Close Up and Personal (24 page)

“The oil in the tub is helping to keep you open to me,” he whispers. “In a moment
, I’m going to move the shower head against your clitoris. From the flush on your body, and the shuddering in your thighs, I would judge it will bring you to orgasm in a few seconds.”

I nod, arrested with the sensation of him in my ass, and the showerhead pressure on me.

“But first,” he whispers, “I am going to put another finger inside your ass-hole. Do I have your permission to do that?”

As he says the words
, he circles his finger inside my ass, pushing it all the way in, and creating a deep feeling of penetration. He moves the showerhead closer to my clitoris.

I gasp, unable to refuse him. And I realise that I want more.
More of him inside me.

“Yes,” I moan. “Put your fingers in my ass.”

“You have no idea how sexy it is to hear you say that, Isabella,” he whispers. And then he moves the showerhead so the water pressure is now running directly over my clitoris.

I feel the orgasm hit almost immediately, and as it does
, James slides another finger inside my ass.

I reach my peak, the orgasm exploding hotly between my legs and out across my entire body. It shudders through me, pulsing pleasure into every part.

I feel James’s fingers and my ass tightens around them as I come. Then suddenly, he begins to move them, firmly, fast, pulsing his fingers in and out quickly.

Keeping his fingers working my ass, he positions himself between my legs. Then with a strong push
, he forces into me, stretching me open and filling me up.

Then
he is fucking me from behind, plunging deep into where I am already pulsing with orgasm.

His fingers
fuck my ass as he slams into me with his body. He moves hard, urgently, and I feel the aftershock of my orgasm begin to build higher.

“Oh God
, Isabella,” he moans. “I’m going to come.”

And then his fingers plunge deep into my ass as he explodes inside of me.

In the still shuddering aftermath of my first orgasm comes another wave, shattering through me in a second intense bolt of pleasure. I am coming for a second time.

Th
e orgasm, it hits me with double force, and I cry out aloud.

Then the waves ripple slowly back, and I find my body collapsing, relaxing with the force of it.

James slides himself out of me, and flips me around in the tub.

It’s all I can do not to sink under the water. I feel as though every need I ever had has just been sated.

I gaze up at him, hazily, my eyes in soft focus.

“Do you see Isabella,” he says, “how if you trust in me I can give your greater pleasure?”

“Yes,” I whisper, staring into his green eyes. In the after-light of the multiple orgasm he’s just given me, they seem more beautiful than I’ve ever seen them before.

He smiles at me, a happy, boyish smile.

“I like making you come,” he says. “You look so lovely, lying there in the water. And knowing that I’ve satisfied you makes me immensely happy.”

I smile back at him and sit up so we’re facing. He holds my hips with his hands.

“So tell me,” I say, “did that take your mind off these demons of yours?”

It’s a risky thing to say
, I know, but to my relief he throws his head back and laughs.

“Yes,” he says, when his amusement has subsided. “Very clever
, Miss Green. You are quite right. When I’m with you, perhaps those demons are not so near.”

He gazes at me for a moment, happy, but somehow calculating something. Then he rises to his feet and hands me a huge fluffy bathrobe.

“Come to bed,” he says. “Perhaps we can find some other ways to chase away both of our demons.”

Chapter 20

We float into the bed, and lay for a time in each other’s arms.

Then, under
the hotel sheets, James and I make love, our eyes locked, breathing perfectly into one another.

The softness of his movement
s opens up something different inside of me. And this time as he strokes me to orgasm with his body and his fingers, the climax feels different, deeper.

We fade into each other
, tired and happy. And I realise with a falling feeling that there is no way back for me now. I am undeniable, irrevocably, in love with James Berkeley. The idea is frightening and exciting all at once.

I fall asleep in the soft scented sheets of the bed, but am woken later in the night by shouts. I turn to see James is twisting in his sleep, crying out aloud. I draw him tighter, and whisper him softly awake.

“James. You’re having a nightmare.”

The moment he wakes up, he looks glassy-eyed, confused, as though he doesn’t know where he is.

“It’s cold here,” he says. His voice is sad, fearful, like a small boy.

“Shhh,” I pull him close. “It’s ok now, you had a bad dream.”

He turns, and looks confused. The he blinks himself more awake.

“What happened?” he asks in more of his usual voice.

“You had a nightmare,” I say
. “You were crying out in your sleep.”

“Oh.”

He looks thoughtful.

“That happens sometimes. I didn’t realise I spoke in my sleep. I apologise for waking you.”

“Don’t be silly.” I’m staring at him. “Are you ok? It sounded like a really bad dream. You said it was cold,” I add, hoping to jog his memory.

He shakes his hea
d, as though trying to shrug an image from his head.

“It was nothing,” he says. “Just a dream about when I was younger. Go back to sleep
, Issy.”

I lie back, and as I begin falling back to sleep
, I feel him slip from the sheets and walk away from the bed.

The mysterious James Berkeley
, my subconscious murmurs as the dreamy world takes over my thoughts.
Will I ever understand him?

Then sleep takes over, and I fall into a place halfway between this hotel bedroom and somewhere different entirely.

In my dreams, a green-eyed boy in boarding-school uniform sits shivering. He asks me over and over when he can go home.

I wake to bright daylight, and my phone ringing by my ear. James is nowhere to be seen, and I grab the phone off the bedside table.

M
y mother’s name flashes on the display. I realise I’ve not spoken to her in a few days. She probably wants to remind me of her impending visit.

“Hi
, Mami.”

“Morning
,
carino
. Where are you?”

“I.
.. Um. I’m at a friends,” I manage. I’m not quite ready to explain the complexity of James Berkeley to my mother just yet.

“
Oooooh
I see.” My mother can always tell when I’m hiding something. “Well, alright then darling. But are we still good to meet up in an hour?”

An hour?

“Don’t tell me you forgot? I sent you an email.” She sounds more amused than annoyed.

“I… I’m so sorry
, Mami. I did forget. We organised it a few days ago, and it’s been mad since then.”

My mother gives her big
, warm laugh.

“No problem
, darling. I am not offended. I would rather you had a life, eh? Not holed up reading scripts or whatever you do. Or checking for emails from your mother.” She laughs again.

I roll my eyes. My mother
is always on me to have more of a social life.

“So you can tell me all about this
friend
later?” I can hear the curiosity in her voice.

“I.
.. Um. Yeah. Sure, Mami.”

“Do you want to meet a little later
than we planned?”

I mentally calculate my position in London. I’m in Mayfair. We
always meet in Trafalgar Square. It’s a tradition since I moved to London.

“No, that’s ok
, Mami. I’m in Mayfair. It will only take me twenty minutes to walk to Trafalgar Square.”

“Lovely. O
k then darling. Well I’m very excited. We go to the gallery, then we go to lunch and you tell me all about this friend of yours.”

“Ok
, Mami.” I sigh, wondering how I’m going to explain things. I never could lie to my mother.

“And don’t
sigh, darling. We have nice day. Oh, I nearly forgot. I arrange to meet Robin and Carol for lunch too.”

Robin and Carol are my aunt and uncle on my father’s side. They live in
a London suburb, and I stayed with them during my years at drama school.

I hated the long commute into central London on the underground, but I always loved Robin and Carol. They had no children of their own, and always treated me like a daughter.

We had a running joke that they had adopted me, and it was more or less true.

“Great idea
, Mami,” I say. “I should have remembered to invite them myself.”

I realise it’s been a few weeks since I went to see my aunt and uncle. I’ve been a negligent
pretend-step-daughter.

“Ok
, darling, we’ll have fun.”

“Yes
, Mami. See you later.”

“Love you
,
carino
.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up the phone to see James standing in the doorway. He looks amused.

“Your mother is Spanish?”

“Yes. How did you know that?” I try to remember if I ever told him.

“I speak a little Spanish.
I recognised the word for mummy.”

“You must be good to know that
mami
is Spanish.”

He shrugs. “I get by. In any case, I was hoping you might let me meet her.”

“Meet my mother?”

“Yes. If you recollect
, I asked you once before but it was too soon. I was hoping perhaps the events of last night…”

He moves towards the bed and sits next to me, scooping up my hand.

“Isabella,” he says, staring into my eyes. “I have never felt the way about anyone that I feel about you. I would very much like to meet your family.”

“What about us being seen together?” I
ask. “What about photographers?”

“The
ones we can’t control come out at night,” he says. “Paps aren’t an issue during the daytime. We have budgets to keep them in hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“Paps can sell the right shot for thousands,” he says, “but the big money shots are always night clubs or by swimming pools. That’s where the scandals happen. We pay a retainer to the worse paps to leave us alone in the daytime. They know they’re unlikely to make big money for daytime shots anyway. So it works out for everyone.”

“Oh.”

I never realised photographers were so complicated, and make a mental note to ask Chris the next time we’re doing a shoot.
If
we do another shoot, I think, remembering James’s jealousy.

“In any case
, they don’t tend to favour busy areas,” says James. “Too many normal people around and not enough scandalous activity going on.”

Ok. I can see that. But do I re
ally want him to meet my mother? She’s not the most normal of people.

I take a breath. “The thing about my mother…”

“What?”

“She’s… She’s Spanish,” I say, by way of explanation.

James laughs. “So? I’ve met quite a few Spanish people in my time.”

I sigh, wondering how best
to explain things. My parents spent part of their lives in a circus commune, and my mother’s life is irregular to say the least. James Berkeley with his fancy upbringing would probably be horrified at my chaotic childhood.

“Are you embarrassed
by your mother?” asks James, leaning forward in mock seriousness.

“No. It’s just…
She can be quite intense,” I manage.

“I think you’ll find me more open-minded than you think.”

I pause for a moment, trying to think of another excuse.

“Where are you meeting her?” he asks.

“In Trafalgar Square. We’re going to the National Gallery.” This is another little quirk of my mothers. She’s been to the National Gallery a hundred times, and the pictures in the main collection never change. But she loves to see it all the same. It’s the artist in her, I guess.

James seems to think about this.

“Your mother likes the National Gallery?”

“She loves it.”

“Would she perhaps like to see a little behind the scenes?”

“What?”

James gives me a winning smile.

“It just
so happens that a close friend of mine is a curator at the museum.”