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
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
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