Infamous Desire (2 page)

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.

“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.

“There now,” he says with a flourish, “you look like a zillion bucks, as you Americans say it.”

I do. I really do.

I’m beaming into the mirror myself.

I will never be really beautiful, but I do believe that with this new hairstyle, I may swing heads.

I glance at the entrance of the salon. I can peer through the glass doors, and what I see fills me with dismay. The paparazzi have arrived and are waiting for me.

“Oh no,” I say to Madame Fournier in a low voice. “Do you think one of the women in here called them?”

I’m wary of what happened the last time with Claire, of course.

“Certainly not,” she replies. “It was I who called them.”

“You?”

OK. Color me stunned.

“Of course. You need to present a good image to the public. Now walk with me outside. Hold your head up high.”

I stumble to my feet. I’m wearing a new pair of pumps. Jimmy Choos, I believe. I make myself walk without tripping over my feet. My pulse is a hummingbird straining to get out of my neck.

All eyes are upon us as I nervously trudge after Madame Fournier to go out of the door.

“Remember, you look like a zillion bucks,” she murmurs, “so you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Monsieur Danton opens the door for us. With a cringing heart, I step outside, smiling as we practiced.

The cameras all go off.

*

I stare at the newspaper headlines. I’m on the bottom half of the front page, my hair a glorious vision of mahogany and honey and caramel.

The press has now given me a nickname: Dizzy Lizzy. I suppose it could be worse.

The headlines say:

‘DIZZY LIZZY SPORTS NEW HAIRDO FROM FAMOUS MOLDAVIAN STYLIST.’

Madame Fournier wears a smug look on her features.

“Excellent,” she pronounces in satisfaction.

“What’s so excellent about it?” I complain.

“You’ll see.”

*

Rue Grenadiers is famous for its eclectic one-of-a-kind boutiques. Madame Fournier once again makes sure the paps are there when I step into Stella Catalan’s boudoir. Stella Catalan is an up and coming Moldavian designer, specializing in fluttery, asymmetrical dresses in wonderful fabrics.

I step out again, armed with a host of Stella Catalan paper bags.

Digital cameras busily click away.

The headlines the next day show:

‘DIZZY LIZZY OPTS FOR MOLDAVIAN DESIGNER.’

*

Next, I’m actually wearing those Moldavian designer clothes, which are every bit as fabulous as something you’d get in Milan or Paris. I walk down Rue Grenadiers with Madame Fournier and Jasper (whose face is as black as thunder) in this eclectic flouncy chiffon piece in blue. The skirt falls down to my calves asymmetrically and I wrap my top up in a sharp blue and black jacket.

The shutterbugs go off again, and this time I’m really smiling.

The next day:

‘DIZZY LIZZY LOOKS SHARP IN A SIGNATURE STELLA CATALAN JACKET AND DRESS.’

The pictures and story carry all over the world.

Madame Fournier has to field calls from magazines as far as the United Kingdom who want to do photo spreads on me in Moldavian designer clothing.

The gist of the headlines:

‘Moldavian design gets thrust into the world spotlight.’

‘Who knew Moldavian fashion would rival Italy?’

‘Dizzy Lizzy not so dizzy anymore? Stuns in Cara Bouchard original.’

‘Liz Turner comes into her own commendable fashion style. Fashion gurus comment that she may become a fashion icon in her own right.’

Oh wow.

Who’d ever thought that I – who will largely be found in an oversized T-shirt as my nightgown – would be considered a fashion icon?

*

Next stop: food.

“Does Moldavia have any local delicacies?” I ask.

“Our cuisine is mostly French,” Madame Fournier says, “but we do have a few street food snacks here and there. This time, I want both you and Alex together. Eating is an activity best done in the company of a handsome prince.”

I can’t help feeling like a puppet as they whisk Alex and me off to a local farmer’s market. The press release here will read:

‘Prince Alexander and his American girlfriend, Liz Turner, take a break from their hectic life to share a bowl of Moldavian watercress noodle soup with black nut bread.’

“There’s a technique to eating while being photographed,” Alex tells me.

“How?”

“You don’t really eat.”

Great.

How do I pretend to eat?

The market is thronged with bustling people. Stalls everywhere sell produce such as cheeses and vegetables. Moldavia imports most of its food from France and Italy, having very little land for farming. The market is filled with the aroma of freshly baked products turning in open brick ovens, French pastries, strudels, delicately painted glass dolls and other interesting bric-bracs. Legs of lamb turn upon racks, sizzling with spices.

Reporters and photographers follow our every step as we stop at each stall, smiling and posing. Alex chats happily to the locals in French. I nod every now and then, not understanding a word, but still smiling. I’m terribly afraid that I would look bad in the photos if I smile too widely or if my teeth show too much.

How does he stand being under scrutiny all the time?

But of course, he’s gorgeous and he photographs like a Guess male model.

“You’re doing well,” says Madame Fournier. “When anyone offers you something, take it and pose with it.”

Naturally, every market vendor would like us to sample their product. When they offer us a whole bun, we break off a little bit of the bread and put it into our mouths for the photographers, all the while maintaining our smiles. Alex buys sweetmeats and red-cheeked apples and luscious purple grapes. We look every inch the happy young couple in love.

Well, we are in love.

If only everything wasn’t so staged.

When the paps have had their fill of photos to be rushed and sold to every corner of the world, Alex says to me in the car, “My father has been transferred out of critical care this morning.”

“Oh wow, that’s great news!”

I mean it. Alex has been so worried, and he has spent hours and hours every day at his father’s bedside.

“One little catch.” He clasps my hand, as though preparing me for a momentous announcement. “He wants to meet you … alone.”

My press escapades have not gone unnoticed by Alex’s father, it seems. Ensconced in the Royal Suite in the hospital, he has demanded full access to television, cable, media and the Internet, even though his doctors have cautioned him against too much excitement.

My heart is at the bottom of my new shoes – Moldavian designer pumps, to be exact – as I walk to the Royal Suite with Alex by my side.

“Relax,” he says.

“Easy for you to say. He doesn’t have his knives out for your guts.”

He manages an uneasy smile. “I don’t think he has them out for you, Liz. Just be yourself.”

That’s the trouble. Alex’s family doesn’t like me because I’m me. Why should his father be any different?

“Will I excite him in any way?” I say anxiously. “I don’t want to be the cause of his second heart attack.”

“I’m sure you won’t. My mother was dead against this, of course, as are his doctors. But my father is … well, you know.” Alex sighs.

Yes, I know. His father is the King of Moldavia.

We stand before two handsome paneled doors. This section of the hospital does not resemble a hospital at all – a plush hotel corridor, more like, with its soft yellow lighting, tasteful wallpaper and watercolors of Moldavian landscapes. Two black-suited guards with earpieces immediately stand at attention upon our arrival.

“Your highness.” They nod to Alex respectfully, and turn to face me. “Miss Turner.”

“Is my mother still inside, Fabien?” Alex asks one of them.

“Yes, she is.”

“Just wait here a sec,” Alex says to me.

He knocks quietly and enters the room. I’m left out there, standing awkwardly in my cerise blouse with its leaf detail, paired with my new simple white pencil skirt. Everything is very well cut and encapsulates my curves appropriately.

“Don’t worry,” Fabien says. “You look great.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you like the watercress noodle soup?”

So he has been keeping up with the newspapers. To be honest, I had only taken a sip from it. Not even a single noodle got through my teeth, if I want to be totally honest.

“Yes, very much, thank you.” Well, I would have enjoyed it had I actually tasted it. But for some reason that day, my taste buds went on strike.

“My mother used to make it for us when we had the flu.” His eyes take on a faraway look.

“That’s lovely. Does she still make it?”

“No. She passed away two years ago from lung cancer.”

Why do everyone’s parents seem to be afflicted by a serious disease?

“I’m so sorry.” I genuinely am. Fabien seems like such a nice Secret Service-type agent. But then, everyone I have met outside the royal palace has been nothing but nice.

It suddenly strikes me – what this is all about. By ‘this’, I mean the clothes I’m wearing, the noodles I’m (not) eating, the careful grooming of my public image for the press. I represent ‘something’. Even though I’m not Moldavian, their hearts are opened by seeing me – a foreigner who has connections to their beloved prince – embrace their culture. Each gesture I make, no matter how small, means something to the Moldavian people in different ways.

I can touch them. Make them take pride in their nation.

‘Export’ them to the world.

The enormity of what I can do and be is staggering.

The doors open and Alex steps out with his mother. Queen Emily regards me with cool eyes. She has been spending most of her time at her husband’s side, but she still looks as immaculate as ever – without a hair out of place in her charcoal grey suit.