by Nicole Snow
One madness.
Every rock hard inch of him sinks into me. My hips come home against his, and my legs wrap tight, ankles nesting the backs of his thighs.
There's no more room for words. Just firm, sweet silence, the sounds of us colliding as the universe blurs around us, beauty lost in two hearts overflowing.
His mouth takes mine while his cock owns me from the inside out.
Tongues frolic, muscles pinch, pleasure rampages a conduit through us.
He devours every moan. I take every kiss, every grunt, every scorching sound spilling out of him into my soul.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, hips hammering mine, thrusts coming faster. He fills me so full his pubic bone crashes across my clit, igniting a devilish friction.
I don't last long. My fingers grapple at his shoulders, rolling down his back. Teeth clenching, eyes rolling, body blazing, it's done.
Coming!
Release rips me in two. I think I'd be gone forever if I didn't feel his heat behind me, full and intense.
Knox sinks in as far as he can go. Pleasure squeezes from his throat in feral bursts. His grunts are thunder breaking the night.
“Sunflower!” My name is the last thing on his lips before the molten flood.
He breaks inside me.
Seed. Smoke. Fire.
My pussy finds a new climax I didn't know was possible.
Somewhere on earth, I'm a clawing, mewling, shaking mess. Locked to my lover, my husband, my one. Sealed to forever, as sure as the night sky brightening around us.
But I'm not just on a beautiful Sedona mountaintop anymore, lovingly prepared for our first real coupling as man and wife.
I'm deeper in his soul, the one and only spirit meant for me, so familiar I don't lose myself in his sky blue beauty and tragic strength. When I come out of the trance, I've got my hand on his cheek, loving how his stubble prickles my palm.
He pulls out with a reluctant sigh, and stays on top. He rests between my legs, as if he's shielding me from the night.
“Love you, hubby,” I whisper, bringing my lips to his for a recovery kiss.
So many layers in his lips. So many ways to taste love.
When we break away, he's smiling, brushing loose hair over my ear. “Love you, too, Sunflower. But you're looking the wrong way.”
I don't know what he means. Gently, he tilts my face, until we're both staring over the mountaintops.
The night sky glows. Vast and full, stars bleeding from the hilt, their soft light splashes across the sunflowers surrounding us. It's a heavenly ring brought to earth, and just for us.
“They're still there. They never left us. That goes double for me, Kendra. I'll love you like my wife deserves longer than those mountains stand,” he says, voice lower by the gravity of his promise.
“Longer than our stars shine? Because that's how long, how much I was planning to love,” I whisper hopefully, touching my forehead to kiss. God, his heat is precious.
“Forever, darling, and that's a long damn time. Rest. Catch your breath. We've got a private jet waiting at the airport tomorrow, and night's young. We're not even close to done yet.”
He's as true as his word. We're a tangled mess of scarce words, many glances, and furious explosions until our stars begin to hide from the sun.
The next morning, I'm groggy. My legs feel like they've been soaked in bourbon and lit on fire. It's a drag just climbing in his truck and heading for the airport. I pass out with my head on his shoulder once we're on the plane, on our way to a quick fueling stop somewhere on the east coast, and then onto Paris.
I never dreamed this kind of happiness meant being undone.
Oh, but I'm learning.
I'm loving it.
And nothing will ever wipe this fairy tale smile off my face.
Hope you enjoyed Knox and Kendra's story! Read on for another novel included with this edition, Prince With Benefits.
Prince With Benefits
A Billionaire Royal Romance
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in July, 2016.
Disclaimer: The following ebook is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – Kevin McGrath – Kevin Does Art. Photo by Allan Spiers Photography.
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Description
HE BOUGHT A WIFE. I BOUGHT INTO MAKE BELIEVE...
ERIN
Cinderella had it easy. I'm lying to millions of people, and it's all Silas' fault.
Yes, that Silas. Billionaire. Prince. Scandals galore. Downright royal bastard.
Everything that screams run. If only it weren't for his rock hard edges and wild tattoos, tempting anything female on all seven continents.
But I don't care about his looks. Really.
Our deal is simple. He needs a pretty little lie, a wife to cover up his dirty deeds. I need a fortune to buy the treatment that just might save my father's life.
Match made in hell? Totally, and I'm going to make it work.
No, I'm not stupid. I'm not getting played by this billionaire prince. Forget his banter, his charms, the rumors I've heard about his ridiculously over-sized...ego.
What's that phrase he teases me with - Prince with benefits? Not in a billion years.
Yes, I'll lie for him. But I swear, my panties are absolutely, positively not melting every time I imagine his kiss...
SILAS
It's almost perfect. An engagement with an American girl, desperate as she is beautiful. Anything goes with Erin, except one rule.
Her body's off limits. She's joking, right?
Charming any girl I want into my bed doesn't mean a thing when there's only one on my mind.
I want Miss Make Believe. My fake, sassy, sexy fiancee. She, who says 'no,' and makes me so obsessed I'm about to trade in my designer suit for a straitjacket.
I convinced her to wear my ring, easy. I'll get her clothes off next. Show her what the world's most infamous player does when he's on fire. Then I'll move on.
No more playing castle. I'll have my Princess with benefits on her knees, treating me like royalty...
1
Tripped Up (Erin)
“Look, I know American reporters, and their little interns. I've worked with plenty. You think you can get away with anything as soon as the cameras roll, but let me remind you again. We have rules. No flash, no interruptions, and absolutely no unauthorized social media. His Highness keeps a very strict media presence, and it's my privilege to enforce it.”
How I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at this pompous, self-absorbed bitch, I'll never know.
Serena Hastings flips her long blonde hair back, giving me the stink eye one last time, before she moves through the gaggle of media and finally takes her seat.
Eyeballing the stage, I'm wondering if I made a huge mistake taking my summer off campus to come to Saint Moore.
It's my father's crowning career achievement, though. An interview with Prince Silas Erik Bearington the Third.
It isn't hard to understand dad's excitement. It's taken his whole life to get here, and I'm just along for the ride. A very hellish, testing-my-patience-every-damned-day kind of ride.
From the brutal jet lag flying from LA across the Atlantic, to the correspondence dinners where I have to be on my best behavior to avoid embarrassing him, to the constant entourage around the palace who think they're sent by God...sweet Jesus.
Now, I'm sitting here in these st
upid heels that are way too tight, wishing for a miracle. What comes next dwarfs everything.
Don't worry, dad said. He told me he'd show me how it's done. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, didn't I?
When the lighting adjusts and a hot, narrow beam shines on my face, pulling sweat from my pores, I really have to wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
Of course, dad isn't even sweating before his interview with Prince Playboy himself begins. Yes, that Prince.
The twenty-something, six foot and then some giant who's scandalized several continents. The Prince who's brought the tabloids and dirty blogs more gossip than a hundred celebrity wardrobe malfunctions.
He, who my friends used to swoon over during late night truth-or-dare sessions in our freshmen year dorm, putting him at the top of most eligible celeb bachelors they'd love to have between the sheets. A man I've never been able to stand, much less crush on. A living argument against any country having kings and Queens in modern times, when all they're likely to get out of it are media scoundrels.
Prince Charming, Prince Skirt Chaser, Prince Hung, and a thousand other names.
The Prince, the bastard, the legend.
Silas.
“One minute, Mister Warwick!” the camera man shouts to my father as he climbs up onto the stage, taking one of the two empty chairs beneath the halo.
The other, with the gold and burgundy back, is reserved for the devil himself. I wonder if he's going to walk into this interview late, and throw my dad one more complication.
That would be just like him, wouldn't it? It's not like he takes this Prince thing seriously. It's just the world's biggest license to be a dick, to drink and fuck himself stupid every chance he gets. That's what the blogs have told me, anyway.
None of it fazes dad, ever the professional. He sits up there in his finest suit, his silver hair slicked back, the same prim smile on his lips that I've seen him use in a hundred interviews growing up.
Game time. It's the look that makes me wonder if I'm really cut out to follow in his footsteps. He's wearing the calm, measured, controlled mask I've tried to don before, and failed every time.
I don't have to wonder long because there's new commotion surging through the room. The door off to the side opens, and in walks four strong men in designer suits, the Bearington family crest pinned to their lapels in royal purple and gold. It's a double-headed eagle holding a crown.
A taller, younger, stronger man steps out between them. They part like water, making way for His Highness.
My heart skips a beat. It's him. For real.
Prince Silas, arriving in all his smug, unwavering, damnably sexy glory.
Okay, so maybe the SOB really is what they say in the looks department. If I had any doubt, it's blown to pieces, now that he's quickly stepping toward the stage, taking the five stairs up in two big strides.
My father stands respectfully, extending a hand. The Prince takes it, towering over him by nearly a whole foot, and dad isn't a short guy.
“Charmed, Mister Warwick.” The Prince has that foreign, not-quite-English accent everybody in the kingdom does, except his is somehow thicker, more refined.
“It's my honor, Your Highness. I've been looking forward to this for a long time,” dad says, nodding.
“Twenty seconds!” Another cameraman roars out, flinching for a second in the hopes that his interruption hasn't upset the Prince.
Based on what I've read, I don't think that's even possible. Nothing upsets him. He basks in every scandal and fresh jab the media takes at him like they're triumphs.
They both take their seats across from each other. I can't believe they look so casual, like it's the most natural thing in the world, when there's so much on the line.
If dad pulls this off, he's going to be seen by billions over the next week. Serena, bitch that she is, has reminded us since day one that the Royal Press Corps is looking for a new American correspondent. And with rumors swirling about how much longer Queen Marina will continue to rule before passing the crown to her grandson, my father could be front and center at the Bearington's wild court for a very long time to come.
As for the Prince, it's his time to shine with something besides his dick. It's no secret the world's been holding its breath, waiting for him to shape up, and act like a statesman for one of the wealthiest countries in the world. A future King.
Saint Moore is virtually the last monarchy in Europe where the ruler is more than just a figurehead. For fifty years, Queen Marina has rallied her country to good causes and swayed more than a few votes in their parliament, even if she's been very respectful of democracy.
As for Prince Hung – who knows? He's taken his pleasure demonstrating all the things he'll do with modern day concubines throwing themselves at him. Not politics.
“Five...four...three...two...one...”
Cameras roll. Dad looks into the closest one confidently, and begins to speak.
“Welcome to this special edition of the Warwick Report, ladies and gentleman. Today, I'm coming to you from the Kingdom of Saint Moore, where I'm sitting down with a man who needs no introduction.” He pauses, three seconds, just long enough to let everybody tuning in remember the insanity that surrounds everything Silas. “Prince Silas Erik Bearington, heir to the island's throne, one of the most powerful, scandalized, and adventurous men in the world.”
“Tom, you flatter me too much,” Silas says, that wicked smirk above his chiseled jaw pointing up like pitchfork ends. “Let's get it on, shall we?”
“Absolutely, Your Highness,” dad says. If he's rattled at all by the Prince's need to control the conversation, he doesn't show it. “You're recently back in the kingdom after completing your duty in the Royal Marines, serving in Afghanistan. Tell me, sir, how has that experience changed you? I think everyone was surprised to hear about a Bearington Prince flying into an active combat zone. Thankfully, on our side, this time.”
The Prince smiles. Smug as ever, but a little darkly.
“Yes, we always did like to play both sides, up until the Second World War. It's been good for me, Tom. Reminds me why I'm really here, next in line to the crown, how fortunate I am to be born into this royal lineage. There's pride in serving a man's kingdom, and beyond. I'd never imagined Afghanistan until I stepped foot there. Some truly awful circumstances, just beyond our borders. Life and death. War. Poverty. Terrorism. A lot more exciting than who's wearing last year's style at the next big charity ball, I'm sure you can imagine. Also, a much bigger challenge for me, and I love those.”
“Oh, yes,” dad says, returning the Prince's smile. “They called you a hero in the press after Kandahar. Said you single-handedly thwarted a terrorist attack on an allied base, saving your own troops and dozens more from several different countries, including the United States. What really happened?”
“Please. The media embellishes everything. ” Silas shakes his head, waving it all away, pushing his stern hand through the air. The perfectly tailored gray suit he's wearing fits him like a glove, exposing more of that powerful body each time he moves, even subtly. “I gave the orders, sure, as soon as I saw them creeping up on our base. Still took everyone in uniform that day to stop the attack, to swarm out and hit them at the right moment, before the suicide bomber could plow through the main gate and do God knows what.”
Dad straightens in his seat. I can tell by the look on his face that things are about to get serious. The tension in the palace room thickens, and even the ornate ceilings soaring into the air can't hold it.
God, I wish I'd picked different shoes. These heels are totally strangling me now.
“That's a very modest account for those who know you, Your Highness,” dad says. “Some might say unnaturally modest. More like the kind of attitude a future King should have, rather than the playboy Prince.”
“Look, Tom, we all know what's bound to happen one day. Truth is, any talk about it now is shoveling Her Majesty in her grave while she's still very much ali
ve and kicking ass.” Prince Silas pauses, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. He knows he's about to blow his carefully crafted tact.
Several people behind me suppress snickers. A woman coughs. I'm trying to pay attention to the interview, read dad's body language, to see how he's going to handle things if they take a nasty turn.
But damn, I can't take my eyes off Silas' face. Those deep blue eyes of his betray nothing, perfect royal compliments to his dark black hair, and a day's worth of shadowy stubble on his chin that probably makes every woman in the room wonder what it feels like against their skin.
Myself included. Shamefully.
“Certainly, Your Highness. We all hope Queen Marina will be around for another hundred years, but you and I both know what's realistic.” Dad pauses, the confident smile on his face disappearing.
He swallows something hard in his throat. “Frankly, you have people in your own kingdom saying you may be the last Prince, and your grandmother could well be its final Queen. They want a referendum once she's gone. That could mean trouble in a time when royals are an endangered species all over Europe, and indeed, the world. Let me just come out and ask – are you trying to save the monarchy?”
“Really, Tom? You think my bloodline needs saving from a joke protest movement like Republic First?” Silas' dark blue eyes storm angry, full of disbelief. “The Bearingtons have ruled this island for over a thousand years. We'll do it again for a thousand more, when we can all drive across bridges to Scotland and Iceland. We've kept our people safe in war and guided them into the modern age with wealth, class, and good sense. I know that might be difficult for someone like you to understand, when your own government has barely been around for three hundred years.”
Dad's chest swells as he quietly inhales a big breath. He sinks back in his chair, his hands tightly folded in his lap, staring at the Prince.