Cassandra gasped. She had never felt such a sweet, violent intensity of lust.
‘Don’t just think it,’ moaned Cassandra, ‘do it!’
Then his fingers were unzipping her dress, the featherweight fabric sliding to the floor. He rolled his hands down her slim hips so her chocolate lace thong slid down in one movement.
He lifted her onto the kitchen table, spreading her legs wide and pushing the lace cup of her bra back, his lips descending on her beige nipple, which ripened in his mouth. With her head thrown back in ecstasy, she felt him slowly trace a wet line down over her firm, flat stomach until he reached her thin damp strip of hair. Lifting her legs in the air, he pushed his tongue into her, withdrawing to blow on her clitoris, before burrowing once again for slow rhythmic laps of her swollen nub.
‘Now! We have to do it, now!’ she whispered throatily. He uncurled himself, reached into his pocket for a condom, and after fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, pushed them urgently to the floor. He wrapped his firm hands behind her buttocks, and pulled her to the very edge of the table. She felt his thick cock, that thick, sweet cock so wasted on poor little Laura inch into her, then stop, letting her feel it inside her, filling her. Then he began to move, sliding all the way out then in, quickening both the pace and intensity of his thrusts. As she began to pant, he pulled her legs even wider, plunging so deep that she screamed out with desire. She pulled him closer, grabbing at his hair as she felt the sweet swell of orgasm gathering at her centre before igniting into such a sweet, violent, explosion the background noise of the party faded into nothing and all she could see, taste, feel and hear was Max. He pulled out of her and buried his head in the curve of her neck. They were silent for a few moments before she raised her head and spoke.
‘We’ve just been very, very naughty.’
Max laughed, his breath still coming in pants.
‘Don’t worry, it was just sex. Just incredible fucking sex,’ he said cupping her chin in his hands, pulling her close, the sweat from Cassandra’s skin dampening his T-shirt. She nodded, but as they lay there, entwined on the kitchen table, the fireworks began popping and banging around them and they both knew it was something much more powerful indeed.
25
‘Are you sure you want me there?’ said Johnny, changing into his fourth outfit. The previous three lay discarded on the thick carpet of his bedroom.
‘Well, are you sure you want to come?’ teased Stella as she watched him dress. ‘I know that the whole meeting the parents thing is a bit scary, especially after, you know, we’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks.’
‘Scary?’ he asked, finally settling on a navy polo shirt and cream trousers. ‘I think I can cope with an evil stepmother,’ he looked up and grinned. ‘Well, as long as you’re not a bunny boiler who just wants to get me introduced to Daddy so he can give us his blessings.’
Stella’s heart did a belly-flop. No, she wasn’t thinking of marriage quite yet, but it was hard to believe that their relationship had come so far so quickly. It had all been such a whirl; they hardly seemed to have been apart in the three weeks since their first date, helped in part by Johnny’s break between projects. Not due to start rehearsals for his next film until the end of June, and with promo work for This Country of Ours out of the way, he’d spent his time shuttling between Chilcot and Notting Hill. And the more she saw him, the more Stella was falling for him. And who could blame me? she thought, watching him slip on his loafers. Yes, he was sexy and gorgeous, but Johnny was also dynamic, rich and generous, plus he had a worldliness and sophistication far beyond his years. Stella would only admit to herself that she liked him very much but what scared her, thrilled her, was that it could easily develop into something more intense.
‘Chessie isn’t exactly evil,’ said Stella grudgingly. ‘It’s nothing to do with what she’s like. It’s how my father is around her.’
Christopher Chase’s wives had long been the fly in the ointment in her own relationship with her father. With the exception of her mother, his partners had treated him terribly; two had left him for richer, more impressive men, while Stella was convinced Chessie was only sticking around for what little money her father had left. What frustrated Stella madly was that Christopher couldn’t or wouldn’t see it, even when they left him for a wealthier model. And if Stella breathed a word against any of them, he refused to speak to her for months. Stella was left with the choice of being honest and estranged or frustrated and impotent as she watched these women suck the life out of her father.
‘Well, just say the word if you want me to beat her away with a broomstick,’ said Johnny, jumping over and planting a kiss on Stella’s neck. ‘By the way, you look gorgeous.’
‘Do I look OK?’ she blushed. In an apple-green sundress and silver sandals she looked like a sixties Biba model. Johnny grabbed the keys to the Porsche.
‘Aright then, let’s go slay the dragon!’ he chuckled.
‘I’m so glad you’re coming,’ smiled Stella, taking his hand.
‘Are you kidding?’ he laughed. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
Christopher and Chessie had wanted to meet at China Tang, the glamorous, decadent-looking restaurant in the basement of the Dorchester which, Stella suspected, was Chessie’s suggestion rather than her father’s. The maitre d’ spent a great deal of time fussing round them, which Stella had found was par for the course whenever she was out with Johnny. Sometimes, like today, the attention was welcome but at other times it was unwanted and intrusive. She didn’t mind when he was stopped for autographs, but increasingly women would touch his b
um or demand a kiss, as if he was somehow fair game just because they had seen him in Heat magazine. They had a drink in the lovely Art-Deco bar and then went to their table. They were alone for a few minutes before Christopher and Chessie arrived. Stella found that she was unaccountably nervous, worrying not only about how her father would behave, but even more about how she would behave in front of him. She so wanted to make a good impression on Johnny, but Stella knew that her father’s ambivalent attitude towards her was her Achilles heel. She knew how he was: wrapped up in his own little world and seemingly disinterested in everything else, including his daughter, but each time it hurt, each time it opened up fresh wounds and Stella would often find herself overreacting to the smallest comment or imagined slight. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if she didn’t constantly worry about him, but she did. She couldn’t help it; she loved her father despite everything. When he finally did arrive, shuffling in bent over a cane, Stella was shocked. She hadn’t seen her father for two years and was taken aback by how stooped he had become. His fingers were now so badly knotted with arthritis that Stella audibly gasped. Chessie on the other hand looked radiant in a fitted scarlet dress that showcased a pair of magnificent breasts, noticeably more magnificent than when Stella had last seen her. Chessie was ten years older than Stella which made her 36 and she was at the height of her beauty. She had long chestnut hair, the colour and glossiness of a red setter, the upright posture of a dancer, and the slight uptilt of her nose suggested she was surveying all around her with disdain. A former life model, she had met Christopher when she had sat for him for a series of sculptural nudes, shortly after his third wife Sandrine had run off with a New York art dealer. Six months after their first meeting Christopher and Chessie were married in a quiet ceremony attended by only two witnesses whom they barely knew. What surprised Stella was that it had only taken them six months. Chessie of course no longer modelled yet seemed to be frustrated living in Christopher’s beloved Trencarrow, a large farm on the outskirts of St Ives. She had thus persuaded him to buy a flat in London’s Connaught Square and seemed to Stella to spend more time in Tatler’s party pages than in Cornwall. Stella had an idea how it was all going to end up but she’d daren’t voice those fears to her father.
‘It’s good to have you back, darling,’ said Christopher, taking the seat opposite Stella. She smiled politely, but inside she smarted at the words; she’d been in the country three months and this was the first time he’d been to see her. Despite her hectic workload she had tried to arrange to go down to Trencarrow but her father and Chessie were always away on some trip. The last time she suggested it, Chessie’s mother was down from Derbyshire, which apparently made a visit from Stella impossible. Stella took a deep breath and bit her tongue. Come on, Stella, don’t kick off so soon, she thought, aware she was perhaps reading far too much into her father’s perfectly pleasant comment.
‘This is my friend Johnny Brinton,’ said Stella. At the mention of his name, Chessie instantly became more animated. ‘Not the Johnny Brinton?’ she asked, touching his hand. ‘I came to see Death of a Salesman at the Old Vic, I thought you were wonderful. I had no idea you were a friend of Stella’s.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he replied and went on to tell her about the great reviews for This Country of Ours.
Stella sat back and watched the familiar pattern. Chessie was a model of politeness and charm to Johnny, whilst barely acknowledging Stella’s presence. She was willing for Johnny to hate her as much as she did but apparently he too was caught under the spell. They talked a little about Johnny’s forthcoming film project, the latest goings-on at Milford and the current exhibition at St Ives Tate Gallery. Her father barely spoke and only picked at his food.
‘How’s your mother?’ said Christopher finally, looking halfheartedly at the dessert menu.
‘I saw her just before I left LA,’ said Stella. ‘She’s well. She has two shops now in San Francisco.’
‘Grocery stores, aren’t they?’
‘Health food,’ said Stella, gritting her teeth at the lack of interest he showed in his former wife.