by Frankie Love
“Oh, exactly. The best way possible.” I reach for the hem of her skirt and lift it up. “Just what I expected, not even wearing boots. Your feet are going to blister—not to mention freeze—in those sandals before we get to my door.”
“Get your hands off my dress.” She pushes my hand away and forces me to drop the hem of her skirt to the ground. It falls into the mud. “Oh,” she sighs, “Dahlia and I worked so hard on this, too.”
“You made your dress?” I come level with her, turning to face my bride. Now that we’ve traipsed through the square and are headed toward the road that leads to my cabin, I need to make some sort of amends before I carry her over the threshold.
“Yes, my sister and I made it, with our own two hands. I may be a princess, but I do know how to make do with what I have. Although, I was hoping I would be….” She doesn’t finish her sentence.
“Oh,” I grin. “You thought you were marrying up?”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head in obvious disappointment. “Of course not. I married you—the reclusive jerk of a prince my sister warned me about,” she says through clenched teeth. “I don’t think I’m marrying up; I think I’m a fool.”
I don’t know how to play this. On one hand, this is a terrible idea. I’m dragging the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life through the muddy streets, toward a cabin I know she’s going to hate.
On the other hand, another part of me finds it thrilling to get her all riled up.
Still, I can’t deny the reality of the situation. I want to consummate this marriage, and pissing her off before we even get to bed is a terrible plan.
“You’re not a fool,” I tell her roughly. I want to put a sheen on this conversation but I’m not quite sure how to gloss it up.
“I am a fool,” she continues. “Do you have any idea how much I want to go to a party?” She presses a hand to my chest, forcing me to look at her. “Garrick,” she says. “I’ve wanted to go to a royal party my entire life. I’ve never been to a ball or a gala or a coming out party. I’ve never attended a royal court. My father would never have been able to afford any of that. My family is poor—so, sure, you know what? I did think I was marrying up. I thought I was marrying into a family that could take care of me, because my own father couldn’t. Yes, I wanted to dance on the day of my wedding. So sue me.”
“Calm down, woman. People will hear you.”
“I don’t care if they hear me,” Iris says. “I’m stuck in this country with a man who doesn’t care about me being here. And you know what the really sad thing is? I actually wanted to come here to marry you. Badly.”
“You wanted to do this?” I narrow my eyes, trying to get a better read on this woman. So far, I feel way over my head with her. She’s gorgeous, complicated, loud, and pissed. This is a terrible combination for my wedding night.
“I wanted to go anywhere that wasn’t Elexia. I wanted adventure, a challenge. I wanted a chance to live. I was dying in Elexia. There was nothing for me there, but ... apparently there’s nothing for me here either, is there, Garrick? Because the reception that’s being thrown for us isn’t even one we’ll attend. I came all this way for nothing.”
“You came for a dowry. A double dowry, if I’m not mistaken. So you do have a vested interest in this marriage, whether you like it or not.”
“Wow, way to sweet talk your woman. God, Garrick, do you think I really care about a dowry?”
“Oh, so you don’t give a shit about where you come from and don’t give a shit about being here? What do you care about?”
Iris steps away from me, crossing her arms. “Why are you being so mean?”
“It’s not personal.” I shrug. “What you see is what you get with me. I’m not playing games; I’m not going to pretend I wanted a wife. I’m not going to pretend that I want to go to some party at my parents’ place. I don’t do that shit.”
“Well, I’m not going to pretend either.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I don’t like her tone, but damn, when she gets all fired up, the way her chest rises and falls, the way her eyes burn with intensity, the way her cheeks flush—all I want to do is to make them flush a little bit more.
“I’m not going to pretend I want you to take me to bed tonight,” she says. “In fact, I won’t let you take me at all.”
“You’re playing hardball, Princess.” I take a step toward her, realizing I may be pushing her a little farther than she deserves.
“I’m not playing anything. I came here to be your wife, Garrick. I came here of my own free will, which apparently eight other princesses were not willing to do.”
She must see the surprised look on my face. But it isn’t for the reason she thinks. I’m the one who turned down those princesses, not the other way around.
I don’t respond, not needing to prove anything.
Shrugging, she says, “It’s on Wikipedia.”
“That’s neither here nor there. You want a prize for coming here and marrying me? I’ll give you a prize.”
“Good. That actually sounds fucking fantastic,” Iris barks. “I love prizes. Princes, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about.” She purses her lips, shaking her head as if she’s backed me into a corner.
As if she’s won.
And damn it, I think she has.
Because what I want, more than getting my way, is getting her in my bed.
“You want your prize?” I step toward her, close enough that I could kiss her. The energy surging between us is palpable. The fiery exchange instantly dies down and turns to something electric. I may not have fallen in love with this woman, but the lust surging between us is ready to ignite.
Iris nods, her eyes on me, a smile crossing her lips. It’s as if she realizes I’m giving her the best offer she’s had all day.
“What will I get in return for giving you this prize?” I ask.
“Depends on how good the prize is, husband.” Iris raises her eyes.
Damn, she’s trouble.
“Come on, woman. Let’s go to this shitty party.” I grab her hand and lead her back toward the chapel.
I’ll let her have her way. She wants to go to the castle, fine. I’ll take her, because more important than getting my way, is making sure I have my way … with her.
Chapter 7
The moment we walk back into the chapel and see that Garrick’s parents haven’t yet left, my heart fills with happiness.
Garrick may be a gorgeous asshole, but he is also a prince who has disappointed the king and queen.
His parents are thrilled with me. His mother, Julia, wipes her eyes and then wraps her arms around me. “Oh, Iris, you are a gem. Whatever did you do to convince him?”
I hug her, blinking back the truth. I know what Garrick wants in exchange for taking me to the party.
And the truth is, it makes me feel better about what I want to happen. Of course I want this strong, confident, handsome-as-hell husband of mine to take my virginity, but I don’t want to admit that to him. Not after he was so condescending outside.
But this way, we both get what we want, without me having to admit how badly I want him as well.
This way I can have my wedding reception, and a wedding night.
“Garrick told me he wanted to make his wife happy,” I tell his parents, “so here we are.”
“Wonderful,” King VonTrap beams. “We have a carriage waiting for you, Princess.”
I turn to Garrick, hoping he’ll take the lead.
His jaw tenses; his eyes refuse to acknowledge anyone. However, he does offer me his elbow. I take it, because I have nothing else to hang onto right now, honestly. I’m counting on him to lead the way, in so many ways. With this party and with the wedding night.
I have no experience with either—but damn, I want to learn.
In the castle, there are about a hundred well-dressed dignitaries in the large hall, milling about with drinks and smiles. A string quartet in the corner fills the
space with soft music.
There are banquet tables filled with food, and a five-tiered wedding cake front and center. A dance floor and candle-filled chandeliers anchor the room. It looks like we’ve gone back in time, with staff in crisp uniforms—suspenders and knee socks—that are reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel.
The tropical sea breezes filling my bedroom, the dinners of mahi mahi tacos and the fresh fruit kabobs of home are a world away. Here there is dark beer in steins, and skewered sausages.
I don’t resist the differences. This is still a straight-up party, thrown for me and my husband.
Walking into the room, although the two of us are severely underdressed, I raise my hand and wave warmly, smiling at the people who stop their conversations and turn toward us.
A footman calls out a formal pronouncement: “Welcome husband and wife, Prince Garrick and Princess Iris.”
The room fills with applause, and we’re ushered around the ballroom to say hello to the invited guests of the King and Queen. No one seems very interested in Garrick, but they kiss my hand, introduce themselves—the Marquis of so and so, the Earl of whats-it-called and the Duke of blah-ti-blah. I’m too amped up to remember anything except that the room is spinning with my dreams come true.
Garrick, however, is less than thrilled—which is no surprise. Me? I must admit, my heart surges with each cheek-kiss I am granted.
I can do this. I can so do this.
For the first time in my life, I think I’ve actually found what I was looking for.
Except everything does seem a little too polished, a little too shining and perfect. Garrick’s words in his fight with his parents, about not wanting to be in a parade, ring true.
Right now, we’re being shown off. We’re a product of the palace. It isn’t anywhere near as fulfilling as I’ve imagined being in a royal court would feel, but they seem enchanted with my enthusiasm. I guess, compared to the scowling prince, that’s a nice reprieve.
Garrick leans over and whispers in my ear. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
I frown, having only just gotten started. “Introduce me to your friends,” I tell him. Maybe I can’t win him over, but I can win over his buddies.
“Friends? They would never come here.”
“What do you mean?” I take a sip of the beer I’m offered.
Garrick downs his stein. “I hang out with some guys that meet at a pub on Friday nights. Kurt, the owner, is one of the best men in the village.”
“One of your best friends is a bartender?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
“What? It shocks you that I don’t like to perform in this show with these clowns?”
“Clowns meaning the royal dignitaries in attendance?”
“Exactly.” His eyes roam the room, then settle on me. “You like this bullshit?”
“I like being a part of something happy, something not depressing and bankrupt.”
“Is it always about money with you?”
I pull back, surprised at his question. “No,” I laugh. “I don’t care about money. I don’t need fancy parties every day to be happy.”
“What do you need?” he asks, grabbing another beer from a waiter who passes by.
“I need ... a chance to experience. More. Anything. Life.”
A smile plays across Garrick’s face.
“What?” I ask, not knowing him remotely well enough to know what his looks mean.
He leans down, whispering in my ear again. People are all around us, but time seems to still. My body leans into his, and I want to feel his warm breath on my ear again. “I can give you an experience, wife.”
I stifle a moan, not wanting to admit to the thrill his words give me. I press my thighs together, suddenly hot and anxious.
Just then the king clinks his silver against a goblet, announcing that it’s time to cut the cake.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Garrick asks no one in particular, but I know that plenty hear him. Eyes narrow, and heads shake.
“Garrick, don’t make a scene,” I ask, tugging on his shirtsleeve. “Please.”
He smiles, leaning back to my ear. “Say pretty please, Princess. I want to hear you beg.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. The fact that he has such a dark exterior, but thinks such hot things, makes my pussy wet.
Ready.
Willing.
I take his hand; the current passes between us again. Electric. Looking up at him, with all eyes on us, I say, “Pretty please, husband.”
He inhales through his nose, his jaw set. Desire is written across his face.
He leads me to the center of the room, and someone puts a knife in his hand. A camera flashes as he slices the cake, and he’s clearly not amused. He gets frosting on his thumb as he cuts a piece.
I lean close to him, my hand on his chest. “Let me lick that off.” I take his hand, lifting his thumb to my lips, sucking off the white frosting.
He shakes his head and whispers, “You’re killing me, Princess.”
“I think you’re supposed to shove that in my mouth now,” I tell him, smiling.
“Oh, I’ll shove something in your mouth.”
I laugh, slightly shocked and more than a little amused. “You are a naughty prince.”
“And you, Princess? Are you naughty?” He raises an eyebrow and I know just how to answer.
“Oh, I’m very naughty.” Smirking, I take the slice of cake and press it to his face. And just like in the movies, the crowd cheers, clapping for us.
He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me to him and kisses me. My mouth is filled with sugary frosting, and then his hot tongue.
He kisses me hard, not like at the wedding chapel. He kisses me like he’s claiming me. Like I’m already his.
When we pull apart, I catch his mother’s eye. She’s beaming, holding the King’s hand, nodding at me like I did exactly what she wanted.
Whatever Garrick and I just did was the right move. They want their son to be seen in a positive light, and this is the best PR they could hope for.
Meeting Garrick’s eyes, I realize we’re both a mess from the smashed cake. We try to wipe our faces with a cloth napkin, but it doesn’t get us properly clean. He takes my hand and says, “Let’s get you washed up.”
I swallow, knowing that right now I will follow him anywhere.
Chapter 8
Do I want to be at this fucking reception? Hell, no. But right now I’m not at the reception.
Right now, I’m leading Iris upstairs in the castle I grew up in. Right now, I’m taking her to my childhood bedroom with plans to make her a woman.
“Is it okay for us to just leave?” she asks, as I pull her to the landing on the top of the stairs.
“I’m a prince. I don’t ask permission.” I pull at her waist, bringing her to me. I’m ready to rip this dress off her, to take those tits in my mouth, to spread her legs and fill her with my seed. I married her to give my family an heir, but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy giving her my cock.
And it certainly doesn’t mean she shouldn’t enjoy it, either.
Her chin is tilted, her lips full and ready to be kissed, her back arched, asking for me to pull her closer.
“Good,” she tells me. “I don’t want you to ask. I want you to take what’s yours.”
Maybe it’s the beer going to my head, or maybe it’s the curve of her ass under the palm of my hand. Maybe it’s the dark landing, and the darker hallway. I don’t know what it is, but it all adds up to needing her now.
I pull her into the room at the end of the hall, shut the door, press her against it. My hands are on her dress, shimmying it over her bare thighs. Over her head it goes, and I toss it to the floor.
Pushing down her panties, she steps out of them, leaving her bare pussy exposed and so fucking tender, so fucking needy.
I lift her leg, and wrap it around my waist, effortlessly. I need more of her.
“Is this really happening?” Her hands run
through her hair, and I pull the lace of her bra cup down, letting my mouth fill with her tight little nipple. I slap her ass, and then I growl.
Hungry. Wanting.
“This is happening, Princess. It’s time you took my royal cock.”
She moans, her hands in her hair. “Good. I want it. Don’t make me wait.”
Her tight pussy is pressed against me, and she unbuckles my pants, dropping them to the floor.
“You don’t want your first time to be nice and slow?” I ask her. My thick cock is pressed against her ass, and my finger finds her clit. This princess is so nice and tight, but damn, she’s slick as fuck; her little cunt is dripping with desire. “Oh, you’re so nice and wet.”
“For you.” Her eyes lock on mine. I know this is not some match made in heaven—she and I are opposites, and damn, my wife doesn’t even realize just how opposite we are. But right now our bodies are in sync. Our bodies are connected, and my cock is aching to fill her up, just like she asked for.
“I know you like games, playing with words,” I rumble in her ear. “But this is no game.”
“You’re right,” she moans, her clit throbbing the same way my cock is. “But then what would you call it?”
Against the door, her back arches again. I press the tip of my cock against her entrance, easing myself into her, inch by inch, as she wraps her hands around my neck, pulling my mouth to hers.
“I call this your fucking wedding night.” I let her pussy drop onto my cock, filling her hard and fast, because a spitfire girl like her needs to be left speechless sometimes.
I kiss her, hard, her mouth melting against mine. My cock plunges into her tightness. I’m not going to take things slow. Not right now, not this time.
Her mouth is as sweet as the fucking frosting on our wedding cake. Her lips are soft against mine, and I’m reminded of just how many ways we’re opposing forces. Her sweet to my bitter, her soft to my hard. Her smiles to my frown.
Then I squeeze her round ass, my fingers grazing the crack, and thrust into her cunt until she’s whimpering in my mouth.