‘Keep looking at me, Elle,’ he orders. ‘I wanna see those beautiful eyes when you come.’
The combination of the enormous pressure of having him inside me, the heavenly friction of his focused, relentless thumb on me, and the intensity of our unbroken eye contact is too much, and I freefall in a way I’ve never, ever experienced, my hips bucking as much as they can underneath Josh. My skin is prickling, my blood is zinging, and I go temporarily blind, the sight of his beautiful, triumphant, turned-on face replaced with a full-on firework show for a few moments.
I’m still surfing the waves of my orgasm when he stills and comes too, shuddering into me, adding to the incredible physical and emotional overwhelm I feel right now. He collapses ontop of me, kissing me deeply, brushing my fringe out of my eyes, holding me and crooning to me.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, stroking the length of my back. ‘Holy shit, Elle. That was—that was fucking unreal. Jeez.’ He shudders and sucks the air in through his teeth in a happy way as I clench around him one last time and tilt my hips up to wring the last of his orgasm from him.
‘I take it back,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna tie you to my bed and I willnotlet you know if you win Best Actress. I’ll need you to clear your schedule for the next week because you, my little British princess, are not going anywhere.’
CHAPTER 9
Elle
Josh does let me go, obviously, but for as little time as possible. Over the next week, we’re attached at the hip.
And several other body parts.
That he’s not here to promote a specific film makes it easier for us to snatch time together. He’s incredibly sweet. Attentive. Adoring. He brings me lunch when I get breaks between interviews, and we eat in the hotel room or out on the terrace. A couple of times we even slip over to the Martinez’s beach club for seared tuna salads. Paps be damned.
The paps are indeed all over us like a rash. We’re the hottest story out of Cannes, even though most of the gossip rags are speculating that our fledgling relationship is actually manufactured to boostGracie’s publicity.
I get it, I suppose. I mean,Gracie’s a little indie movie that needs all the publicity it can get. And if I were to put out for the movie (which is an offensive suggestion in itself), Josh Lander’s the biggest and most perfect star I could target. But no one who sees us together can surely doubt that this is the real deal.
The true story is far more fun, and some of the press havejumped on that: the ‘posh British princess’ (so they’ve dubbed me) and the all-American playboy, who’s basically Hollywood royalty. The NSFW dance floor meet-cute that went viral. And the PDAs that definitely aren’t for effect.
There have even been some photos of Josh rubbing sun creamveryattentively on my bum cheeks up on the pier of the Martinez’s beach club. My bikini was particularly small that day (thanks to pressure from Bad Boy Josh) and there were definite overtones of Ben and J-Lo that I’m not proud of. But, hey. The experience itself was particularly gratifying. What can I say? He’s good with his hands.
And all his other body parts.
The press is certainly getting enough of those PDA shots to fuel speculation that we could actually be sincere in our courtship. When we walk, he has his arm around me the whole time. When I speak, he gazes at me in rapture and strokes my fringe from my face (or maybe I should say my ‘bangs’. He’s so cute).
My favourite headline so far?
FALLING STARS, courtesy of theDaily Mail. That one gave me goosebumps.
We’ve spent every night together since that first night. I was a bit worried about that, but not for the reasons you might think. It’s really because of my Crohn’s.
If you aren’t familiar with Crohn’s, think of the least sexy, least glamorous, most embarrassing and revolting illness you could have. My medical team thinks it was triggered by a bout of glandular fever when I was fifteen. I’ve been dealing with digestive disasters ever since, but being on a strict autoimmune protocol for my diet has really helped, so now most of my flare-ups come from being overwhelmed, stressed, or anxious.
That’s the really rubbish part. I get anxious that I’ll get a flare-up, and guess what? My anxiety brings on a flare-up. I’ve tried everything, believe me. Hypnotherapy andaromatherapy. Meditation and massage. Yoga and reiki. Acupuncture and homeopathy.
Some of it helps. But the best thing I can do is manage my lifestyle, so I’m not overworking and I leave space between big things—like long-haul travel or parties or long shooting days—so my body has time to recalibrate and rest.
Because it’s all so embarrassing and deeply personal, I don’t talk about it. At all. My family has been amazing, and my closest friends know—my best friend from uni, Nora, and Mara, obviously. And Tina. I told her out of courtesy (the insurance company for the film needed to know, anyway) but also so we could work together on managing my shooting schedule to avoid overloading me. If I have a flare-up and end up in hospital, or even just bedridden for a few days, nobody gains.
But otherwise, I don’t talk about it, and I’m definitely not planning on telling Josh. Not yet, anyway. Imagine being told your brand-new kind-of-girlfriend, who has been pulling out all the stops to impress you with her sexy new underwear and tiny bikinis and who is totally star-struck by you, actually has an illness that makes her involuntarily empty the contents of her bowels into her pants with no control from time to time, and even poos out blood clots straight from the lining of her inflamed intestines. Yeah. I know. It’s a bit heavy.
Annoyingly, my flare-ups are often worst first thing in the morning. I don’t know why, but it means I’m extremely antsy about doing anything too active first thing. I never, ever go for early morning runs, for example. So, the morning I was due to have my hiking date with Josh, I purposely set my alarm for 5am and took it really easy, doing some gentle yoga to test how my body was feeling, and drinking camomile tea to soothe my gut before I went out with him.
But thankfully, my body has been on board all week, and nothing embarrassing has happened. I was worried Canneswould be so frenetic that it would cause a flare-up, but I’ve been fine. Maybe all the orgasms Josh Lander is doling out are acting as panaceas to my nervous system and keeping inflammation at bay.
I don’t know.
But I’m grateful.
I’ve met this incredible man, who makes me starry-eyed and gooey whenever I’m with him, and I haven’t pooed my pants. I’ll take that.
Tonight is the Closing Ceremony, when the committee awards the prizes to the best of the competition. I’ve spent the afternoon getting ready with Astrid and Honor, whose brands are dressing me and making me up for my final red-carpet appearance. As Lucinda once again works magic with my face, we all chat about Josh. Obviously.
