Pearl (The Pearl Series) (13 page)

“You want to get fucked, Pearl? The way you fucked me over? The way you fuck men over to further your career?”

“No,” she moaned, her eyelids fluttering in carnal stupor.

“No, you don’t want to get fucked? I think you do. So. Horny. And. Wet. So ready for me to fuck you senseless, aren’t you?”

I rammed my fingers up her higher, and she gasped. Her skirt was in the way so I unzipped it and ripped it down her thighs. The little harlot was wearing scarlet panties that screamed out,
fuck-me.
How fitting. I unbuttoned my fly opening. My cock was throbbing to get inside her. I got down on my knees. I had to taste that hot pussy. Had to stick my tongue inside her. I took those moistened panties between my teeth and peeled them aside, my teeth gripping them with lustful ardor. I could smell her, smell her sweet, fruity odor. My tongue darted inside her wet cunt.

“You want to fuck, Pearl? Because you’re so much better at fucking than you pretend. Fucking people over, especially.”

I so nearly didn’t bother with sheathing myself with a condom. My instinct—like one of those soldiers using rape as a war weapon—was to impregnate her. Make her mine, even if it was against her will, and feel every juicy cell in her pussy without any barrier between us, but I relented, reminded myself how fucked-up that was, and rolled the condom reluctantly on my raging-hard erection. I didn’t even take off my jacket, let alone my pants.

I pushed her red panties to one side and rammed myself into her ruthlessly, fucking her against the wall. I was half expecting her to try and stop me, but she was groaning with pleasure, relishing being ‘raped’ by me.

God, she felt good. I realized that this was something I couldn’t do without. I had to have Pearl Robinson on a regular basis even if she
was
using me. By now, I didn’t even care.

“I love. Fucking. You.” I was growling, pounding her so hard I could feel myself ripping her open. She’d never had so much of me inside her before. I was holding nothing back this time.

She was loving every second, though.

“You like to get used, Pearl, or you just like using!” I said in a deep, angry voice, my mouth all over hers.

“I wanted to get to know you, Alexandre. I want to get to know you. All of you….every…beautiful…inch of you,” she said, flexing her hips at me. “All…oh God…oh wow…oh God…” She could hardly speak as I thrust into her over and over, slamming her against that kitchen wall. She was clawing me, her mouth on mine, greedy for my lust.

“Is this what you want to get to know?” And I grabbed her ass in both hands so I could bring her closer, fuck her harder. “So. Tight. This. Tight. Pussy. Clenching. My. Hard. Cock.” I felt her contractions like a pair of skin-tight gloves pressuring my erection. The red panties were also grazing back and forth against it, adding to my arousal.

Her nails were digging into my back—she didn’t want to let me go. “You’re so huge. Oh my…so enormous! I love you, Alexandre. I love you…fucking me.”

“You love me, Pearl Robinson? Is that what you’re saying?” I asked with irony. I was going to come any second. That
love
word went straight to my dick, even if it was a bold-faced lie. I burst inside her, my giant orgasm ripping through my center, and hers, with abandon, breaking my golden rule—not caring that I was coming first. I was moaning like a child, not a grown man. I felt weakened by my desire for her. She had me hooked—her smell, her pussy, like an exotic fruit. Her taste. Everything was driving me wild and had me spellbound.

The pulse of my orgasm faded to a tingle and I pulled out, but seconds later, literally seconds, I felt myself flex again. I had a flashback of our Skype sex phone call the week before—when I was in the limo on my way to Mumbai Airport—and I got her to fuck the sofa. Pearl and her sweet pearlette pressed up against the arm of the couch as she rocked back and forth in her white, schoolgirl panties. I wanted more of that, and I was going to get more. You bet. But with me ‘live,’ this time, not just us on screen.

I grabbed a cushion off a kitchen chair and pressed it onto the corner of the table. “Fuck the table,” I told her. I peeled her red panties down her thighs so I could see her moistness, hot between her legs, and pressed my erection against the soft flesh of her round butt. “Push that hot little pussy up against that cushion,” I ordered.

She did as she was told. The visual made a wave of desire shoot through my whole torso. “Press harder,” I said, putting on a fresh condom in haste. “Massage your clit back and forth against that table.”

She obeyed me. Telling her what to do gave me a thrill and I gloated,
Eat your heart out you Russian cocksucker; this girl’s mine!
I pushed the tip of my cock against her entrance—I could see her glistening gate to Heaven with my eyes. Every time she moved back, her wet slit bumped up against the crown of my cock. I was letting her tease me as it dipped in an out of her a couple of centimeters on each movement. She was moaning on every thrust.

“Gotta love this pussy,” I growled like the horny lion I was. “It’s warm and wet and shiny pink—like a beautiful shell. No wonder the Spanish call it a
concha.
Little sexy
conchita.”

Her ass was high in the air as she was bent over, her torso flat on the table. I cupped her ass with one hand and with the other, took my cock in my closed fist and teased her, up and down, up and down her butt crack, then sometimes plunging all the way into the wet warmth of her folds, then pulling almost all the way out. She was writhing before me, her arms steadying her torso, flat-out on the table.

“Please Alexandre. Oh God. This feels incredible. Oh God!”

Then I started thrusting. I reminded myself that, this time, I didn’t have to go easy on her. I had to remember that she was a selfish, career-getting operator out to
use
me
.
So I drove into her hard again, to remind her that two could play at the using game.

“Little. Career-getting. Pussy. Using. Me. And. Getting. Off. On. It.” On each word I thrust into her and held myself still for a second. Pulled most of the way out then thrust back inside her. But this was no punishment for her, I soon realized. No, she started coming, moaning like the little tigress she was, her tight velvet glove contracting around me, which tipped me over the edge. I could feel myself thicken and I slowed way down, letting my climax surge through me in a blissful, throbbing rush. I moved languidly inside her, both of us coming simultaneously, something we seemed to do with ease. I was like a switch with her. Her gratification aroused me instantly, so when she climaxed, I did, too. Hard.

I collapsed on top of her, my body blanketing her smooth back, her glorious ass. “Pearl, baby, what am I going to do? I just can’t keep away from you. I have to keep fucking you. Over and over. I just have to, I can’t stop.”

The problem was, that however much I tried to stay furious with her, I couldn’t. When I spun her around to face me, she had tears in her eyes. A look of love. A look that said,
We are meant to be together, you and I. Please don’t hurt me.

And I melted.

The Russian flashed through my mind again. I couldn’t risk it. I knew his playboy reputation, his bulldozer mentality. I had to get Pearl out of New York City for a few days. Just in case he came sniffing about.

Make her irrevocably mine.

If any other man even thought of coming near her, I’d fucking flatten him.

11

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 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 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.

I knew that 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 that 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. 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 wanted 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.