Forbidden Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince)

by Artemis Hunt

  Forbidden Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince)

  Forbidden Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince)

  Midpoint

  FORBIDDEN DESIRE

  (Volume 2 of ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’)

  By Artemis Hunt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 by Artemis Hunt

  Cover art by Artemis Hunt

  WORKS BY ARTEMIS HUNT

  EROTIC ROMANCES

  The ‘Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male’ series

  A Virgin Enslaved

  The ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’ series

  Mysterious Desire

  Forbidden Desire

  ROMANCES

  The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

  Snow White and the Alien

  Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://artemishunt.blogspot.com/ and http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates. I write as Artemis Hunt for erotic romances and Aphrodite Hunt for pure erotica. So please be aware of what you’re getting into, dear reader, when you read one of my stories. Thank you so much for your support.

  FORBIDDEN DESIRE

  1

  Indonesia.

  Land of gathered magical isles. Paradise of sun and surf and shining sea and wooden huts on stilts. Cultural panacea of temples and balmy tropical weather and flowers as big as my torso.

  Alex and I are on the beach, soaking ourselves beneath the afternoon sun.

  I have never been so relaxed in a long, long time. We totally deserve it. We have toiled long into the week, cutting down trees, gathering logs and coconut fronds to help make the villagers a wooden community hall on stilts – and it was worth every drop of our sweat. I never realized giving back to the community would be so rewarding. In all my life, I never gave anything back. I was too busy surviving.

  The little inlet we are on is shielded from the village by a thick cluster of trees – tall slender coconut trees with their large fanlike leaves and the thicker rainforest ones with gnarled roots the size of elephant trunks.

  We are completely isolated. We are not in a five-star resort and waited upon by liveried waiters ferrying trays of cocktails and salted peanuts. This is an honest-to-goodness village with real villagers. Beyond the little huts are paddy fields, nourished by irrigation and the toil of bare brown hands.

  We have been here for over a month. We’ve made love frequently, sometimes three times a day, and lived the simple village life. Alex calls it “immersing ourselves in living anthropology”. I call it “having a damned good vacation”.

  I have never been out of the country on vacation before. This is a first. While Alex takes time to “work out what he really wants in life”, I immerse myself in the role of loving girlfriend.

  “So,” I say, fingering his well-muscled forearm and the major vein that snakes across it. “Have you decided if you want to go home?”

  Home for Alex is his family’s official state palace in Moldovia. Of course, they have an official summer palace as well as a winter palace, not to mention numerous chateaus and mansions around the globe for spring and fall vacations – though I’d honestly die if I had to keep moving for every season.

  “If it were up to me, I’d never go home,” he says.

  His face is turned towards me and he’s smiling. I’ll never get tired of watching him. He has a countenance you can gaze at forever, with his amazingly vivid jewels of blue-green eyes and the little depression in between his brows – which gives him a ‘devil may care’ edge.

  This is a man you’ll have to reckon with, it says, despite his obvious Greek god looks.

  I still can’t believe he’s mine. And I still can’t believe I’m here . . . with Prince Alexander Vassar, who ran away from home because he didn’t want to marry the Lady Tatiana of Nuernberg.

  I say, “You’ll have to go home sometime. I’ll bet the Moldovian tabloids are burning up with speculations on your whereabouts.”

  They don’t know about me, of course.

  “It’ll be old news soon,” he says affably. “They’ll always find something else to print.”

  “Is your father OK with you being here?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, it isn’t as if I didn’t email him about where we are . . . it’s my responsibility, of course.”

  He’s also Moldovia’s heir to the throne, he fails to mention.

  “Any word from him?”

  “Other than that one terse email three weeks ago which said ‘If you don’t come back within the week, I’m disinheriting you?’ Nah. Radio silence.”

  To be honest, I’m a little worried about Alex. He’s a little outwardly cavalier about the whole thing. He doesn’t have normal parents. He doesn’t have a normal life. He can’t just up and dump all his responsibilities. He will have to pay for this little escapade somewhat. And because I love him, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.

  Yes, I’m aware I said the ‘L’ word.

  Not to his face though.

  I haven’t told him. I haven’t dredged up the guts to tell him yet. Maybe I’ll email him one day and maintain radio silence until he digests it.

  He watches my fingers trailing a path down his forearm, and he suddenly grabs my hand with a lightning quick movement.

  I’m caught.

  He smiles as he rolls on top of me. I’m now lying on my back upon the soft, white sand. His weight presses down on my bikini-clad body. He smells of sweat and sea salt upon the tropical breeze.

  “God, you’re beautiful, Elizabeth Turner.”

  “You’re likewise, Prince Alexander Vassar.”

  “Cut the prince crap,” he growls.

  He dips down his head to kiss me. His shoulder-length hair falls to the front, fanning his face. I kiss him back – slow, searching, loving, languorous. I love the feel of his silky lips on mine, and the feel of his equally silky hair on my fingers.

  Our kisses become more heated, and our tongues probe each other’s mouths. His hands move from my bare midriff to my covered breasts, caressing the hardened nipples underneath.

  “Too much clothing,” he murmurs.

  With a sharp tug on the string that joins both bikini cups, he pulls my top off.

  I gasp.

  “Why, Mr. Vassar, that was my only bikini top.”

  “Then you’ll have to go around naked on the beach for the rest of our time here.”

  A delicious thrill courses through me.

  He lowers his head to my right breast and takes my nipple in his mouth. The warm sucking sensation immediately engulfs me – slithering, wet, anemone-like and sweet. His sly tongue curls around my tip, and I moan in pleasure. His tongue makes oscillatory circles around the bud, pressing against my areola in a sweeping, insistent arc.

  Ohhhh. I will never tire of this refrain.

  His mouth swallows more of my nipple, until the edges of his lips are completely covering my areolas. He begins his intense sucking again. His tongue dances around my little snowcap again – fluttery butterfly wing type dalliances. Exquisite, melting sensations flow into my nipple, buoyed by my circulation. My nipple is rapidly becoming a peak.

  My hands grip his hair, his shoulders and the smooth muscled flesh of his back.

  Shadows fall upon us as the sun winks behind a cloud bank. The temperature cools a bit – blesse
dly, because it’s getting scorching hot out here.

  Meanwhile, his hands are not idle. They traverse down my sides and belly – down down down to my bikini bottom, where they stop at my waistband. His fingers and thumb dig into that waistband and slyly slip the spandex off my hipbones.

  He pauses in his savagery of my nipple long enough to say, “Let’s get this off, shall we?”

  “You’re wearing way too much clothing as well,” I tease.

  “That can be easily rectified.”

  He tears my bikini bottom off in a long, sweeping motion and worries it off my legs. Then he hikes his own swimming trunks down. His cock is stone hard and ready and pointing towards me like a suggestive finger.

  Oh my.

  He parts my legs.

  “Take me,” I beg, my fingers clawing the soft sand. Motes of sand also squirrel into my butt cleft as I open my thighs.

  “Not so soon.”

  He scoots his body down even further and lowers his head to my moist pubis. I am already extremely wet. As his hot tongue slathers my clit and pussy folds, I let out a little squeal of ecstasy. He takes this as a signal to torment me further. Holding down my open thighs with his strong hands, he buries his tongue into my clefts.

  “Ohhhhh,” I moan, clutching at his hair.

  His tongue goes deep into my hidden valleys. To ensure that he massages every recess, his fingers prize my labia open so that my entire pussy is bared to him like a naked flower. He licks and licks at my open sex, concentrating especially on that nub of exploding sensory overload – my poor, overstimulated clit.

  I trash my head from side to side, reveling in the exquisite delights of his clever, clever tongue. When his teeth gently take my clit between them, I feel as if I would implode.

  “I want you,” I gasp. “Please, I want you inside me.”

  To satisfy me, at least partially, he inserts two fingers into my leaking mess of a vaginal hole. Ahhhhhhh. My pelvic muscles involuntarily clench around his fingers, squeezing them. With those two fingers inside me, he continues his oral assault of my glistening sex. Lick, suck, taste, swirl – it’s as if my entire sensory focus is whittled down to that cornucopia of wet movements. This is coupled with his insistent probing fingers in my most private of passages.

  Which is now shared and bared to him.

  When I think that I’m about to combust with all the erotic pleasure he’s giving me, he stops. His lips are smeared with my juices, as though they are layered with milk.

  “Let’s try something new,” he murmurs. “Don’t move.”

  He gets up and rearranges himself above me so that his hips hover over my face and his head is above my sex. His cock is a spear aiming right for my mouth.

  “You ready for this, Liz?”

  “Yes.” My voice is breathy and hoarse.

  He lowers his penis into my open mouth. I accept his ramrod flesh eagerly. It fills my whole mouth, crowding everything within it. The taste of his flesh is slightly salty and I lap at it with relish, feeling the corded veins that snake along its length upon my tongue. Its head encroaches onto my throat, and he’s not even half in – not by any semblance of distance.

  At the same time, he dips his head to my pussy again and resumes his oral loving. We are now joined to each other at two ends – an alpha and omega of flowing carnal delights. The air is rife with the sounds of licking and sucking. His hips move back and forth, easing his cock slowly in and out of my mouth. I close my cheeks around his stiff flesh to afford him greater friction.

  I think I can come this way.

  His fingers worm into my hole again – moist, sticky, messy, sweet. Two . . . no, three. He’s filling me with the fingers on one hand, and simultaneously teasing and massaging my clit and sex lips with the other.

  I squirm and moan against his cock. From the way I’m creaming, I think I’m going to come.

  Oh take me, Alex. Take me. I need need need you so badly inside me.

  We are so concentrated on achieving our respective climaxes orally that we fail to register the tread of footsteps behind the trees.

  “Pak!” hisses a voice.

  I freeze, Alex’s cock still in my mouth.

  “Oh shit.” Alex scurries off me, his luscious rod whipping out of my mouth.

  We both quickly scramble to put our clothes back on – not that we had much to put on in the first place.

  “Pak, it is very important!” I recognize the voice of our interpreter, Joti. Pak is the local word for ‘sir’.

  Alex checks to see if I’m decent. I’m still stringing on my bikini top over my wet nipples when Joti steps through the trees. The diminutive man almost backpedals as he sees me, but the fright on his face makes him stand his ground.

  “What can I do for you, Joti?” Alex says without a trace of irritation at being interrupted on our afternoon off. He’s like that with all the locals. Polite, generous and respectful.

  Joti licks his brown lips. “Sir, there was a phone call . . . from your mother. It’s your father. He had a heart attack.”

  2

  We are in a plane back to Moldovia. The only seats we could get were economy, so we are seated at the back of the plane by the window. No private jet with the Moldovian state crest for us here – it would take too long to fly it out and we are in a dreadful hurry.

  No one knows who Alex is, of course, as he is rarely one to throw his weight around. He prefers to “blend in with the crowd” – as if a man who looks the way he does can possibly blend in with any crowd. We resemble two suntanned backpackers with our disheveled hair and worn clothes.

  Alex is all thumbs, which is unlike him. When he almost spills his coffee for the umpteenth time, I take the plastic cup away from him.

  “Talk to me, please,” I say. “What is it?”

  He takes a deep breath. He is seated by the aisle and his hand grips the metal armrest.

  “I’m wondering if his heart attack is because of me . . . because of what I did.”

  A mental image of the robust statesman I had seen in the grand ballroom of the hotel I worked in sits in my mind’s eye. I imagine him weak and frail upon a hospital bed, hooked up to electrodes and wires and catheters. My stomach does a queasy turn.

  “Alex, you can’t blame yourself for that.”

  “But what if it is? What if he worked himself into a state with worry and it finally tipped him over the edge?”

  I take hold of his knotted fist. “You can’t allow yourself to think of what might or might not have been.”

  He refuses to meet my eyes. His brow is creased and his head is bent, as though he is deep in thought. He has adopted this pose since we boarded the plane – six hours ago.

  “I don’t know,” he says in a low voice. He shakes his head slowly. “I just don’t know anymore. I thought I had all the answers, but maybe I don’t. Maybe my father was right about me.”

  It physically pains me to see him torturing himself like this. “What did he say?”

  “He said I was a good-for-nothing who would never amount to anything much. He said that if I was half the person my sister was, Moldovia would have a far worthier heir to its throne.”

  “Oh Alex, he doesn’t mean that. Sometimes parents say things they don’t mean. My mother does it all the time – wear her emotions on her sleeve. And she’s right sorry afterwards.”

  “No. My father pretty much means everything he says.”

  I keep silent. Alex may be right. His parents are like no parents I have ever known, and I can’t even begin to fathom what it is like growing up in a royal family.

  The stewardess comes over and smiles brightly at Alex. “Would you like me to clear your tray?”

  Alex has barely touched his food – beef strips with wild rice and soggy vegetables. I can’t say I blame him. The food is pretty awful.

  “Yes, please,” he says.

  He doesn’t notice that she hasn’t taken her eyes off him. I suppose I’ve got to get used to having a boyfriend who d
raws admiring stares wherever he goes.

  I ask, “Has your father ever had heart disease?”

  “No.”

  “Then you couldn’t have known.”

  He leans his seat back as far as it would go, which isn’t much. “Do you believe in karma, Liz?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not religious, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Not religion, but karma. What goes around comes around. I’m getting punished for what I did, and someone else I love is paying the price.” His voice cracks a little at the end. “Despite everything, I love my father, Liz. I love my family. We don’t always see eye to eye. Hell, we certainly don’t – ” he gives a short, humorless laugh, “but I love them nonetheless. And because I walked away from them, bad things happen to them.”

  Tears fill my eyes. His expression is so anguished and torn that I cannot reconcile the happy, relaxed man I’ve made love to and spent a glorious month with to this shadow of a person. I can only grip his white knuckled fist as the plane heads west into the murky unknown.

  *

  When we disembark in Moldovia, whose capital is also called Moldovia, being the city state that it is, several officious aides in dark suits are waiting for us at the gate. They wear ear and mouthpieces like Secret Service agents in movies I have watched.

  “Your highness,” says one, stepping forward.

  Passengers all around us turn to stare. Thank goodness we were among the last to disembark, being seated at the tail end of the aircraft, or there would be more people stopping in their tracks.

  “Please,” Alex says, looking embarrassed, “let’s go quietly and not make a fuss.”

  An aide reaches for my backpack. “If you would allow me, Miss.”

  “No thanks,” I say, “I can carry my own.”