by Suzy K Quinn
I catch it. ‘Marc—’
‘Say your line.’
I glare at him. But reluctantly, I climb into my dress and push my hair behind my ears.
‘If you can’t remember your lines …’ Marc offers me the script.
‘I don’t need it,’ I snap, pushing the pages away. ‘I know it by heart. Page numbers included.’
‘Very good.’ He drops the script on the desk beside me. ‘So let’s get started.’
‘Page 51 starts with your line.’ I drop down from the desk, my feet finding soft carpet. ‘Not mine.’
‘Don’t get all preachy on me, lady,’ Marc yells, strolling around the suite, waving his hands around, ‘I don’t even like you.’ He turns to me, smiling that handsome Hollywood smile of his. ‘That’s the line, I believe.’
‘Your memory is as sharp as ever.’
‘I hope you’re not going to have an attitude,’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘You know how I handle things when you don’t do as you’re told.’
‘I don’t always do as I’m told,’ I say. ‘And you don’t always handle things like … like you just did.’
‘You seemed to enjoy it.’
I nod. ‘Until you stopped.’
‘Control, Sophia. Control, control, control. Now give me your line.’
I take in a deep breath and let it out. ‘And if ever there was a man I despised, it’s you,’ I say. And right at this moment, I mean it.
‘Very good,’ says Marc. ‘Almost a little too good. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were angry at me.’
‘Furious.’
‘You despise me, lady?’ Marc marches right up to me. ‘You know what they say. Love and hate – two sides of the same coin.’
‘Then I must be madly in love with you.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first girl.’ His face is inches away now, and I see the fury in his eyes.
‘God help anyone who fell in love with you,’ I fire back. ‘You’re so unbelievably arrogant.’
‘That’s what you think of me? That’s who you think I am?’
‘What else can I think?’ I say.
He turns away. ‘Things aren’t always as they seem.’
‘Oh really?’ I demand. ‘Then tell me. Tell me how they are.’
I catch my breath, knowing what’s coming next. And I’m not disappointed.
Marc grabs me and kisses me with such force and passion that I can barely breathe.
He pushes me against the wall, arms wrapped tight around my body.
I kiss him back, tears stinging my eyes, my hands going into his thick, brown hair.
‘You want to know how things are?’ says Marc, carrying me to the bed. ‘You’re a rich girl and I’m a dance teacher. That’s how they are.’
He throws me onto the bed. ‘You stay in this fancy first-class suite. I’m below deck. That’s how things are.’
Marc climbs on top of me. ‘I love you, and it’s killing me. That’s how things are.’
‘You … you love me?’ I stammer.
‘Stupid, ain’t it?’ Marc replies.
‘No.’
We kiss again, more passionately this time, and Marc pulls my dress over my head.
I help him by lifting my arms. Then Marc flings off my bra and puts his mouth to my breasts.
I know one day soon we’re going to have to do all of this on camera. And it’s going to be tough.
It’s funny – thinking about acting with Marc like this.
When Leo and I did a bedroom scene, it was a little bit awkward. I had to really concentrate to stay relaxed. But this is the most natural thing in the world.
Marc is between my legs now, simulating sex, moving his body back and forth.
He is rock hard and pressing on all the right places, and I let my head fall back and moan – a real one.
I roll on top of him and make delicious circles over his hips.
Marc’s hands come to my ribs, and he looks up – eyes soft and full of love.
It’s funny, seeing him in character like this when we’re halfway making love.
How can he do it?
I’m barely holding it together and I know it. But I’m getting better at this.
Looking into his soft eyes, I try to feel the relief my character would feel – finally giving in to her feelings.
I manage it for a moment, but then having Marc between my legs is just too much.
‘Oh god.’ I lean forward, falling against his hard chest, still moving my hips against him.
‘Well done, Sophia,’ Marc murmurs into my ear. ‘We’re making progress. Would you like me to put you out of your misery?’
I manage a laugh and nod.
Marc reaches down and frees himself from his trousers. Then he lifts me by my buttocks and lowers me gently onto him.
I close my eyes as my hips sink down.
‘Oooooh.’ I begin to move. Back and forth, up and down, hands in my hair, desperate for him.
Marc clamps his hands on my hips and moves me more precisely.
‘Oh Marc. Oh god, oh god.’
I move and move and move.
Marc’s hips come up to meet mine, and he watches me, fierce and intense – the Marc I know and am obsessed with.
His thumb comes between my legs, moving in warm circles.
Outside, I hear seagulls call and the waves wash against the ship. But soon I’m barely aware of anything – only Marc’s body under mine.
I close my eyes and let the feelings wash over me, my hips moving automatically.
I feel a hot circle where his thumb is, and it gets hotter and hotter until I’m crying out, calling his name, thrusting my hips.
Marc moves his body up to meet mine, staring deeply into my eyes.
We move and move, and soft moans leave my lips as a deep orgasm builds up and sweeps over me. It starts between my legs and spins up through my stomach and chest.
‘Oh god. Oh Marc. Marc.’ My eyes close as my body is dipped in warmth. ‘I love you,’ I murmur, falling against his chest.
Marc’s arms come around me, holding me tight.
After a long time, I open my eyes.
Marc watches me, protective as ever.
‘You didn’t come,’ I whisper.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ I ask.
Marc’s lips twitch. ‘I wanted to show you what self control is all about.’ He rolls me over, sliding out. ‘Rest there for a moment. Then get dressed.’ He shields his eyes and looks out of the window. ‘I see Saint-Tropez on the horizon.’
51
The ship rolls on through blue water, and Saint-Tropez grows bigger, glowing white and orange in the afternoon sun.
Luxury motorboats sail us ashore, and Ivy loves zipping through the water, bundled against the breeze. But as the waves get choppier, Marc takes her from me.
‘She’s getting soaked through,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring her into the cabin.’
I nod, watching the shoreline. ‘Is it okay if I stay up here? I want to take in every bit of Saint-Tropez.’
Marc strokes salty, wet hair from my face. ‘You don’t need to ask.’
I smile, turning back to the cruise ship giant on the horizon, and see a second motorboat whizzing behind us. Jen is on the deck, talking to what appears to be a security guard. But I know better …
Michael.
I smile.
He’s actually doing as he’s told for once. Heading back to London.
As I lean on the rail, enjoying the cool ocean spray, Benjamin crosses the boat to join me.
‘You’re soaking.’
I shuffle my hands along the rail, away from him. ‘I don’t mind. I’m just enjoying the view.’
‘Aren’t you worried about your hair getting messed up?’ Benjamin asks.
I laugh. ‘I couldn’t care less.’
‘You shouldn’t.’ He edges his hands closer to mine. ‘You look beautiful either way. Hey – I’ve been thinking about our last scene. You
know, where I sort of beat you up. It’s a bit heavy.’
‘I know,’ I agree, ‘but it has to happen. There has to be a good reason for Violet to run away. Otherwise, she’d just be selfish.’
‘Maybe we could tone it down a bit.’ Benjamin looks out to sea. ‘Couldn’t he just slap her or something?’
‘It’s not enough.’ I feel saltwater spray on my face. ‘The audience needs to be in no doubt that she can’t stay with him.’
‘You think a woman should stay with a guy who slaps her?’ Benjamin asks, wiping seawater from his forehead.
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘But things were different years ago. A husband had more right to keep his wife in line that way.’
Benjamin points to the shoreline. ‘You see those houses over there? I own one of those.’
I look to where he’s pointing. ‘Do you?’
‘Yup.’ He puts his hand back on the rail. ‘I usually rent it. But I made sure it was empty this time around. In case I needed some privacy. Or … someone else wanted privacy with me.’
‘Oh,’ I say, not really knowing how to answer. ‘Benjamin? What’s making you want to change this scene?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘No.’
‘Well.’ His blue eyes go soft. ‘I can’t stand the idea of hitting you.’
I laugh, sure he must be making another joke.
‘I’m serious,’ he insists,’ I just—’
‘Hey party people!’ Nadia comes clattering over in her tall boots, black sunglasses wrapped around her face. ‘So. Saint-Tropez is beautiful, right? But listen – wait until you see the villa.’
‘Is the security good?’ Benjamin asks. ‘Sophia is new to all this. We don’t want her bothered.’
‘Of course,’ says Nadia. ‘The best. Hey – this is Saint-Tropez. They live for good security around here. Why do you think the rich and famous love it so much? Oh!’ She grabs the rail, as the boat shakes a little. ‘Time to dock. Saint-Tropez – watch out!’
52
White limousines pick us up from the port, driving us through the town and up the coast.
Marc and I take a limousine together. Ivy travels with Tanya to avoid the paparazzi.
‘I have fond memories of travelling in cars with you,’ says Marc, as we glide past pretty white houses with orange-tiled roofs. ‘Especially cars with tinted windows.’
‘Me too,’ I murmur, staring at the French countryside.
‘You seem preoccupied,’ says Marc. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘It’s nothing.’ I turn to him, managing a smile. ‘Just something Benjamin said earlier. That’s all.’
‘Benjamin?’ Marc’s eyes darken. ‘Why would he be talking to you?’
‘We’re on a movie together, Marc. It’s good to talk. Make friends, even. Acting is all about rapport. You’ve said so yourself.’
Marc turns to the window. ‘Rapport can be faked.’
‘You’re being jealous.’ I reach across the white leather seat and take his hand.
‘Perhaps.’ Marc squeezes my fingers. ‘You know these limousines come with all sorts of built in pleasures, don’t you?’ He opens what I assume to be an armrest, and I see a mini fridge inside, chilling a half-bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne and two tall, frosted wine glasses.
‘Perfect.’ Marc pulls the bottle free and unravels gold metal foil. ‘I think we should celebrate our arrival.’
‘You really think we should be celebrating just yet?’ I ask, watching his fingers untwist the cork cage. ‘It’s not even lunchtime.’
‘Think of this as a relaxation for your rehearsal later.’ Marc pops the champagne cork and pours me a glass.
I take the bubbling glass. ‘Here’s to us. And our beautiful baby.’ I turn to the car behind, where Ivy travels with Tanya. ‘Who I wish was here with us.’
‘You know it’s safer this way.’ Marc pours his own glass. ‘The paparazzi have already tried for pictures.’
I see the pair of us reflected in the smoky-black driver’s partition glass.
‘How did someone like you end up with me?’ I wonder, seeing Marc’s strong jaw, thick brown hair and intense blue eyes. He suits this car. He belongs in this sort of vehicle.
Me, in my light summer dress, hair all loose, barely any makeup – I only belong here if I’m with Marc.
‘I rather thought I was the lucky one,’ says Marc.
‘Oh come on,’ I insist. ‘You’re amazing. I’m just … normal.’
Marc smiles. ‘I don’t think anyone could ever refer to you as normal. You’re astonishingly beautiful. And an incredible actress.’
I shake my head, loose hair spilling around my shoulders. ‘I’m not astonishingly beautiful. And my acting … I just do what I’ve always done. Act with my heart.’
‘You’d be surprised how many people can’t do that.’ Marc arranges my hair over one shoulder. ‘And surely by now, you’ve noticed how men look at you.’
‘Men don’t look at me,’ I say, watching Marc in the glass.
‘They do. Believe me. I hate it.’ He strokes my hair.
I watch Marc’s handsome profile and strong fingers. ‘I thought you were working on that jealousy of yours.’
‘I’m trying.’ He twists my hair around his fingers. ‘Especially when there are men like Benjamin Van Rosen around.’
‘Oh … I think he’s harmless.’ But in our reflection, I find myself unable to meet Marc’s eye.
‘How does it make you feel?’ Marc asks. ‘When men look at you?’
‘They don’t look at me, Marc.’
‘They do. Drink your champagne.’
‘I am drinking it.’ I take another sip, feeling delicious, sharp bubbles on my tongue.
‘Drink it faster,’ says Marc.
‘Why?’
He fixes me with intense eyes. ‘So I can make you come in this car.’
53
Oh god.
‘Marc.’ I shake my head. ‘Not here.’
Marc leans back against soft, white leather. ‘I’d have thought you’d be familiar with the inside of a car by now.’
‘Yes but … your cars. This is … no, we just can’t.’
Placing his champagne glass in a pull-out holder, Marc opens another compartment – a freezer drawer. There’s a gold ice-cube tray inside, and he cracks a cube into his hand.
‘If you’re having a problem following orders,’ says Marc, ‘we’ll take things one step at a time. Put this into your mouth.’
I look at the hard, sharp-edged cube. ‘It’s cold.’
‘Do as you’re told.’ Marc holds the ice cube to my lips and moves it back and forth.
My heart flutters and a blush spreads to my cheeks.
‘Why do I do these things with you?’ I ask, my lips burning. ‘I’m just a normal girl.’
‘Obviously not as normal as you think.’ Marc moves the ice cube to my lower lip, dancing it over my skin.
‘Meaning?’ I stammer.
He holds the cube still for a moment, reaching for his champagne glass and taking a thoughtful sip. ‘Meaning … I brought out what was already inside.’
‘You’re saying that inside I want to be … um …’
Marc puts his champagne glass back into the holder. Then he reaches to take mine. ‘The word you’re searching for is dominated.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I say, letting him take my glass and clip it beside his.
‘Your body says different.’ Marc moves the ice cube from my lips and slips it under my dress.
‘Oh!’ I practically jump out of the seat as the cold hits my skin.
Marc moves the ice cube down, down …
‘Marc!’ I gasp as the cold ice finds its way into my panties.
With deft fingers, Marc moves it around. Around. Up. Then inside me.
‘OH!’
Marc takes another ice cube.
I shake my head. ‘You’re not going to—’
‘I am.’ He pushes
the second ice cube into my panties, and then inside me.
A pleasurable achy cold feeling swells between my legs, and I find myself holding on to the car seat.
Marc watches me. Then he unbuckles his seatbelt and parts my knees.
Pulling my panties over my thighs, he lifts each foot free.
‘Marc, I don’t think this is a good idea.’
‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’ Marc runs a hand between my legs, and I stifle a moan.
‘Marc.’
‘Careful,’ he warns. ‘Or the driver will hear.’
I nod, pushing my lips together.
He lifts my dress, looking at me. ‘How can you say you’re not astonishingly beautiful?’
‘Down there I’m definitely not.’
‘Good god, you are. So, so beautiful.’ Putting an ice cube between his teeth, Marc ducks under my dress and presses it between my legs.
I close my eyes and hold back a moan as he guides the ice cube back and forth, back and forth, building up a gentle rhythm.
The hard, coolness does things to me I can’t believe, and I squirm against the leather.
Marc clamps firm hands on my hips, holding me still.
I try not to cry out, but it’s hard.
Marc moves up and down, over and over, the ice chilling and warming me all at once. It’s melting – I can feel cool water between my legs.
My eyes close. My body tenses and releases, and the ice cubes move around inside me.
Suddenly, I feel Marc’s warm tongue.
It’s too much. I can’t stop myself.
Pushing my lips tight together, I come with a low, silent moan.
My whole body shudders and tenses, and Marc’s movements become softer.
‘Oh Marc,’ I whisper.
Marc takes a white, cloth napkin from the armrest and folds it up, then places it into my panties.
‘The ice cubes stay there,’ he instructs. ‘Until they melt. Husband’s orders.’
‘And if I take them out?’ I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Then I’ll deal with you in my usual way.’
The car pulls to a stop by tall wrought-iron gates, shiny under bright sun.
Marc turns to the window. ‘Well here we are, Mrs Blackwell. Our little French Chateaux.’