Forbidden Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince #2)(2)
Author: Artemis Hunt

“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 c**k 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 pu**y 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 pu**y 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 c**k 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 pu**y 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 c**k 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 c**k 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 ni**les 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?”