The Berkeley Method (13 page)

Clearly aware of this, James takes delight in throwing the car around corners and racing over uneven back roads.

“You’re not playing fair,” I plead, as a muddy pass has me gasping with frustrated pleasure.

“I’ve told you before, Ms. Green,” he says. “I have no intention of playing fair.”

We turn another gasp-inducing corner, and suddenly the car pulls to a halt.

I look outside in surprise. We’re at a train station.

“Where are we going?” I am genuinely baffled.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time holed up in the studio,” explains James. “I thought you might like to see something different before we get down to work.”

Instead of explaining further, he unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of the car, walking around to my side to let me out.

Where are we going by train?
I have no idea, and my underwear is making it impossible to think straight.

James opens the door and leans in solicitously to unbuckle my seat belt.

“Think you can make it onto the platform?” he asks, unbinding my hands and refastening his tie.

I nod. “I’ve got used to the pearls now,” I lie. “They’re having no effect on me whatsoever.”

James laughs in response and leans down to lift me out of the car.

He carries me for a few steps before setting me on my feet. “I think you can walk from here,” he says, letting his hand slide up my skirt.

His fingers lightly trace the shape of the pearls, and I let out a stifled moan.

“I’m going to have such fun with you,” he says, before taking my arm and leading me to the platform.

The few steps to the train are exquisite torture, and the sensation is so intense that I only just notice the Eurostar motif on the train.

“Eurostar?” I ask. “We’re going to Paris?”

James nods. “I have a favourite restaurant I’d like to take you to.”

“You want to take me there, like this?”

He laughs and leans forward to whisper in my ear. “I can’t think of any better way for you to be.”

He hands me through the open door of the train, and the pearls force a sudden delicious hitch upwards, making me catch my breath.

The first-class carriage where he’s handed me is virtually empty, and I breathe a slight sigh of relief. At least I won’t have to mask my feelings from other passengers.

“Here,” says James, coming into the carriage behind me. “Our seats are just by the door.”

He points them out and I slide gratefully down. Any more walking would have brought me to the edge.

James seats himself opposite me.

He’s silent for a moment, as the train starts into life. Then his expression turns serious.

“This is more difficult for me than it is for you,” he says. “You have no idea how sexy your expressions are, wearing those panties. Not to mention that I know what a lovely view is under the table. I only need to duck my head.”

I give a half smile, turning my head to look out the window. The movement of the pearls is a subtle pressure now, keeping the sensation alive rather than threatening to send me over the brink.

A waiter arrives to serve us Champagne, and I accept a glass with relief. James sips his glass in silence, looking knowingly at me.

“How long does it take to get to Paris?” I ask.

“Under two hours,” he replies. “It’s remarkably fast by train. Although you may be counting the minutes,” he adds.

I ignore him, choosing to watch the shimmering green countryside as it slides into dusk outside the window.

Soon we’re in the black tunnel, which divides England and France. And then, in a flash of streetlights, we’re out the other side and speeding though the French landscape.

We hit a bumpy part of track, and suddenly the sensation of the pearls is back to supercharged. They move with the motion of the train, rolling and circling. I force myself not to make a noise.

James is eyeing me carefully.

“They have a bathroom on the train, you know,” he warns. “If you don’t take that expression off your face, I’m going to take you back there and fuck you right now.”

“Then stop the train from rocking,” I reply, stifling a gasp as the carriage makes another shudder.

He looks as though he might be considering this as a viable possibility, and then sinks back into his chair.

“We’re nearly in Paris,” he decides. “I’ll reserve fucking you in a bathroom for another time.”

The train rolls into the bright lights of Paris, and we exit the train into the Gare du Nord station.

“Do we have far to walk?” I whimper. Every movement brings a heightened spasm of pleasure. I am concerned I might reach orgasm, right here in the station.

“No,” he says. “The restaurant is just across the street.”

I somehow manage to make the journey across the concourse and over the double-lane road.

I have just enough time to be awestruck that we’re actually in Paris. I’ve been before, but never on a romantic dinner date, and at such short notice.

I try to push aside the sensation of the pearls, to revel in the sudden influx of French language and beautiful architecture. And then we’re outside a small door with frosted glass windows.

“In France, the best restaurants are often very understated,” murmurs James, “but I did have an ulterior motive for bringing you to this particular location.”

“Why is that?” I ask, my voice returning to something more normal now we’ve stopped walking.

He gives me a wicked grin.

“The restaurant is entered via a staircase.”

I swallow.

“A rather steep staircase,” he adds, clearly enjoying the trepidation on my face. James leans forward and pushes open the small wooden door to the restaurant.

The first thing I see is a set of steep wood steps, with a door at the top.

“Ladies first,” says James, holding the street level door back for me.

I try to set an impassive face as I walk ahead of him and take the first step, but it’s impossible. The silken pearls slide deeper into my wetness. I moan aloud, unable to help myself.

“Careful,” growls James, “or I may take you on this stairwell.”

I might want you to
, I decide as I take the next exquisite step upwards. The pearls have hitched higher, and what was a gentle stroking is now a far stronger sensation. As I move up a few more steps, the sliding movement of the pearls across my clitoris is bringing me close to the edge.

“I have a perfect view of those pearls moving against you,” says James, coming up the stairs behind me. His words come out thickly. “I think I might have to take you here and now.”

I feel his hand slide up my thigh and gasp as his fingers push the pearls to one side and enter me. Then James swings me to the side of the stairs and draws himself up level with me.

He presses his free hand over my mouth. His fingers sit tight against my lips, stifling any sound. His thumb is firm under my chin.

“If I’m going to fuck you here, then I can’t have you making all that noise,” he says. He is freeing himself from his trousers now, and hitching up my dress, rolling on a condom.

Then he presses himself against me, and I feel his hardness. With a sudden thrust, he’s inside of me, shifting the pearls aside, taking me roughly and fast.

I gasp, and he presses his hand tighter still over my mouth. Then he brings his mouth close to my ear.

“I have never met a woman who makes me lose control the way you do,” he whispers. “But you have to stay quiet, if you want me to fuck you.”

I feel myself slamming against the wall of the stairwell. The pearls have already brought me to the brink, and I feel myself close. Then he reaches down and twists the pearls back against my clitoris with a little expert flick, and I feel myself give way. My body erupts in a golden burst. James whispers a tight moaning sound in my ear, and he’s climaxing, murmuring my name.

He grabs me tight, pulling me close to him, breathing hard.

Then he slides out of me, pulling my skirt back down.

“You may take off the pearls now,” he says, reaching up and pulling them free with a little tug. I let them fall onto the stair
s and James picks them up.

“It’s enough for me to know you have no panties on under that dress,” he mutters, placing the pearls into his pocket.

“Perhaps we’d better walk up together,” he adds. “I’m not sure we’ll ever make it to the top if I have to walk behind you again.”

He draws himself level with me and offers me his arm.

“I trust I’ve helped you work up a good appetite for dinner, Ms. Green?”

Not just for dinner,
Mr. Berkeley.

I steady my breath as I take his arm and let him lead me into the bistro at the top of the stair
s.

“Now,” he says, opening the door to let me go first, “we can have ourselves a professional discussion, actress and director. I want to tell you about the Berkley Method.”

Chapter 1
4

Inside, the bistro is warm and intimate, and the menu lists classic French dishes.

“You’re letting me choose my own food?” I say in pretend shock as James hands me a menu.

“The food changes every night here,” he says, “so in this instance, I couldn’t recommend the best dish. But I’m assuming you would prefer me to select the wine?”

I nod, having caught a glimpse of the confusing French names on the wine list, and the dizzying price tags.

James orders two glasses of Champagne, and I let my eyes slide down the menu.
Escargot
to start, I decide, and the steaks are likely to be amazing. We are in Paris, after all.

“I think I’ll have the escargot and the steak,” I inform him.

James raises his eyebrows slightly.

“Snails? I’m impressed.”

I shrug. “My mother is Spanish.
Escargot
is not so adventurous to me, as it is to most English people.”

He nods. “Of course. I had forgotten you were so exotic. Though your looks should be a constant reminder to me.”

I look away from his intent stare.

James glances back at the menu, and beckons a waiter. Then he delivers our order in French.

“You’re having the same as me?” I translate. I don’t speak French, but my Spanish helps me understand most French food words.

“Yes. I thought perhaps I would defer to your judgement, in this situation.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Mr. Old-Fashioned is cutting me some slack.

Then I remember that steaks are cooked to order.

“How did you decide I like my steak cooked?” I say wearily.

“Rare. The only way to eat it.”

I give a half sigh. “You are impossible, Mr. Berkeley. Will I ever train you out of your caveman ways?”

“I shouldn’t think so, Isabella. And judging from your response on the stairwell, you rather like my caveman ways.”

I feel myself flushing and take a sip of Champagne to distract myself.

“So,” I say, remembering my conversation with Callum and Camilla. “Can you tell me who the leading man is yet?”

“No,” James shakes his head and sips his Champagne. “That is a secret for the time being. You’ll find out soon.”

“Can you at least give me a clue?” I say. “Most leading ladies are supposed to know who they’ll end up kissing at the end of the movie.”

I say it in a joking tone, but his face tightens. James is obviously not happy that I’m due for a stage kiss.

“He’s a big name,” says James. “I’m just finalising his schedule
,  he couldn’t come this week. But if everything goes to plan, he’ll arrive when we start shooting.”

Ok
. A big name. Exciting.

“So tell me about this Berkeley Method,” I say, keeping the conversation on work.

James sips his Champagne and his eyes flash.

“I’m glad you asked. It’s the method by which I extract the best from my actors.”

“How does it work?”

The conversation feels so much easier now
that he’s not complimenting my looks, or threatening to spank me. How long can it last?

James places his hands on the table, as though considering how best to explain it.

“Essentially, it’s a trust exercise,” he explains. “Over the course of the movie, you’ll have opportunities to… open up. To find out more about yourself.”

I frown a little.

“What do you mean?”

A waiter arrives with a bottle of white wine and presents it to James, who nods his approval.

There’s a pause as a splash is added to James’s glass to taste. He declares it excellent, and both our glasses are filled.

“I encourage actors to truly engage with their feelings,” explains James.

“Like method acting?” I ask.