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 draws admiring stares wherever he goes.
I ask, “Has your father ever had heart disease?”
“No.”
“Then you couldn’t have known.”