Secret Surrender Read online

  ‘I noticed that you like champagne and oysters, and this place does the best in town,’ he said. Their courtship could not have been more different to the whirlwind of lust and danger that she had known with Jacques. For a whole year – the time it took Alice to complete her drama course – she had dinner with Pierre once a week, and he never once tried to kiss her. But there developed an unspoken understanding that she was his. Not only that they would become a couple, but that they would work together as soon as Alice’s studies were completed.

  ‘I’ve been looking for a muse all my life, Alice,’ said Pierre over cocktails at a restaurant one evening. ‘And I think you will be that muse. But there is no hurry. You must study first. The skills and experiences you will learn this year will shape the acting you do for the rest of your life. There are many young actresses who drop out of drama school for a part. Their careers are always the poorer for it. No, Alice, I want to nurture this wonderful talent of yours.’

  Alice did not tell her fellow students that she was friends with Pierre Daumier. When his name appeared in the trade press or his latest project was reviewed, she had to use all her willpower to stop screaming excitedly, ‘I know him!’ So her fellow students knew nothing of Pierre – and he knew nothing of her relationships with her fellow students. Alice took a string of lovers, desperate to satisfy the need in her that Jacques had awoken, and although none of the men she slept with – fellow students mainly, the odd guy picked up in a nightclub – came close to making her feel the way Jacques had, she found that closing her eyes and picturing her former lover could often tip her over the edge into orgasm. But Pierre could not disapprove, because Pierre did not know. And her friends could not be jealous of Pierre because they did not know about him. It was the perfect arrangement.

  Alice completed her course in June, and Pierre offered to take her on holiday to celebrate the end of her studies and the beginning of her life as a working actress. He suggested the south of France, but Alice shook her head violently and said that she would prefer to go somewhere altogether different. They went to Italy, where they spent a week in adjoining rooms of a suite in a sumptuous Florence hotel. They ate at the finest restaurants every night and finally discussed specific future film projects: Pierre had a lead role for Alice in a series of literary adaptations he had recently bought the rights to. Alice thrilled at the thought.

  Pierre impressed her with his knowledge of art. At the Uffizi Gallery, he was as informative as any tour guide. He stood Alice in front of ‘The Birth Of Venus’, that great Botticelli painting showing a porcelain-skinned maiden with long flowing hair the colour of wheat emerging naked from a huge seashell.

  ‘I think this painting is the most erotic image I’ve ever seen,’ said Pierre. ‘She reminds me of you.’ In over a year of friendship, this was the closest he had ever come to making a pass at her. That night, when they were walking over the Pontevecchio, Alice looked up at him and willed him to kiss her. He lowered his mouth to hers and pressed it, shaking with tension and emotion. It was an exquisite kiss, tender, respectful, gentle, and Alice felt aroused in a very different way to how she had done with Jacques. This was butterflies-in-the-tummy lust, a comforting, gentle desire that would delight but not overwhelm her.

  They made love the first time that night. Pierre led her by the hand to his hotel room and undressed her slowly, taking time between the removal of each garment to kiss her on her lips, her neck, her knees, her inner thighs. Arousal washed over her and receded again in gentle waves. When she was naked apart from bra and panties, he picked her up and carried her to his huge bed where he slid the straps down over her shoulders and scooped her breasts out of the cups of her bra, tenderly unfastening the back clasp, and hanging her bra neatly over the back of the chair before returning to her body. Crouching on all fours, he bent down and kissed each nipple with tenderness and reverence. This slow, methodical, almost worshipful method of foreplay was a revelation to Alice. As Pierre’s tongue gently licked the underside of her breasts, she could feel a butterfly flutter stirring her clitoris and when she felt him rolling her panties down over her hips, his warm breath on her inner thigh and then over her ever moistening pussy, she felt the tension build and knew that a delicious eruption was on its way. The featherlight strokes of Pierre’s tongue on her clitoris teased her almost to orgasm but she wanted to come with him inside her and pushed his head away.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ asked Pierre, his face a mask of concern

  ‘Nothing. Everything you’re doing is perfect. But I want you inside me. Come here.’

  And Alice pulled the crouching man up towards her, kissing him deep and hard and tasting her own pussy juices as she did so. For a moment she was reminded of the sweet honey of Julie’s cunt on her lips and let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. Close up, she could admire Pierre’s body. Unthinkable that they had known each other so well for a year and yet this was the first time she had seen just how broad and well developed his arms were, the bulky tone of his pecs framing a smooth, biscuit-coloured chest with a six-pack of rippled muscle that had been hiding underneath his designer suits all this time. Next to him she felt feminine, vulnerable, protected. He drew out an entirely different kind of sexuality to the wildcat wantonness that Jacques had unleashed in her.

  Pierre’s hard, thick cock was as stocky and satisfying as the rest of his body. Gently, he prodded the opening to her pussy then parted the lips, inserted the tip of his dick inside her, held it there for a few tantalising seconds and then thrust himself deep into her, stretched her inside. Alice enjoyed the sweet surrender. Ever the gentleman, Pierre concentrated on her own pleasure rather than his, and thrust his cock in and out of her slowly, building her climax up with a steady succession of thrusts. His trick of withdrawing his penis almost all the way out before putting his weight behind it and spearing her again was deliciously teasing. Pierre propped himself up on his right elbow and slid his left hand between his pubic bone and her pussy. Parting her damp blonde bush, he found her clitoris and gently stroked it, this double stimulation of pussy and cunt finally awakening the hot torrents of lust that Alice had missed for the last year. She let out a low moan and let rip.

  ‘Fuck me. Oh, fuck me. I need your cock in me. Your big dick, deeper! Deeper! Fuck me. I need it so bad. Deeper, harder.’ And she bucked her hips, digging her nails into his arse, grinding her clit into his pubic hair and feeling the delicious friction, pushing her hips so hard against his and knowing there would be bruises the next day but not caring about that right now. All she cared about was getting his cock as deep inside her as they could manage.

  She sang and swore as the orgasm took her over and felt her pussy muscles massaging and hugging Pierre’s dick, so that his climax was hot on the heels of hers.

  ‘That’s it, baby,’ cajoled Alice. ‘Fill me with spunk. Pump it in. Oh, my pussy needs it.’ He closed his eyes, a vein on his forehead bulged then receded, and Alice watched as his face was ironed out by the release of tension. No woman ever truly knows a man until she has seen his orgasm face, she thought.

  ‘Oh, Pierre,’ sighed Alice, as her pussy continued to convulse around his still-twitching hard-on. ‘I’ve waited for that for a year.’ She met his eyes and was shocked by the expression in them – a mixture of shock, disappointment and revulsion. ‘What’s the matter? Didn’t you like it?’

  Pierre’s reply was murmured into her shoulder. ‘Oh, Alice. Darling Alice. It was the most exquisite sex I’ve ever had. It’s just that you have rather taken me aback with your, um, your language. I’ve never been spoken to quite like that by a lady before.’ His disapproval was implicit in the tone of his voice. Alice was slightly shocked, because Jacques had loved it when she was loud and explicit and yelled all the things she wanted to do and everything she was feeling in pornographic detail. And her other lovers – those who had managed to elicit such a response in her – had always been really turned on by her dirty talk, telling her that it was madly horny
to see such a polished, elegant woman swearing like a sailor. But her experience had also taught her that one man’s aphrodisiac is another man’s turn-off. Alice sighed and inwardly resolved to stay silent and compliant during future lovemaking sessions with Pierre.

  She stroked his face, feeling that an explanation or apology was in order. ‘It’s only that I wanted you so very, very much. You should take it as a compliment. But if you’re not comfortable with it, I won’t shout like that again.’

  Pierre nodded drowsily; he was struggling to stay awake, a pattern that Alice would soon realise repeated itself every time he made love. He did not reply to her and was soon fast asleep, his retreating dick pooling in his own spunk inside her pussy. Alice wriggled out from under him and gazed down at her sleeping Adonis, running her fingers through the fuzz of hair on his chest. After sex, the last thing she wanted to do was go to sleep. She never felt more alive, never felt more like seizing all the world had to offer, never felt more like talking.

  She had not been lying when she said it was the best sex she had had in a year: it was far and away the best fuck she’d had since that last one with Jacques. She had definitely enjoyed Pierre’s body and his respectful, diligent style of foreplay was unlike anything else she had ever known. And so what if his reaction to her outburst was a little concerning? She would learn to bite her lip.

  She covered Pierre with the golden brocade eiderdown of the hotel bed and lay beside him, feeling a sense of security that gave her surprising comfort. Despite the energy that was buzzing about her body, she drifted off to sleep with her head on his chest. To her astonishment, when she woke it was seven o’clock in the morning and Pierre too was stirring. They kissed sleepily.

  ‘Am I awake, or was last night a dream?’ Pierre mumbled. His morning erection was thick and growing by the second. Alice put out her hand to cup his balls, and slid her fingers slowly up the shaft of his cock.

  ‘I would say you’re very much awake,’ she replied, and before he had a chance to respond, she gently pushed back his hips so that he was lying on his back. She slung one leg over his prone body and lowered her cunt, already wet with anticipation, on to his engorged flesh, watching his face go from sleepy softness to hard, urgent lust in the time it took for the inside of her pussy to wrap itself around the dick and squeeze it hard. Last night’s long, drawn-out sex had been delicious, but the animal in Alice was now in the mood for something hard and thrillingly fast. She bounced up and down, enjoying the feel of Pierre’s prick expanding inside her pussy. The sight of her bouncing tits, topped by puffy pink nipples, transfixed him. Hooking her arm under his thigh, she raised it up, pulling him deeper inside her, and guided his hand on to her clitoris, which was already slippery from her own juices. Pierre circled his fingers around the flesh of the sensitive little bud, making her laugh with pleasure, before giving it a playful little flick that triggered her orgasm. She rode the climax out, moving her upper body backwards and forwards as a delicious tingling spread throughout her clit, cunt, tits, arms, legs, fingers, toes and lips. Careful to keep her moans of pleasure wordless, she leaned forward, extending her legs behind her, and lowering her upper body until her head was level with his. Her blonde hair tickled his chest and shoulders, and she kissed him while he came, his hot breath filling her mouth and his spunk filling her pussy. Now it was her turn to collapse on top of him, enjoying the light layer of sweat that lay between her tits and his chest. She looked into his eyes, safe in the knowledge that if he wasn’t hers before, he certainly was now.

  ‘I love you, Alice,’ breathed Pierre, his voice breaking. ‘I’m so in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you – you’re my muse and I want you to be my lover for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?’ Alice answered him with a sweet, slow kiss. This time Pierre didn’t fall asleep.

  Eight years later, Alice was still Pierre’s muse, but the film projects had become safer and more commercial: Pierre was seduced by the Hollywood dollar, and the daring, arthouse projects they had discussed when they had first met had turned into bland romantic comedies that were hits internationally, not just in France. Alice could never work out which came first, her disillusionment with Pierre the director or her disillusionment with Pierre her husband, but she did know that neither her career nor her marriage had made her feel alive for years.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS A week before the next letter came. During those seven days, Alice often had the feeling that she was being followed. She turned around to look behind her so many times that her neck began to ache. But she never saw Jacques.

  She had final proof that he was indeed following her when the next letter arrived, this time not pushed under her front door, but slipped in her bag. Her fingers closed over the smooth paper as she was fumbling for her front door key and she knew without looking what this foreign object in her handbag was. She tried to think of all the places she had been that day. When had he done it? When she was browsing at the cosmetics counter in Les Galeries Lafayette? When she was hailing a taxi? When she was smoking a cigarette and people-watching in a café in Montmartre?

  There had been a time when her body would have recognised Jacques’ presence from a distance of ten, maybe twenty, metres. She would have been shivering and shaking but that had not happened today. Or had it? Since that first blue letter announcing that Jacques was back in her life she had been switched back on again, so that every tiny, everyday experience was suffused with sexuality and erotic potential. She had even found herself unable to keep her hands off her husband, something Pierre had not minded the first two successive nights she had taken his cock between her lips because her hands couldn’t get him hard enough quick enough. However, on the third day he had pushed her away. The rejection had stung Alice, not because Pierre had turned her down but because she needed a cock in her so badly it was almost a pain. It had almost killed her to wait until Pierre was asleep before opening her bedroom door and rocking herself to orgasm with the solid silver dildo she kept wrapped in a silk scarf in her lingerie drawer for the occasions when fingers were not enough and she needed to feel something inside her.

  Still fingering the paper square in her handbag, Alice walked through the empty lobby and began to ascend the marble staircase that wrapped around the lift shaft and ran through the centre of the building. The ancient iron cage was descending with its usual din. As the lift passed her, Alice waved hello to a pair of neighbours visible through the grille.

  When they were out of sight, she pulled the envelope from her bag and held it to her nose, wondering if it bore a trace of his scent. It carried no odour, and with a pang Alice realised that she could not remember Jacques’ smell. A neighbour on the staircase was almost keeping pace with her. Only when he raised his eyebrows and winked at her did she realise that she had been inadvertently fondling her own breast and that her nipples were hard.

  Outside her front door, Alice opened the envelope, not wanting Pierre to see it and question her. The note was briefer this time.

  Meet me at Café St Giles, 7th Arrondisement at 3 p.m. tomorrow

  No ‘Dear Alice’, no please, no signature. Jacques was obviously completely confident that Alice would obey his summons. He was right to be.

  The next day, Alice showered and scented herself and made herself up as though attending a premiere rather than having coffee with an old boyfriend in a café in an unglamorous part of town. She was frightened by the menacing tone of Jacques’ letter but could not deny that whenever she thought of him a pulse began to beat between her legs. Unable to stay in the apartment because she was so restless, she hailed a taxi to a chic district and had her hair professionally blow-dried. The hairdresser chatted to her about fashion and frocks and her husband, mentioning a recent interview they had done together. Alice wondered if it was significant that she should be reminded of her public life with Pierre in the moments before going to see Jacques.

  The tabac that Jacques had chosen overlooked a pretty, leafy sq
uare but had a shabby sleaziness about it that was in keeping with his personality. She looked at her white-gold watch. She was five minutes early. Good. She got to choose where they sat, and could select a discreet table where they would not be bothered by autograph hunters or, worse, journalists. She was in luck. A red, leather-lined booth in the corner of the tabac was positioned so that while it was easy to see into the room, most of the other customers had their backs to the table. She beckoned the waiter over and ordered an espresso. Then, realising that this was a mistake – her pulse was already racing a mile a minute – she instead chose a hot chocolate. When her drink arrived, she wrapped her hands around the tall glass cup for comfort as well as warmth and to steady her hands.

  The door creaked open, a few leaves blew in and there he was. Alice felt something between desire and nausea. The furrow between his eyes was deeper, and his hair was shorter around the sides. He had gained a little weight, but it suited him: his jawline was softer and he was no longer too thin for his height. As he walked towards her, intense but half-smiling, that dark lock of hair fell into his eyes again and Alice could see that it was shot through with a couple of strands of gun-metal grey. And, God, he was as beautiful, if not more beautiful than she remembered him.

  Before they had a chance to speak, she noticed something else. The shabbiness of his jeans, the threadbare shirt and the worn leather of his jacket told her that he was still poor, poor as when they met. Unlike her, he had not found his fortune. She was the international success, but he remained a struggling artist. Her stomach lurched, from disappointment not desire, as she realised that he was probably there to get some money out of her. After all, he had every reason to be angry with her. She had left him without a word of explanation, although she was sure he had guessed the reason. But asking for money? Was that really the best way to get his revenge? Unsure whether he was about to attack or charm her, she steeled herself and tried to ignore the fact that her breath was coming in short sharp gasps and that her panties were becoming damp.