Cinderella Undone

by Nicole Snow

  “Is this marriage thing still on after what happened the other day? Be honest.”

  “Please,” he snorts. “If anything, we've got a better chance than we had before at bringing grandmom on board. Her Royal Majestic Pain in the Ass doesn't buckle to terrorist riots, much less on her own doorstep. I talked to her this morning. We're speeding up the wedding, love.”

  My eyes go huge. It's not what I expected to hear.

  Smiling, he steps up, and wraps his arms around me, holding me like we're really lovers. I hate the electric heat that spreads through my body when we touch. Hate that it makes me feel so good, so hungry for more, when everything about Silas is royally bad.

  “That's right. Forty days. We've got another week up here, and then we're going to get our asses back to the capital for planning. It's going to be locked down tight, everything carefully choreographed. We're all going to be wearing smiles constantly. Hope you're able to pin those pretty lips, love. This goes beyond you, me, and our silly little deal. We're getting hitched to help stop this whole fucking kingdom from going tits up.”

  He reaches up, slowly moving a finger to my mouth, pressing it gently against the center of my lips. It takes me about ten seconds before I jerk away, stumbling out of his arms.

  “You're insane! This whole thing is nuts. Psycho!”

  “Yeah, yeah, you've said it so many times I've lost track.” He has a terrible knack for acting like everybody else is crazy, while he stands there with his calm, collected, pompous mask. “So, are we just going to mope around the summer palace all day, or are we going to have some fun?”

  I don't say anything. I won't look at him with the panic setting in, twisting my heart around in mad, dizzying circles.

  I'm scared my father might be right. This isn't me.

  Oh, my God. What have I done?

  I'm still wondering when he comes up and puts his hands on my shoulders. He holds them there gently, the only reason I don't scream, spin around, and spit in his face.

  “You're going through some shit. You're entitled to, love,” he whispers in my ear. “I'm trying to help. I realize everything here hasn't gone according to plan. You can believe me or not, but I feel bad about that. I'm a man of my word. Right now, I'm extremely pissed that outside circumstances are fraying my promises. Let me undo the damage. I'll take you out for some fresh air, show you the highlands, just you and me. Without any guards or tourists or fucking cameras.”

  A retreat in nature actually sounds good, even if it involves Silas. He flexes his muscles a little firmer when he feels me sigh. Rolling my shoulders, I let his hands slide off, and turn back to face him.

  “Just give me a few minutes to pack.”

  “Awesome. I'll wait outside.” He's smiling, practically beaming because I've folded without putting up another fight. “You won't regret this, babe. You'll have more fun with me in a day than you've had in ten years.”

  Ugh. There's that attitude again, erasing every trace of the man I'd felt a few seconds ago, the one who made me wonder if he might be able to care about more than just himself. I shouldn't even wonder.

  I've seen everything I need to know exactly what kind of 'fun' I'm going to have with Europe's most spoiled playboy.

  8

  Fire in the Night (Silas)

  We're about fifteen kilometers down the road in my brand new Maserati when I pop the bottle and pour myself a glass of wine. Erin does a slow turn, her eyes bugging out, and gives me that look like the stick up her ass has just wedged in deeper.

  “What? This thing has all the stabilizing mods in the world. I'm not going to spill a single drop on the seats.”

  “I don't know much about the laws here, but I'm certain every civilized country in the world has a very big problem with drinking and driving!” She stops, hissing pure frustration out her nostrils. “Jesus Christ, Silas. You really are insane.”

  “Whatever.” I sip my wine gingerly, tapping the accelerator while I take my hands off the wheel.

  “Silas!”

  I'm laughing. I can barely even choke down the fucking wine when I see the look on her face.

  We're heading right for a cliff. Her boring old life in the States is probably flashing before her eyes. It makes me smile because I know she's reliving our kiss, the one time I got my lips on hers, before all hell broke loose in the palace.

  I never touch the wheel. The car jerks back to the road automatically and slows before we fly to our deaths.

  She blinks, stunned for a moment. Then she shows her teeth and punches me in the bicep.

  “What the hell?”

  “The new model's self-driving, love. Isn't technology amazing? Won't be available for the other millionaire jackoffs who drive these things until next year. For me, they've made an early bird exception.”

  She's shaking her head, relieved and awestruck as the car's steering wheel tilts in front of me, bending us around another hook in the road. We've got a ways to go, before we're heading straight down to the beach.

  “The only rich jackoff I know is the one sitting next to me,” she says. “Jesus. You scared me shitless.”

  “Sure did. Here, have some wine, I brought a couple extra glasses.” I turn around and fish into the little case next to me, producing a new crystal glass.

  She doesn't protest while I pour her a glass, passing it over. She looks at it glumly before taking a sip.

  “It's okay, Erin. Really. You won't find any traffic cops here on royal land, but if there were, I'd offer them a drink, too. The police love me. Grandmom's always pushing parliament to shore up their pensions.”

  My perfectly uptight Princess rolls her eyes and sucks down half the glass. Finally.

  I smile, relishing my triumph. It makes the rest of my glass taste even sweeter.

  Erin is practically begging for a refill by the time the car begins its glide down to the beach. My finger taps the switch for the windows, pulling them down a few notches. The soft, rhythmic slap of the sea comes through, almost as comforting as hearing her purr.

  Fuck. I've got to stop thinking like that.

  It isn't easy when I've gotten her out here. Alone. My dick hammers in my jeans, emboldened by the fifty year old wine, thinking about all the places I want to lay her down out along the rocks and sands.

  I won't return to the palace until I've fucked this girl. Or at least gotten her to laugh.

  “You look very different today,” she says, her eyes rolling up my body.

  Different? Has she noticed the hard-on about to rip through my fly? Is she thinking about how good it'll feel deep inside, stretching her pussy with royal cock, right this very second?

  “Different how?” I ask, ignoring the hum of sex and the pleasant buzz building in my blood.

  “So casual.”

  I shrug. “It's the beach and the bluffs, babe. Do you expect me to show up there in a tux, wearing my royal medallion?”

  She blushes. “No, of course not. You just look so...normal.”

  “Newsflash – normal is my middle name when I'm having fun. You'd be shocked how many more scandals the tabloids have missed because they don't recognize me when I'm out in jeans and a t-shirt.”

  “Oh?” Erin quirks an eyebrow.

  Shit. I shouldn't have reminded her.

  “In case you hadn't noticed, I don't enjoy the stuffy royal protocol and palace shit. I'll tolerate it because it's what I was born into. On my own time, I like loosening the fuck up, living my life to its fullest. I learned how to play hard years ago, and I can teach it, too.”

  “Like I need a lesson from you.” That little motion when her big, brown eyes roll around in her head would be annoying by now, if it didn't make my cock throb harder. “Whatever. I'll try to have fun today, just for you, Your Royal Highness.”

  Grabbing her hand, I refill our glasses, stopping to clink mine on hers. “Yeah, you will. There's no point in being Princess if you can't enjoy it.”

  A couple hours later, we're back on the b
each after a long hike up the tallest bluffs. Erin's tank top is practically soaked in sweat, giving me a fantastic view of those tits she carries around like the world's sweetest melons.

  We don't talk much. I shut up for once and let her take in the scenery. And fuck, what a view it is up here, right by the abandoned lighthouse. My great grandfather personally broke a bottle of champagne across the walls as King, about a hundred years ago.

  Erin and me, we do wine instead, a fresh bottle from the fifties I pulled from the palace's wine cellar before heading out. We talk history. I answer her questions, like why the island still has royalty when most of Europe shrugged theirs off before I was born, and why I'm adamant that I'm going to be King someday instead of a powerless pretender to the throne.

  Now, I'm gathering wood for a fire on a nice flat spot on the beach. There's an overgrown fire pit that hasn't been used by the royal family since grandmom was my age.

  Erin watches, chugging water from a bottle, splashing more wetness over her chest every few sips. Like I need another jolt to the dick.

  I'm hotter than hell once the wood is stacked up, searching for a light. I kneel down near the bag next to her, peeling off my shirt. I hear her gasp.

  “See something you like? Or did you just spot a Moorish beach skunk?” I growl, pulling out the lighter, without hiding how much I love her enjoying my body.

  “No, no,” she stutters. Always so damned modest. “It's just...your tattoos. I've seen them before on the blogs, a few old photos taken from a distance. They're a lot more detailed in person, up close.”

  “Yeah, they should be. This Russian guy I paid a small fortune to for my ink's supposed to be the best on the continent. Here, have a closer look.”

  I step right in front of her. At first, she tries to hide how much she loves it, but her eyes betray her.

  Sweet, wet, fuckable Erin looks at me like I just stepped out of her dreams.

  “See this big one in the middle? The artist pulled it right off an old royal flag that's been in our palace since the Great War. We weren't so neutral in that war, just like the second, and everybody paid the price. Even my family. My uncles served. One died in a shelling, a hundred years ago. They used the flag to try to stem the bleeding.” I shift the lighter to one hand, banging my ribs with one fist. “Didn't work. That's why you're seeing red and black, love. The thorns going around the whole design were my idea.”

  “That's surprisingly deep for you, Silas.” She's trying to stay sarcastic, but I can tell she wants to drag her little tongue all over the tapestry on my chest. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

  Plenty of women have.

  I want to pull her hair while she's doing it. Have her on her knees, face gliding down to my cock, both hands tied behind her back.

  Fucking hell. No, control yourself.

  “What do you know about deep, love? I'm not talking about the English literature you studied for your minor.” Her eyes pop angrily when I remind her how much I know about her. “I'm talking about fucking. How long has it been?”

  I point the end of the lighter right at her pussy. She stands up, pressing her legs together, making a face like she's disgusted.

  “Creep! Do you really think I'd tell you something so personal?”

  “Well, obviously. We're going to be hitched, you know. Husband and wife. King and Queen.”

  She does a double-take, and I stop myself from doing it too.

  Fuck me. What did I just say? King and Queen implies we'll be spending a lot more time together than three years worth of sham marriage. It says I'll keep her until I'm wearing the crown myself, leading this nation into a brand new age.

  “You know what I meant,” I growl, hating that I even have to acknowledge the slip.

  “No sex,” she says, tucking loose chestnut hair back behind her shoulders. “I'm here to hang out and help you start a fire. We are not getting more drunk than we already are, and we're definitely not discussing my sex life.”

  “So, it's been eons, right? Hell, you must've gotten laid last around the time the lighthouse opened up.” Smiling, I gesture toward the tall stone citadel towering above us, several cliffs over.

  “Come on, Silas, that's enough. I'm hungry.”

  She looks down like she's defeated. Christ, it was just a joke. More of the banter I've been laying on her since the day she tumbled into my arms, and I decided if I can't rip off this girl's panties, I'm damned sure going to tease them until they melt into a puddle at her feet.

  I watch her grab her water bottle and head toward the firewood. It takes me a minute to join her, wondering why the fuck she's acting so wounded.

  Surely, it isn't true? All the crap I've given her about not getting fucked?

  Doesn't add up. I've had my fill from out-of-control college girls before. Never met one who wasn't wild, who hadn't bedded at least ten guys by the time she hit her junior year.

  Erin can't be a virgin. She fucking can't.

  Because if she is, I think my dick is going to explode in my Egyptian silk boxers.

  We stack up the last wooden beams in silence. Then I pour on a little kerosene and give it a light. Doesn't take much longer to get the grill arranged, just a big slab of metal I brought up here years ago, balanced in the middle over the flame.

  A couple minutes later, I'm pulling the steaks and boar sausages from the ice chest, plus a few big slices of squash and mushrooms. We'll do s'mores later for dessert, or whenever I think I can handle seeing her get sticky without having to run to the nearest bushes and empty my balls before I explode.

  “Damn, that smells good,” she says, inhaling deeply behind me. “I've been starting to get sick of all the rich foods lately. It's nice to have something simple.”

  “Simple? We've got nothing less than finest grass fed lowland beef and boar meat from Africa. My men used to flip when I got this stuff shipped in special to base. Only thing that kept us sane sometimes with the Taliban waiting to strike us from the hills, every damned night.”

  I wait until dinner's half done before I reach for a new bottle. This time, it's rum, imported to the palace from the finest distillery in Martinique. Even after hundreds of years, the French are still trying to kiss our asses, especially when it involves access to our fishing waters and the new tech development we've got springing up in the capital. The palace gets about a hundred of these every year, with a personal note from the French President.

  “It's almost ready. Here, have a shot.”

  She cocks her head. “Uh, we don't have any glasses, and I'm not pouring that stuff in my wine glass. We're royals, remember? We're supposed to have standards.”

  I laugh. She watches as I tip the bottle and pour the amber liquid straight into my crystal stem glass. Grandmom would probably have a stroke if she could see me now, and so would the elderly royal etiquette tutor who drilled me like a beast when I turned five.

  Sweet, fiery warmth floods my throat and goes off like a bomb when it hits my empty stomach. I tip my head up, suck in the fresh ocean air, and start peeling down my jeans.

  Won't make hiding the raging hard-on any easier, but fuck if I care.

  “Hey, hey, I don't need to see that. Is it really that hot out here?” She's protesting like crazy, holding a hand over her face, but I can see her looking at the bulge in my shorts through the gaps in her fingers.

  “Give it up and join me. I've got a feeling you're wearing a bikini under that thing. Don't tell me you're a commando kinda gal.”

  “Am not!” She clucks her tongue, one more sign that she might be.

  Fuck it, I'm going to find out.

  I take the risk of burning the meat to walk over and grab her. Screaming, slapping at my hands, she squirms in my arms. Music to my ears, her loud yelling echoing on the cliffs, turning into nothing but giddy laughter by the time I get her tank off.

  “Ha, am I ever wrong? You're yellow like a goddamned hornet.”

  “Fuck you! I wish I could sting. I'd do it in a hea
rtbeat – anything to get you off me.” Lies, every single word coming out of her mouth.

  It's no joke, the yellow bikini. I'm impressed.

  I expected something less bright and flashy from Little Miss Modest. Maybe she's got a few surprises left, a couple mysteries I'd love to unravel, sure as I'd love to get her naked.

  Erin keeps wriggling in my arms while I grab the bottle. I pop the cap, take a big swig, and pass it to her, running the rim dangerously close to her lips. I have to keep my hips off her ass, or she'll feel how hard I am, fighting the urge to grind my hard-on right into her lush skin.

  “What's the problem, love? Don't I taste good?”

  She takes a mouthful before I step away, laughing as she spits it out, fuming. “I'll never understand how you're going to be king someday! You're less mature than a twelve year old, Silas. God!”

  “Funny. I remember being that age. Never hung out with any boys packing anything like this.” I grab my cock through my shorts, twisting the fabric around it in my fist, letting her see the full, magnificent outline. “They don't call me Prince Hung for nothing.”

  I'm ten inches, and proud of it. I've had my share of models who laugh about my big dick when I hint about it. Plenty of jealous little bastards have raged from the sidelines when they hear the rumors.

  By the end of the night, nobody's laughing, because their girls are on my arm and they want to fuck.

  God gave me a winning lottery ticket. Every woman I've ever bedded knows the numbers after it's been inside them. They learn to count their lucky stars fast for a chance to ride this royal scepter.

  They scream. They worship. They beg for a third, a fourth, a fifth lay, when I just want to get the fuck away the next morning.

  I want to do it all with Erin, except for the morning part.

  Yes, the urge to fuck and stay, that's new.

  It scares me. More than the expression on her face when she takes a good, long look at this dick. She wants me bad, but she doesn't want to cross the line because she's wondering what that means.