagne arrived. I looked up at the flight attendant from under my lashes and smiled furtively, sheepishly, then keep my gaze down, mortified that she could guess what had just happened. Perhaps it was part of her job, to pretend she didn’t know what was going on.

Egged on by thirst and a sense of shame, I found myself glugging down my champagne like water, wondering what else could be on Alexandre’s proverbial (or actual) list of things to “encourage” me to do. He was clever; it all appeared as if it was coming (no pun intended) from my own free will . . . and it was . . . yet . . .

Why did I feel I was being controlled by him?

I curled up against his strong shoulders, and the next thing I knew, my body collapsed into an exhausted, profound sleep.

When I woke up, all the lights were dimmed and it was pitch dark outside the plane windows. I found myself, not curled up next to him anymore, but stretched out, the seat down like a bed. He must have moved me when I was asleep. I glanced over and he was working on something—charts or graphs—it looked very mathematical.

“Hey, baby, you’re finally awake,” he said, winking at me. I was glad to see the gentle Alexandre had returned.

“How long have I been sleeping?”

“About four hours.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Haven’t I,” he said, distracted, still concentrating on his task.

“No.”

“Hang on, I’ll be all yours in a minute, just have to finish this.”

I got up, grabbed my purse and went to the bathroom. Even though it was a private jet, the toilet lights were disconcertingly bright. Yuck. It showed up every wrinkle, every blemish. I had to stop myself from launching into a full facial, there and then. I peed, then washed my hands and face, underarms and private parts, and brushed my teeth. I noticed panda rings around my eyes, how did that happen? I cleaned them up and re-applied my mascara, brushed out my hair, and dotted myself with my perfume, which happened to be French, a heady but fresh scent of figs that always made me feel invigorated. I dabbed some under my arms and a teensy bit on my mound of Venus. I looked in the mirror.
That’s better, I’m ready.
Ready for what
? I asked myself.

Ready for anything.

When I got back to my seat, Alexandre had Bob Marley’s
Is This Love?
playing softly on his iPad. A good sign, I thought. He welcomed me with a grin.

“Sexy woman,” he commented, and he then unwittingly bit his lower lip. Uh, oh.

“Alexandre, we need to talk.”

He looked me up and down. “I’m listening.” But he wasn’t listening, his eyes were roving all over me. I was standing—a trick I learned about self-empowerment; when you have something important to say, take the high ground.

“We haven’t had a chance to discuss what happened—the way I behaved, my reasons.”

“It’s in the past now,” he answered, running his gaze to my cleavage.

“Well, it’s not. You were so angry with me. You didn’t call me for a week.”

“You received your little punishment, it’s over now.”

“It’s just . . . before I met you, I expected you to be some kind of geek. I’d only seen one photo of you—”

“I don’t do photos or interviews, nor red carpet.”

“I know. You took me by surprise. I didn’t want you to think I only wanted to get to know you just because of what you did—your job. I wanted to—”

“You wanted,” he clarified, “to fuck me the second you saw me, and you worried that if we were involved professionally it would spoil things. That you might blow your chance with me.”

“You are so arrogant!”

“I’m French, what do you expect?” But he was laughing in a self-depreciating way, so I began to laugh, too.

“What am I going to do with you?” I said, waving my finger at him. I was still standing.

He angled his seat into a flat bed and then grabbed my legs, pulling me onto his knee. “You’re going to ride me.”

“No way, we’ve been through this. I won’t.”

“Oh yes, you will.”

I looked around the cabin. It was quiet, and the politician was fast asleep. The flight attendant was nowhere to be seen. “No, Alexandre. And after your ‘rape’ earlier today, in my apartment, to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit sore.”

“You’re right. I behaved like a thug. It was just that . . . all I could think about was you. All week. I was going crazy. Just picturing your ass in my mind made me hard. All I could think about was your ass, your tits, your face. Relax now, Pearl, sit on my knee for a bit and I’ll tell you about where we’re going.”

I sat on his lap, feeling all warm with the knowledge that he had been obsessing about me as much as I had been about him. “I’m so excited about this trip. Paris?”

“No.”

“Provence?”

“That’s right, baby.” He pulled out the kingfisher feather from his pants’ pocket and blew on it.

“I never got a chance to see this,” I remarked.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” He brushed it lightly across my brow. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

I let my eyes fall shut and felt the lightest touch. He stroked my nose with it, my lips. “Hold up your hair,” he said in a soft voice. “And bend your neck down.” I did, and he traced the feather along the nape of my neck. I purred with pleasure. “The lavender fields should be in bloom,” he told me. “There are wonderful markets everywhere, with fresh produce sold directly by local farmers. Hundreds of cheeses to choose from, and olives, and pastries. Pretty hats. Delicious treats to eat. Thousands of wines. Chilled rosé at lunch, pale as rainwater,
tapenade
on home-made bread.”

His beautiful voice became distant as I was in a zone all of my own, enjoying the sensation of the feather on my neck. He drew it up behind my ears, and I shivered. Then around to my front. It wisped across my cleavage—my body with a mind of its own doing its tingling. I wanted to say no . . . I did say no, but I found myself silently willing him to unzip my dress at the back. He did. I wiggled on his thighs, pushing my panty-free ass into his groin and felt that familiar hardness. I started throbbing.
Groundhog
Day,
all over again, but in the best possible way. I wanted to keep doing this forever. He was kissing the back of my neck so gently, and running the feather around my breasts, circling them, grazing the feather over my nipples.

“Oh Pearl,” he whispered in my ear. “Sweet, delicious Pearl—so addictive.” I could feel his hands pull his erection free from his pants, and he lifted the skirt of my dress so it was flesh on flesh. His hardness against the soft pad of my butt. “I love you . . .so close. I love you . . . near me.”

“Are you trying to tell me you love me, Alexandre?”

He lifted my leg over so I was in a straddling position, facing him. He kissed me on the mouth. There was no turning back now. I simply didn’t have the willpower. He pulled the top part of my dress down from my shoulders and his tongue flipped and rolled over one nipple. He lay back flat, pulled me down, and eased me on top of him, by maneuvering my hips.

“So wet, baby,” he cooed as I slipped right onto him. “Oh yeah, that’s good. Soo good. Oh yeah. So ready. Now what I’m going to do is just lie here and you ride me as you see fit. You have the reins, okay?”

I nod. I was loving this horse. This stud. Something about knowing we could be caught mid-act turned me on even more. He felt incredible. I straightened my legs so we were flush—flat body to flat body.

“Here,” he said, popping a little cushion under his tight buns. This way I’m closer to you, you’ll feel me more. Remember, go as slow or as fast as you want. You dictate the rhythm, chérie.”

The cushion under him had his pubic bone pushing on my clit every time I came back down. I was pulling out almost completely so that only his tip was at my opening. My clit brushed against his taut stomach, the hard points of my nipples grazed against the muscles on his pecs. I took another pillow and pushed it under his head so he was closer. He sucked my tits like they were fruits, rimming his tongue around them, nibbling them. I launched back down again so I was all filled up, swollen and hot with his size. Then I pulled up, slowly. Aah, this was bliss. I squirmed about on him, making little circles and then came hard back down. It was making him groan, and he grabbed my hips so I couldn’t move.

“I thought you said I was in charge,” I scolded, lightly biting his neck.

“Baby, if you do that one more time I’m going to come. Easy, you sexy rider.”

I was loving this . . . knowing that it was just me and my movements that were turning him on so much.

“Suck my tits again,” I whispered. He did.

I lay there languidly on top, his throbbing cock only an inch inside me. The pleasure from his nibbling and sucking was immense. I started moving again, just a little bit, and could feel myself building up to it. I circled some more, and he had his hands tight on my ass.