The Princess I Hate to Love: A Steamy Romantic Comedy

by Iris Morland

  The Princess I Hate to Love

  The Heir Affair Duet

  Iris Morland

  Blue Violet Press LLC

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Enjoy this exclusive excerpt

  Also by Iris Morland

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The Princess I Hate to Love

  Copyright © 2021 by Iris Morland

  Published by Blue Violet Press LLC

  Seattle, Washington

  Cover design by Qamber Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  When I imagined my wedding night, I never expected that I’d be standing outside my beloved wife’s bedroom door, pounding on it to let me inside.

  “You can’t avoid me forever!” I pounded my fist one last time against the expensive wood.

  “Of course I can. Have you seen this place? It’s fucking huge!”

  I heard what sounded like rustling. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the door. I’d imagined helping Niamh out of her wedding dress, but here I was, a dog barking at the door to be let in.

  “Niamh,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m tired. Go away.”

  I growled. I jiggled the knob, but it stayed firmly locked. Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see my secretary Arthur Laurent, who was studiously avoiding looking at the locked door.

  “Would you like me to procure the key from Madam LeRoux, Your Highness?” he asked in French. While I spoke English solely with my American bride, I rarely spoke it to anyone inside the palace.

  “And have the entire palace know my wife has locked me out on our wedding night? No, thank you.” I noticed the dark circles under Laurent’s eyes. Ever the professional, he’d never complained when I’d dropped the bombshell of my sudden engagement, subsequent marriage, and the creation of a new princess of Salasia into his lap. But if I hadn’t slept, he hadn’t, either.

  “Go to bed, Laurent. I’ll take care of this,” I said.

  Laurent leaned back on his heels. “There is a way inside.”

  Right then, I was glad Niamh couldn’t understand our conversation. I smiled for the first time in hours. “Is there?”

  “Yes. The door that adjoins your chambers—the lock, it is, shall we say…” Laurent stared at the ceiling. “Very old.”

  Since I’d lived in my own apartments in another part of the palace until I’d moved into the East Wing last week, I didn’t know the ins and outs of its layout. Laurent, though, having worked at the palace for over twenty years, he knew.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re my favorite servant, you know that?”

  “So you’ve said, despite my lack of holiday for over a decade.”

  Laurent never wanted to go on holiday anyway. I gave him a droll look, shooing him off to sleep. Before he left, though, he said quietly, “Be gentle with her, sir. She’s young and in a strange place.”

  My frustration with Niamh melted. I sighed. “I won’t say that you’re correct.”

  “Of course not, sir. That would be out of character.” Laurent bowed, and I dismissed him for the night.

  I entered my own chambers. Opulent and limned with gold, the curtains blood red and velvet, embroidered with the royal carnation, it looked like something out of eighteenth-century Versailles.

  Which was precisely the point: when it was built, my long-dead ancestors had attempted to copy the court of Louis XIV, although luckily for them, they’d avoided the later years involving guillotines and rolling heads. Apparently, they hadn’t been creative enough to come up with their interior designs.

  Although there had been updates to the bedding, draperies, and carpets since then, they’d always kept a similar style. I had to admit, I’d never liked the opulence. I understood that a palace should look like a palace and not some university flat with broken-down furniture from IKEA, but there had to be a happy medium between the two.

  My bedroom was connected to another room, a parlor, that connected to Niamh’s bedroom. Entering it, I took in the uneaten tray of dinner that Niamh hadn’t touched. Going to the other door, I remembered another door in my previous apartments that was similarly old. Pushing against it with my shoulder, I was able to unlatch the lock before turning the knob.

  I opened the door to find Niamh desperately trying to undo the countless tiny buttons down the back of her wedding dress. She whirled at my entrance, her eyes as wide as saucers.

  “What the fuck! How did you—”

  “Do you need help?”

  With her long, dark hair coiled about her head and pearls surrounding her slender throat, she was the complete opposite of the ragamuffin girl I’d first encountered at her grandfather’s estate in Dublin. On our journey through Europe, she’d always worn jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie when it was cold. I’d seen her wear mascara once.

  Now, though, she wore an ivory gown that accentuated her curves. It was made of silk and beaded with thousands of crystals down the back and along the train and around the neckline. Sleeves came to her elbows. Although she’d worn a veil in the church, she’d already taken it off.

  “You look beautiful,” I said softly.

  “Yes, I know. I look like a princess.”

  Her words had an edge to them. I was fairly certain if I approached too quickly, she’d gouge my eyes out.

  She had a reason to hate me, of course. I’d forced her into this marriage. Because I wanted to keep the secret of my bastardy a secret. Because I wanted to remain the Hereditary Prince of Salasia, the heir to the Valady Dynasty. I wasn’t about to let over three hundred years of my family ruling this small principality crumble with me.

  So, Niamh, the true heir to the throne after her older brother Liam, was my ticket to holding onto my birthright. She’d only agreed to marry me because she didn’t want to ruin her brother’s life. She was extremely protective of him, sometimes to the point that I wondered if there was another reason why.

  “We agreed that we would spend the night together,” I said, “so as not to risk gossip starting.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  She sat down at a vanity and began to take off her jewelry. I barely restrained myself from throttling her, but I remembered Laurent’s words. Be gentle with her, sir. She’s young and in a strange place.

  “I’m trying to protect you,” I said.

  She looked at me from the mirror. “Really? Because I’m fairly certain everything you’ve done has been to protect yoursel
f, dearest husband.”

  I leaned over her, my hands now on her upper arms. We gazed at our reflections.

  “You agreed to this marriage. You had ample time to change your mind. Don’t act as if I chained you up in a dungeon to get you to agree. Besides.” I trailed my hands down her arms, enjoying feeling her shiver. “It’s not as if there isn’t chemistry here.” I kissed the side of her neck. I saw her close her eyes.

  “You know very well why I said yes. But if you think I’m going to be your little dutiful wife who only ever nods her head, you’re very mistaken.”

  I tilted her chin up so she looked me in the eyes. “I never expected anything else.”

  Heat crackled between us. We’d barely touched since our engagement three months ago. We’d kissed after we’d said our vows at the royal chapel. But now, we were finally alone, and the memory of the last time we’d been in that hotel room in Berlin, when I’d made her come under my tongue, sent a thrill through my body. My cock hardened instantly.

  “I’m not going to have hate sex with you,” she whispered.

  I laughed. I didn’t tell her I didn’t believe her. Instead, I began to unbutton her dress. With each patch of pale skin revealed, I could hear her breathing increase. A flush had begun to crawl from her chest into her face. She could deny this attraction between us until her dying day. Her body told a different story.

  Finally, the gown unbuttoned, she stood and stepped out of it. She wore a corset and, to my immense frustration, white lacy panties. Garters held up white hose. If she wanted to embody the innocent, virginal bride about to be deflowered, she exuded it.

  Except my wife wasn’t a virgin—which I didn’t care about one iota—and she was not remotely innocent, either. She was wickedly clever, with a sharp tongue to match. Even after she’d found out that I was a prince, she’d still treated me like a normal man. It both awed and confounded me.

  She began to unhook the corset, but I stopped her. “Let me.”

  She didn’t protest this time.

  I slowly unhooked the garment until it slid down her torso to the floor. She stepped out of it. Now she only wore panties, stockings, and nothing else. Her nipples were erect. I cupped one of her breasts before leaning down to suck it.

  “Olivier,” Niamh sighed. She gripped the back of my neck. “We shouldn’t.”

  I just laved my tongue around her nipple. After that, she didn’t protest.

  It was easy to slide the panel of her panties aside. Her pussy was already wet, but I wanted her soaking my hand. She shuddered as I delved within her vulva, letting the pads of my fingers dance along her. I’d moved from sucking her tits to kissing her neck. I watched her face as I pushed first one, then another, finger inside her.

  “So tight,” I breathed into her ear. “I can’t wait to feel it wrapped around my cock.”

  She had to hold onto my shoulders to keep from collapsing. When I added my thumb to the nub of her clit, my fingers thrusting inside her pussy at the same time, the erotic sound of me fucking her nearly made me come in my trousers. I kissed her—hard.

  Niamh began to shiver. I could feel her body tightening. She was already close to orgasm. I quickened the pace of my fingers. But it was when I added a third that she mewled like a damn kitten. Her body taut as a bowstring, she came so hard that I had to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her upright. She was muttering words I couldn’t understand.

  I took her to the bed, unbuttoning my trousers with shaking, wet fingers. Niamh was glassy-eyed, her legs spread, her pink pussy drenched. My cock sprang free. I crawled on top of her, and when she wrapped a hand around me, I hissed in a breath. I had to chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from coming all over her hand.

  I was about to push her hand away, wanting to plunge my cock inside her, but her fingers were nimble. She gripped me, mimicking the rhythm I so desperately wanted, and I let myself succumb to the sensations.

  I kissed her, thrusting my tongue into her mouth. She kept stroking my cock. I felt my own orgasm at the base of my spine.

  “Sweetheart,” I rasped, “I’m going to come.”

  She just smiled and licked my bottom lip. That sent me into the clouds. I shouted, my ejaculate covering her pretty hand. When she brought her hand to her mouth and licked it, I nearly came a second time.

  I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. By the time I returned with a wet washcloth for Niamh, she’d already put on her pajamas, her hair in a tight ponytail, her wedding attire already put away. Had I taken that long?

  I felt ridiculous giving her a washcloth when she was already dressed. I set it on the bedside table.

  I could see her expression closing up. She opened her laptop, her gaze on the screen, before saying coolly, “You can go.”

  You can go. I stared at her. I’d just finger-fucked this woman, and now she was dismissing me like a servant?

  I closed her laptop so quickly she nearly got her fingers caught in it. “What the fuck are you doing?” I demanded.

  “I’m answering emails,” she said.

  “No, I mean, why are you acting like you didn’t just come all over my fingers? Again?”

  She blushed a little. “I just figured that you’d want to go to sleep. There’s no reason for you to stay.”

  “You’re my wife.” I bit out the words.

  “In name only.”

  A red haze covered my vision. But I knew that the angrier I got, the more she’d shut down. So I forced myself to keep my composure, no matter how difficult that feat was.

  “You can act like I’m nothing to you all you want,” I said, “but we both felt how you responded to my touch. How you melted against me as I rubbed your clit and sucked your nipples. You want to be my wife in name only? Fine. But I’ll be dead before I let you act like you don’t want me as much as I want you.”

  She screwed up that saucy, infuriating mouth. “You can go now.”

  I growled. Letting my anger overwhelm me, I took a small statue from a table and threw it. But to my immense consternation, it didn’t shatter: it hit the back of a settee and bounced uselessly to the floor with a thump.

  I heard a snort. I saw Niamh cover her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

  “It’s not funny,” I said.

  She was breathing weirdly now. “No, not at all funny.”

  Scowling, I picked up the offending statue, decided I’d take it with me for no damn reason, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

  A moment later, Niamh’s laughter followed me into my bedroom.

  Chapter Two

  Flashbulbs from cameras made me wince. I was standing with my arm around Niamh in front of the royal family’s villa outside the capital, Saint Henri, a group of photographers and journalists having just arrived for a brief interview.

  Niamh was barely smiling. I leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Look happy.” She widened her smile until she looked demonic.

  “How are you two enjoying married life?” a woman asked in French.

  I replied in English, “We’re getting to know each other even better now, which is why we chose to honeymoon here in Saint Henri.”

  Every time a royal family member vacationed here, the little seaside town’s economy was boosted. Niamh and I wore clothes made from a local designer, and we were scheduled to appear at a popular seafood restaurant later that week.

  “This place is beautiful,” said Niamh.

  The journalist kept the microphone near me, which irked me. Although the press was insatiably curious about my new American bride, they also disliked that I’d chosen an American to wed. Some of the old guard had complained that it had been a slight to choosing either from the Salasian aristocracy or from a royal family in Europe.

  Apparently, there was a duchess in Luxembourg, ten years my senior, who’d very much wanted me to choose her. I’d declined, mostly because she owned ten Shih Tzus and expected to bring the pack of yappy dogs to the palace.

  “And do you ha
ve any plans for this evening?” This was asked in English from a photographer nearby. He waggled his eyebrows. “You are newlyweds, after all.”

  Niamh blushed. I sighed internally, because I could feel the sharks starting to swarm around us. Any sign of discomfort and they’d taste blood. They’d already been upset that I’d announced our engagement without anyone knowing we’d been dating. I’d neglected to inform them that we’d never actually dated before our engagement, of course.

  “What would you recommend?” This from Niamh to the photographer. “I’ve never been on a honeymoon, you see. I don’t know what’s expected.”

  Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on the crowd. A few tittered; a few others typed onto their phones with wide eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sure His Highness will be happy to show you,” said the photographer. “He’s had plenty of practice, we’ve heard.”

  Niamh stiffened. I wanted to punch the guy, but I just smiled tightly and said, “I think that’s enough for now. We’re tired from traveling. Thank you for coming.”

  I led Niamh back into the villa. A small estate in comparison to the palace, the villa could still house upwards of twenty-five people comfortably. Niamh and I had taken the master suite that led to an expansive garden that was maintained year-round. In the distance, we could see the snowy peaks of the mountains, and looking eastward, we could make out the blue waters of the Mediterranean.

  It was warm and balmy today, and I wiped sweat from my forehead as I collapsed into a thick chair right outside our bedroom. I put my feet up on a nearby ottoman.

  Niamh sat down across from me. Her forehead was pinched. She was also gaining more freckles by the minute.