Infamous Desire

  Infamous Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince)

  (Volume 3 of ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’)

  By Artemis Hunt

  Chapter One

  While waiting for the consultant to arrive, I tabulate my list of woes on a palace notepad. It has the Moldavian crest embossed on each page, a reminder of all the people in the palace who hate me.

  Let me count the ways:

  1. The Moldavian press hates me. They think I’m a “gold-digging white trash American hotel maid/slut” who is “spending all the prince’s (a.k.a taxpayers’) money.

  2. Since the Moldavian press hates me, the European press thinks I’m a figure of fun. And so do the press of pretty much every part of the world.

  3. The Queen thinks I can replace the beauteous Lady Tatiana, the preferred engagement partner for her son, in the way a two-dollar brassiere on discount at Target can replace a La Perla pearl-studded bustier. (Yeah, that’s what she really thinks of me.)

  4. Claire, Alex’s sister, has been revealed to be the one who alerted the paparazzi to where I was shopping on Alex’s tab. Needless to say, I think she did it because she hates me.

  5. Jasper, the King’s Royal Chamberlain (or aide or personal assistant or whatever he calls himself today) thinks I should be tumble-dried in one of the palace’s Laundromats. Of course, I’m going by the level of disdain on his features every time he looks at me.

  6. I’m pretty sure they have been keeping my presence in Moldavia from the King, who probably isn’t allowed TV or newspapers or Internet or any chocolate in the Coronary Care Unit. But once he hears of me, I’m sure he will keel over from another heart attack.

  7. I haven’t met Tatiana in Moldavia yet, but I’m sure she’s sticking pins into a little voodoo doll of me dressed in a maid’s outfit.

  Alex is seated beside me in the East Wing parlor. Most of our activities seem to be confined in the East Wing, probably because the rest of the royals are afraid of contamination by me. I think they probably think I must have white trash cooties, or something.

  “You OK?” Alex says in concern.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you writing on that pad?”

  “Nothing. Just doodling.”

  I hastily put it away.

  “You look very nice.” The corners of his lips curl upward. “Is that something you bought the other day?”

  I’m dressed in a pale pink two-piece suit – extremely well cut to show off my curves. My shoes are Christian Loboutin, and my hair is swept back in a chignon. If I didn’t know who I was, I would have mistaken myself for one of those chic French debutantes who get magazine coverage each time they grace a Cannes movie premiere.

  Alex is looking extremely nice too. His longish hair is neatly combed back today, but a stray tuft falls over his forehead appealingly. He wears a dark pinstriped suit and tie which show off his blue-green eyes to marvelous effect.

  Those very blue-green eyes were hovering above my face earlier this morning when he made love to me. I blush to think of us joined together, his cock deep inside my pussy – his wonderful girth filling my every crevice and secret nooks. I recall his unhurried movements as he grinds himself against me. The sex was leisurely, prolonged, languorous, as though we had all the time in the world.

  He bent down his head to kiss me from time to time. Slow, sweet kisses, full of mouth and tongue and passion. His hands roamed up and down my body, repeatedly rubbing and tweaking my nipples even as he increased his rhythm.

  My groin clenches just to think of what he did – especially at the end when his semen gushed forth, completing my climax.

  Jasper strides into the parlor, interrupting my indecent reverie.

  “She has arrived, your highness.”

  “Thank you, Jasper,” Alex says.

  A woman in her fifties with short blond hair cut close and a pair of sunglasses dangling off a chain around her neck walks in. She is as thin as a pencil, and she is all angles, as though she is made out of papier mache.

  “Good morning, your highness,” she rasps. She has a voice like grated pebbles. She glances at me. “Good morning, Ms. Turner.”

  Alex gets up and offers her his hand. “Good morning, Madame Fournier.”

  “Morning,” I squeak. The way she is sizing me up frankly intimidates me.

  Madame Fournier holds up an iPad.

  “Did you see the headlines today?”

  Actually, no. I make it a point to avoid them these days.

  “Which paper?” Alex says.

  She shoves the iPad in front of our faces, and starts flipping the ‘pages’. “American ones. Chicago Sun Times. Chicago Tribune. New York Times.”

  Uh oh. So they have gotten wind at home of what I’ve been up to.

  I’m famous!

  (In the wrong way.)

  “Let me see that,” Alex says, taking the iPad from her.

  Together, we peruse the headlines with dread. I expected the usual ones: ‘OUT TO GET HIS MONEY AND A PRINCESS TITLE’. ‘AMERICAN LASS SNARES HANDSOME BILLIONAIRE PRINCE’.

  Well, they are all there.

  And more.

  My stomach clenches as I see two sub-headlines:

  ‘HOTEL MAID HAD SEX WITH THE PRINCE IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM,’ SAYS HER ROOMMATE, DEANNA SMITH.

  ‘HOTEL MAID QUITE THE SLUT WITH THE GUESTS,’ SAYS HER CO-WORKER, CASSANDRA PELICANO.

  I must have blanched, because Alex says, “Liz, are you all right?”

  The room spins a little, and suddenly, Alex is propping me up and I’m leaning against his shoulder. Deanna’s face blurs into Cassandra’s, their mouths opening and closing without sound.

  Oh shit.

  “No,” I say weakly, “I don’t think I’m OK.”

  I’m definitely not OK.

  In fact, I think I’m going to be sick.

  I can take the name-calling from anonymous reporters. Even Alex’s relatives, who have every right to think I’m not good enough for their son or brother or cousin or whomever. But Deanna? And Cassandra?

  How could they do this to me?

  How?

  “Liz,” Alex’s urgent voice filters through my head, “it doesn’t mean anything. They could have been misquoted.”

  “That’s a very real possibility,” Madame Fournier says in a kinder tone.

  I don’t honestly think anyone could have misquoted something like that without being sued. What Deanna said was true, of course. I did have sex with Alex the very first I met him in a public restroom. But I told her all that in confidence. Did she have to blurb it out to the press for her fifteen seconds of fame?

  Worse still is Cassandra Pelicano’s statement. I have never, ever behaved the slut with any of the guests at the hotel I worked at. I have never behaved the slut in my college either. I haven’t even dated regularly until I met Alex.

  I feel betrayed in the worst possible way. What have I ever done to either of them?

  My knees buckle and Alex catches me.

  “Here, Liz, sit down.”

  I hear the scrape of a parlor chair being pulled and my buttocks are suddenly slammed upon its soft padded seat. My head still whirls.

  “Don’t mind them, OK?” he says urgently. “Don’t mind them.”

  Easy for you to say. You’re not branded the slut for sleeping around. You’re a prince. It just makes you cool.

  It’s different for girls.

  Someone shoves a glass of water into my hand.

  “Drink, Liz,” Alex says. I can feel his warmth beside me.

  Jasper was right. The best thing I could have done was go home before any of the headlines hit and forget any of it ever happened.

  But I love love love Alex fiercely. With my entire body and soul.

/>   “What do you suggest, Madame Fournier?” I hear Alex say. His voice is sober, all businesslike.

  “That’s what I’m here for as the top Public Relations consultant in this country. We need to rebrand the two of you to become Moldavia’s biggest export.”

  Chapter Two

  I cry my heart out that night. I cry huge tears that roll down from my cheeks to my pillow. I cry for all the innocence I have lost and all the friends I thought I had.

  Alex is beside me in bed, naked. Normally, this would engender that fluttery, hollowing feeling down there, between my legs, but tonight, I am just too upset. I have turned away from him because I don’t want him to see my puffy red face.

  “Why don’t you give them both a call?” he murmurs, lifting a strand of my hair.

  I shake my head miserably. I don’t think I can talk to or face either one of them again. What’s worse is that deep down inside of me, I believe they are capable of doing it. It may not even be for vindictive or vicious reasons, but simply a chance to bask in the spotlight. Deanna always had that ‘I want all the attention’ streak in her, and besides, I really did leave her in a co-rental payment lurch when I upped and ran away with Alex.

  As for Cassandra, she always did like gossiping about other people, and I don’t mean that in the best of ways.

  “How’s your father?” I ask.

  He sighs. “He’s stabilized somewhat, but he’s still in intensive care. Apparently three quarters of his heart muscle has been destroyed and they had to put in a pacemaker just to keep his heart beating.”

  Oh my God. That’s awful. Here I am, sunk in my own petty problems and here is Alex, having a very real problem of his own.

  I turn my tear-sloshed face to him.

  “Oh Alex, I’m so sorry.”

  I open my arms to him and he comes gladly to them. We wrap ourselves in a fierce horizontal hug –full-bodied, skin to skin at every contact point, body heat permeating our every fiber. A pang of love fleets through my chest.

  Oh, how I love this man. I love him so so so much that it actually physically pains me.

  “I love you,” he whispers against my neck.

  “I love you too.”

  “How can I cheer you up?”

  “I’ll get over it soon. Don’t worry about me.”

  He laughs. “You’re supposed to say ‘Let me count the ways’.”

  I smile despite my tears. My nose is kind of runny, and I don’t feel very attractive. But Alex doesn’t seem to mind as he turns my face towards his with his crooked finger on my chin, and bends his head down to kiss me.

  We kiss. Oh, how we kiss. There’s a groundswell of emotion in that kiss – the pouring of love, pain, guilt, and all the other emotions that we harbor within ourselves but cannot articulate. But we have each other, and we are the stronger and better for it, like the augmented effect of two becoming one and multiplying to ten.

  He’s hard again. I can feel his cock pressing against my thigh.

  “You OK for sex?” he murmurs.

  I’m not sure, actually. I’m still upset, but I’m certainly up for a little hold-me-tightly and tender loving. I don’t know how to say ‘no’ to Alex, especially when he’s always so rock hard and ready. Besides, his face is so beautiful in the lamplight, with multifaceted rainbow reflections in his blue-green eyes and his full, lush lips half parted in a smile.

  We’re in my guest room, as always, because he doesn’t like us to make love in the Royal Wing where Claire and his mother reside.

  He senses my consternation.

  “What do you say I give you a little oral loving instead?” he suggests.

  I would never say no to that.

  I smile despite my tears.

  He tosses off the sheets. I am wearing a silk negligee, courtesy of my shopping trip the other day. It’s mauve, lacy and very sheer. I am also wearing matching silk panties.

  He lifts my negligee and peruses my panties.

  “Nice.” He grins.

  “Thank you for the present,” I say softly.

  “Anytime. Though I’d rather they be crotchless.”

  The very image of that sends a delicious shudder down my spine.

  He’s still grinning as he pulls off my panties and slides them off my legs. My dark pubic patch is revealed. His scorching gaze fixes upon it as he takes his languorous time to part my thighs. I blush. I’m still not used to his intense, sexual scrutiny, no matter how many times he does it.

  He lowers his head between my thighs. With the index finger and thumb of his left hand, he peels open both my labia so that my quivering clit is exposed to him and the elements.

  “You ready?” he purrs.

  I shake my head.

  “Tough luck, because I’m ready.

  His tongue flickers out and slathers the length of my clit.

  Ooooooooo.

  I arch my back despite myself. I feel like gripping something in my fists and bunching it.

  He does it again and again – a slow trail of his tongue tip starting from the very top of my clit hood down its trembling body, and further down to where it meets my orifice. He is going for sensuousness rather than speed, taking his leisurely time.

  Down, lift his tongue up, then starting from the top and down again. Repeat. Soft sensuous strokes. Each sending prickles of sensation throughout my pussy. Each leaving me wanting more.

  He varies his movements. Single straight flicks merge with wavy lines, and then progress to rotational curls. His tongue dips within my furrows, which are opened like a Russian box of secrets. My fingers grab the edges of my pillow and then clamber down to grasp his long, tangled hair.

  “Ohhhhh,” I moan.

  My pussy begins to leak despite my earlier reservations that I would not get aroused after being so distressed.

  This urges him on further.

  His tongue licks and twirls and gives every part of my pussy a good scrubbing. I twist and turn myself, trashing my head to my left and right. The tip of his tongue dips into my pussy hole. I gasp, especially as it worms itself in pretty deep.

  Once inside, it oscillates within my pussy tunnel, circumnavigating my walls thoroughly. Now and then, it strikes against my G-spot, and I can’t help but attempt to close my legs for the sheer pleasure of it.

  His hands come down and firmly press my thighs against the mattress.

  He continues his oral loving, as he calls it. I squirm and writhe in escalating ecstasy. My hands claw his hair, and then dart upward to grasp the headboard, and then the sheets, and the pillow again – all in a succession of pleasurably agitated activity. My pussy is creaming and staining the sheets, and he laps my juices up, tasting and savoring them as if they were ambrosia.

  I moan and make guttural noises in my throat. I feel like climbing the walls.

  When he finally thrusts two of his fingers into my pussy – right smack against the hollow of my G-spot – I explode.

  I dissipate into a series of helpless cries and shudders. My body rocks violently against his grasping hand, still with his two fingers embedded in me. He throws his torso on top of mine so that I cannot squirm away from him, and he takes his pleasure in watching me as I come and come – my juices flowing copiously down his beaked hand.

  When I slowly descend from my moment of clouds and rain, my body juddering now and again like a livewire, he withdraws his fingers.

  “Did you like that?” he murmurs.

  His lips are still smeared with my creams. It’s a most seductive sight.

  I nod breathlessly.

  “Want to replace it with a solid member of my body?” His smile is teasing and very infectious.

  I nod again.

  “Then open your legs, baby.”

  My tears have mostly dried, and so I gladly let him mount me. As his wonderful cock spears my pussy, I focus on his beautiful face above mine – shining and regal and loving. And my troubles melt away.

  Temporarily.

  Chapter Three


  “Your hair is flat,” Madame Fournier pronounces.

  “What?” No one has ever said that to me before. My hair is actually wavy and I’m rather proud of it because it’s get-up-and-go hair – the kind you can run a brush through once or twice and look fairly decent when you head out of the door.

  “It’s flat,” she decides. “It needs a makeover. I’m taking you to Moldavia’s top stylist.”

  “He’s not coming to the palace?” I ask in amazement. I’m actually being let out – royal pariah that I am?

  “He needs his paraphernalia.” She gives me a knowing smile. “Besides, I have a plan.”

  The stone-faced Jasper takes us to the stylist at Rue Champignon, a fashionable district with a cluster of upmarket restaurants and shops. The cuisine there is multinational – French, Italian, Greek, Spanish, with even an English pub called ‘Dirty Nelly’s’.

  Academie de Coiffure occupies an entire three-storey section of an 18th century gabled townhouse. The stylist is at the entrance to greet us himself.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he says with a French accent. He beams like the moon.

  “Her hair is flat, don’t you think, Monsieur Danton?”

  “Flatter than my mother-in-law’s chest.”

  OK, I think we have established that my hair needs a total makeover.

  As I walk in with Madame Fournier, the ladies in the rather full salon all look up. A hush ripples through the entire place.

  Uh oh. Is this really a good idea?

  I dart a glance at Madame Fournier, and she nods comfortingly. “Go on, take a seat. You can’t hide from the world forever.”

  I suppose she has a point. Since all this started, I really miss my freedom and anonymity, as much as I love Alex.

  “This way, please, Ms. Turner.” Monsieur Danton gestures to a chair in a corner, a little distance away from the cluster of now whispering women.

  I’m extremely self-conscious as I take my seat. I swear that all eyes in the room are upon me, and the remarks made in mostly French aren’t too kind either.

  Monsieur Danton himself works on me. He lathers my hair into a generous froth and rinses it. Then he gives me a layered cut that shortens my hair length by at least three inches. Next, he streaks it with honey and caramel highlights. He finally blow-dries it into a dazzling, shimmering cloud of silky and chunky tresses.