Saved By A Billionaire Brit
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Authors: Sandra Dee
Tags: #billionaire, #billionaire romance, #suspense romance, #island romance, #beach romance
Saved By The Billionaire Brit
By Sandra Dee
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book maybe be reproduced, scanned, or printed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
copyright 2012© Sandra Dee
*This title was formerly Naked Intrigue: Greek Islands
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I
don't think there was a sign saying "Nude Beach." The only sign I remember was a stop sign at the edge of the Aegean. Without it, an inattentive driver might drive forward and, like Odysseus, be lost in a glittering sea.
We zigzagged across the island until we came to a black pebble beach and the seemingly endless water. The beach road, beguiling and exotic, stretched in both directions. Traffic piled up behind me, and I had to make a quick decision. I was trying to find Perissa Beach, but the only marker was that stop sign. The road to the left seemed a bit more populated with beachfront tavernas, so I turned left.
"Where should we eat? How do we know which taverna to pick?" Sharon asked.
"I have no idea," I answered, trying to scan the incredible scene and stay on the road at the same time. "I've never seen anything like this, not even in a movie. Some of these tavernas remind me of tents at the oasis, the ones where the handsome prince seduced the beautiful American actress."
As we approached an enormous rock jutting into the sea, the restaurants grew more lavish. On the beach side, there were numerous tables and chairs with sun covers. On the land side there were whitewashed cafes, many with covered terraces. A few looked like tiny Greek palaces.
"I still have no idea where to stop. They all look fantastic. The road ends at the rock, so I think we should turn the car around and look again." Secretly I was wondering how to find the nude beach. I was still a little lost.
"Well, hurry up, because I'm starving." Sharon made a face.
We retraced our route slowly. I was still trying to watch the traffic and simultaneously resist the hypnotic pull of the Aegean. After we passed the beach road entry for the second time, the pavement ran out, and we were driving on hardened sand. Just ahead was one of the most idyllic spots on earth. The familiar sound of the Rolling Stones drifted across the beach and pulled us into the sandy parking lot alongside a taverna. Sharon jumped from the jeep and raced past me. I doubt she noticed the naked sunbathers on the ocean side. What would happen when she realized we were across the street from a nude beach?
The sides of the taverna were lined with couches and pillows, like a scene from a harem. We selected a table and chairs in the center of the restaurant. The menu was bilingual and seemed to consist almost entirely of octopus. I wanted calamari, but either the waiter couldn't understand my Texas accent or they had another name for it on the menu. As soon as I described sliced octopus, battered, and fried, I received the most delicious platter of calamari I had ever eaten. I'm sure the poor creature had been swimming nearby earlier that morning.
The roof of the taverna consisted of wooden beams and some kind of camo netting. It allowed the sun to dapple across the table. The entire front was open to the beach, and a clean ocean smell permeated the restaurant. We sat there soaking up Greek pleasures and finishing our drinks. If Sharon noticed the nakedness across the street, she hadn't mentioned it. Maybe she hadn't seen it at all. The bare flesh wasn't obvious because most of the sunbathers were hidden by chaise lounges.
In America most beaches charge to use the cushioned chairs and umbrellas, but when we asked the waiter, he assured us they were free for taverna customers. Sharon and I were on the boardwalk immediately and settled into a pair of convenient chaises.
The warm sun and cool breeze combined to make the perfect afternoon. The island sun had blessed me with a deep tan already, but I removed my scarf cover-up to enhance the bronze on my legs. One end of the pareu fluttered in the air like a butterfly wing. I hid under designer sunglasses and waited for live Greek sculpture to stroll by. Sharon's eyes grew suddenly wide, and I feigned innocence.
"Oh," she almost shouted. "Everyone is naked. Do you think they will make us take off our clothes? Our underwear too?"
"I don't know. I guess we should just wait and see."
Only a few of the chairs were occupied, and I doubted the plump ladies in front of us would notice our state of dress. They were closer to the water and couldn't hear us. To my left there was an elderly couple dozing immediately across the boardwalk. Even though they were both nude, they didn't seem likely to object to our clothing. All the young children playing in the waves were dressed in tiny bathing suits.
"Well, I've seen some shocking things since we've been on Santorini," Sharon said, "but this is the first time I've seen people running around buck naked. I hope we don't get a bunch of men exposing themselves. So hideous."
"I hope we do," I replied. I wondered why I confessed my ideas so openly to Sharon. Would she be irritated with me? Would I sound like a pervert? I continued anyhow. "I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but I adore the entire male body, especially naked. When we were in Athens Museum did you like the nude statues or the ones covered with a drape?"
Sharon didn't answer.
I brazenly continued, "I think part of the charm of the Cyclades is the natural fusion of skin, sun, and sea. When I'm around a nude man, I love to stare at the whole body, especially his maleness. Have you ever seen Michelangelo's David in Florence? He would be diminished without the display of his entire naked body."
I wasn't sure what Sharon was thinking, whether she was disgusted with me or considering my point of view. She was my best friend from New York, but I hadn't lived there long. All my friends in the Big Apple were fairly new. It was a stroke of luck when she quit her job right before I left for Greece. I was happy to have her as a traveling companion.
While I waited for an answer, I closed my eyes to the soft brilliance and began to doze. The sounds of American rock still drifted from the taverna, and I could hear some classic Pink Floyd. I was acutely aware of time as it flowed past too quickly. It was important to hold tightly to every beach moment. For the first time in weeks I wasn't thinking about the upcoming wedding, moving into a larger apartment, or any other details. I could see the yellow, Greek sun even with my eyes closed. The music mixed with the murmur of the waves, and my consciousness drifted away on the ancient waterscape. I wondered how Minoan women had reclined on these beaches thousands of years ago. Had they been naked under a luxurious canopy? Before I could finish my thought I saw the nude statue of David in Florence. He morphed into a different statue from Athens. Was his name Neptune or Poseidon? For a moment he seemed to be walking along the beach. Were there voices? I forced my eyes open, but the living sculpture had vanished. Only the blue water remained. I dozed again.
Asleep or awake I suddenly wanted to be topless. I was seized by an overwhelming desire to pull my gauzy top over my head and reveal my heavy breasts. I wasn't ready to pull off my shorts yet. Somehow my stomach never seemed flat enough, and I wondered how much pubic hair was in fashion on a Greek Island. Did everyone wax down to a landing strip or go au naturel? I looked around for a clue, but all the women on the beach were sitting down. There was no opportunity to find out. In the past I had exposed my breasts to a few college boyfriends and my fiance, Rex. Those moments, though exhilarating, seemed miles away from getting naked on a public beach.
A golden mist rolled in from the sea and carried me deeper into reverie. That very morning Sharon and I had visited the local museum in Santorini. There we saw women pictured on ancient murals, hair bound and plaited, large breasts completely bare, nipples tight and hard. I remembered books about ancient Minoan rituals on Crete. The women wore long robes that revealed both breasts. They clutched something in each hand, perhaps serpents. Huge bulls gamboled nearby while acrobats leapt lightly over their backs. Perhaps I had come to the nude beach to get naked myself. I found the thought alluring, almost beyond my control. I wanted to be one with the Greek Islands and the beach.
I pulled my blouse over my head and dropped it into my bag. When I left the hotel that morning, just going without a bra seemed daring, and now I was deliberately revealing myself. I was hesitant to go completely nude, but my breasts were certainly the equal of any woman in those wall paintings, and I wanted everyone to know it. The cool breeze made my pink nipples pucker like those of the bending woman in the museum mural.
Since I had been on the island, a few men had tried to converse with me in Greek. I suppose it was because of my dark hair and golden tan. My pale blue eyes didn't seem to matter; they still thought I was Greek. If any nude gods wandered by, none of them would mistake me for a local now. My nipples, almost invisible pink, would probably reveal my English ancestry. Was this a dream or was I really topless on a Greek Island?
Again I heard voices coming up behind me on the boardwalk? They seemed to stop beside me. Did someone say something about the view? Was he talking about the sea or me? I desperately tried to open my eyes, but for some reason I could see him perfectly through closed eyelids. His black hair was slightly wet and slicked straight back the way some Italian men wear their hair, and his eyes were dark blue like island water. He wasn't exactly Herculean, but he had nice shoulders and a slim, well-muscled body. I knew this because he was totally nude, covered only by a small towel in his hand. I thought he was Italian until I heard him clearly. He was speaking English to the man beside him, and I could hear a breathy, British accent. It was as if he had emerged whole from some Shakespearean performance. Were any of Shakespeare's plays set in Greece? Several of his works were about Italy; that was close enough. Through my dreamy haze, I heard someone say, "Magnificent." Was he talking about my breasts? I secretly hoped he was.
I slid one leg off my chaise, intending to sit up. Instead I fell deeper into my Grecian dream. The beautiful Brit sat down on my chaise, touching my other leg. "Are you going to kiss my bare breast?" I asked.
"Of course," he replied. "You know I am. I have never seen anything like your breasts. I am going to suck each of those big nipples until you moan and writhe with pleasure, twisting your hips against that chair. Don't tell me that I can't. You have no choice. When you wake tomorrow, those nipples will be bright pink and raw from my attention. They will rub against the inside of your shirt so that you will think of me with each bounce of your step."
A hundred thoughts raced through my head. Was this a dream or reality? I wondered if people could be arrested for sex on the beach. What would Sharon think if she woke up and looked at us? I wondered what she would tell Rex. I didn't even know the Brit's name. I was trying to say something, but my mouth wouldn't move. My lips were frozen.
"Won't that hurt?" I blurted out, still without moving.
"I want it to hurt," he smiled, "so you will remember."
Before I could say anything else, he leaned over and kissed my nipple slowly, several times, tugging at it gently each time. He breathed softly across the tip before every kiss, then pulled me into his mouth. I was too shocked to move or speak. After a few long, slow kisses, he opened his mouth to cover the entire nipple and lifted his head slightly. It didn't take long to make the tip harden and the areola wrinkle tightly. He began to suck harder with each motion of his head, drawing the nipple deeper.
At this point he sucked just hard enough for it to hurt slightly, a good hurt. I made a soft sound, but inside I was screaming with surprise and pleasure. The hurt became a rhythm, pull and release, a kind of falling. Inside I swelled and tightened until I felt slight pain. In the midst of all this I wondered why I was allowing this. Time seemed to stand still, and yet hours could have passed. Einstein was right. Time was truly relative.
He dropped my nipple and licked it upward a few times. I was suddenly wracked with guilt and at the same time wondered where Sharon was. Was she there locked in sexual embrace with his blond companion. A beach orgy? I started to say something, but he interrupted me...
"Will this do it for you? If I suck you?"