Read Close Up and Personal Online
Authors: JS Taylor
In answer
, he thrusts deeply, eliciting from me another involuntary gasp of pleasure. And then he is deeper, harder, but still with a measure of control. He’s not giving me his all. Not yet.
Then his thumb returns, slower this time
, flicking back and forth over my clitoris in time with his thrusts. He is panting and I can smell his sweat. Every pore in my body wants to drink in every part of him. I want him closer, deeper, to make him part of my very essence.
His thumb starts up the rapid pace again, and I feel myself build to a sudden and rapid height.
James is deep and moving in me. His thumb on my clitoris is exquisite. And then I climax, feeling the deep warmth of him explode through me as a golden sweep of pleasure rushes over my whole body.
I feel myself shudder and pulse, and then
, moving more roughly, his hands taking urgent hold of my buttocks as he drives into me.
“I’m going to come,” he groans, pushing forward. And then he finishes, sighing out with his eyes tight shut, cupping my buttocks hard in his hand as he orgasms.
From my position beneath him on the bed, I look up at him shyly as he opens his eyes.
“Oh my God
, Isabella,” he breaths. “The feeling of your tightness, shuddering around me as you came….” He leaves the sentence unfinished, pulling out of me and collapsing next to me in the bed.
I am battling with all the new feelings awakened in me. I have had an orgasm with a man for the first time during sex. Part of me feels relief. Hearing of Lorna’s conquests, and my friends at college enjoying sexual exploits
, was starting to make me worry what was wrong with me.
Another part of me feels deep joy. I break out into a silly grin, staring into his face.
“I take it that was enjoyable for you?” he smiles.
“Yes
,” I breathe. “I never imagined it could be like that.”
“With you
, Isabella, things I have never believed possible have been made true.”
I stare at him questioningly for a moment, wondering what he could mean. Perhaps now is not the time to ask. What could James Berkeley not think to be possible? It is a mystery.
I fall asleep in his arms, but wake in the early hours of the morning to find him gone. I come to consciousness slowly, not sure at first where I am. Then it all comes back to me and I sit up in his luxurious
bedclothes.
I see a flicker of light under the bedroom door, and wrapping myself in a crisp linen sheet from the bed, I get up to investigate.
Padding quietly into the lounge, the same spectacular view of night-time London is as glorious as ever. And sat on an Eames design-classic chair is James, a laptop on a slim walnut desk in front of him.
He’s staring intently at the screen, tapping away, frowning and adjusting his gaze.
“James?”
He looks up and gives me a half smile.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“Don’t you sleep?” I ask.
He smiles again. “Not so much.”
“Why not?”
The question seems to catch him off guard.
“I had a period of my life which was… chaotic,” he says. “Since that time my sleep has been somewhat erratic. The blessing of it is that I am able to accomplish a great deal more work.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Work?”
“Yes.”
I move across the lounge, hesitantly making my way towards him.
“What are you working on?”
“Take a look.”
I thought he may be private about his work, but he gestures I
come look at the laptop screen.
I move closer and he draws me onto his lap, so we’re both facing the pin-sharp resolution of the images in front of us.
“This is just something I’m playing around with,” he says. “I’m experimenting with CGI on pupil dilation.”
“What’s that?” I stare closer at the screen. Several images are dotted around of a pair of large grey eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes.
“Do you see the pupil in the centre of the eye?” he points to the dark black circle against the grey iris.
“Yes.”
“Much expression in the eyes is involuntary. The pupil expands and contracts of its own accord. It gives a lot away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says, tightening his arm a little around my waist. “When a person is frightened or anxious, their pupils get smaller. When they are aroused, or in love, they get larger – they dilate.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“It’s almost impossible to fake,” he continues. “Even the best actors can’t force their pupils to get smaller or larger. So I’m developing a technology which can change the pupil size artificially, after the scene has been shot. It can make a love or a fight scene more convincing, for example.”
“I didn’t know that directors did this kind of thing.”
“They don’t usually,” says James. “It’s a hobby of mine. When it’s developed, I’ll sell it to other directors so they can use it.”
“Is this something you’ve done before?”
“Quite a few of the emotional CGI technologies have been developed by me.”
He says it without pride or humility.
I look at him in astonishment. Surely that’s a major achievement?
“I’ve got to a new breakthrough,” he adds, staring back at the grey eyes on the screen. “I’ve found an actress whose pupils naturally follow the truth of her acting.”
He turns me slightly, so I’m looking into his green eyes. Suddenly I realise what he means.
“Me?” I turn back to the eyes on the screen. “Those are my eyes?”
On his screen they look completely different to the eyes I see in the mirror. It must be the flattery of the camera, I decide.
“Yes,” he turns back to look at his screen. “I owe you a debt of gratitude
, Isabella. Your natural ability has helped me detail several emotional responses which had eluded me.”
Oh.
I look back at the screen, uncertain what to say. The grey eyes stare back at me, frightened, happy, angry, sad.
The bewildering range of expressions reflect how I feel inside, I realise, when I’m with Berkeley. His proximity is still like a drug to me. But my head is in turmoil.
“Go back to bed, Isabella,” says James. And without registering that he’s ordering me like a child, I obey.
Chapter 15
The next morning, I wake to see James smiling down at me.
“You look so peaceful when you’re asleep,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
I nod sleepily.
“I’ll fix you some breakfast,” he says. “Do you like coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee. Thanks.” I stare after him appreciatively as he exits the bedroom. A man who wakes you up with coffee and a promise of breakfast. I could get used to this.
Suddenly I remember Lorna. I didn’t tell her I’d be out all night. She’s probably worried about me. I slip out of bed and find my underwear, cast about from the previous night. The memory of it gives me an unexpected flush of pleasure.
I dress quickly, throwing on my vintage dress but not my jeans, and walk barefoot into the giant lounge.
James is in the kitchen area with his back to me, and I see my phone on top of one of his uber-chic speakers. I pick it up and flip it over to see a screen full of messages and calls from Lorna.
I sigh, and send her a quick message.
Stayed with James. Don’t worry. Back soon.
She’ll be mad I haven’t called her to fill her in with the juicy details, but this will have to do for the time being. Predictably the screen buzzes with a flashing incoming call. Lorna. I flick it to silent feeling guilty. I’ll make it up to her later on today.
I walk over to the kitchen area and see that James is looking at a newspaper spread out on the worktop.
“Anything happen I should know about?” I say.
He is silent for a moment and then he replies.
“I think so, yes.” His voice is strained.
My gaze falls on the front page of the newspaper and I realise why. I gasp in shock.
“That’s us!”
Plastered over the front page of the newspaper is a close-up shot of James and
me. We’re at the
Cathedral de Tango
, and James has me bent backwards in a classic dance pose. Our faces are almost touching, and even from the newspaper page, the chemistry between us is electric.
“I thought the Cathedral was paparazzi free,” says James. He’s obviously not pleased, and my heart does a cold flip of disappointment. He’s ashamed
to be seen publicly with me.
He flips open the newspaper and the next page is a double-page spread of us tango dancing. The headline reads:
“James Berkeley with Mysterious Dancer.”
Mysterious dancer. That’s me. It would be funny if i
t wasn’t for the fact he seems so angry.
His fist slams the page suddenly, and I flinch in shock.
“I thought I had taken all the necessary precautions,” he mutters, staring at the pictures.
I let my eyes fall on the photographs. In them I look like someone else. It’s hard to match the quiet Issy I know with the tango dancer in the pictures. Her face is a perfect picture of passion, her body perfectly moulded to
Berkeley’s.
We look made for each other. I wonder what that says about us. Was he acting
a part? Is this what lust looks like?
He flips another page, and there, in black and white
, is a picture of Madison Ellis.
The familiar face has a sudden new
resonance now that I know her as Berkeley’s wife. She wears sunglasses, and her famous features look tired.
My stomach turns to ice.
His wife. How could I have forgotten?
In the passion and excitement of James Berkeley
, the fact he was married had completely slipped my mind.
A marriage of convenience
. I tell myself.
Or at least that’s what he told you
. The sudden possibility rises as a sickening possibility.
I almost
gasp out loud, wondering if I’ve been caught in the classic married man scenario. It would certainly explain why the pictures have made him so mad. As I consider things, this notion becomes more and more certain.
Why else would
he be so upset to see our picture in the papers?
On the kitchen countertop
, Berkeley’s phone rings. The buzz against the wood surface makes us both jump.
James snatches it up. But not before I see the name on the display.
Maddy.
Maddy. Not Madison.
Or Madison Ellis. What kind of name is that for a marriage of convenience?
I feel as though I’m going to throw up
. What if he’s been lying to me all along and stupid naïve girl that I am, I didn’t know any better? Perhaps James Berkeley really is cheating on his wife and I’m just the other woman.
The possibility
brings with it an unexpected numbness.
“Hello
, Maddy.” James swings away from me to take the call.
In that one movement
, it’s as though someone has poured cold water all over me. I stand for a moment, almost gasping in the sudden chill of realisation.
He’s angry to be seen with you in the paper. He’s taking his wife’s call. He calls her Maddy.
I make for the bedroom.
Once inside my eyes sweep the designer furnishings, looking for my remaining clothes.
I grab them up, not bothering to put my jeans on. My eyes rest on his gift of the Jimmy Choo shoes which I had slid my feet into so happily only last night.
Now the tears come. I shake my head. The shoes can stay. I would rather die than wear something he bought me.
I remember the Chanel suit back at my apartment. I’ll get rid of that later. For now, I have to get home.
I
race out of the bedroom, tears streaming down my face, still barefoot and clutching my jeans and purse.
My phone. I grab it.
James still has his back to me, talking on the phone.
“The earliest you
could arrive would be 5pm,” he’s saying. “You could take my private jet.”
This final sentence destroys any hope I had left. He’s inviting her to London, eager to make amends.
I can’t hear anymore. I run for the door and make my way fast down the staircase. The metal is cold on my bare feet, but I can hardly feel it.
All I feel is a sick hot feeling of betrayal in my heart.
Then I’m out in the cold morning air of London, and the cobbles are like ice under my feet.
A black cab trundles by, and I hail it with relief, hoping I’ve enough money in my purse to get back to Chelsea.
The driver slows, and I pull open the door and climb into the back.