by Alexis Angel
She knows exactly what game she’s playing because I immediately envision her tits and cunt, naked and inviting.
Whoever told her she wouldn’t look good in a rugby uniform was lying. But I have to admit…
She’d look better out of one.
The same goes for this dress she’s wearing, too.
“If you’re interested in a game, Princess, I’m sure I could arrange one.”
“I don’t play games, Your Majesty.” Grabbing onto the back of my head, her hand slides into my hair and gently tugs it. Her lips graze my ear, and she whispers, “But as for tackling…I wouldn’t mind a little refresher.”
I keep her there, pinned to me. I want her to feel my voice vibrate through her. I want the heat of my breath to melt her panties right off of her tight, little royal cunt.
“In that dress?” I ask, my curiosity now peaked.
“Out of it, if you’d prefer.”
My nose touches the small strap holding her breasts up, and her aroma intoxicates me—more than I already am. It’s a warm vanilla scent that intermingles with a touch of spice, and it sends a jolt of electricity down my spine, my cock pulsating against her.
She shimmies her hips closer to me, angling my cock against her flat, slender stomach. She goes back up on tiptoe and moans in my ears as my hard shaft rubs against her pussy through her gown.
Damn, she knows exactly what she’s doing. I’m a bit surprised given how young she is, but I don’t care. I’m just fucking impressed.
If it wasn’t for this being my engagement party, I would fuck her right here and now. I’d push her against one of the columns and ravish her tight body until both our kingdoms have an heir.
“But if you’d prefer…I’m used to playing in dresses.” She whispers, her breath heavy, almost panting. “And I’d love to do it again.”
I move her away from me and eye her up and down, drinking in the red gown that’s stitched into her curves.
“Tell me, how do you play in that dress, love?” I twirl her around, and her full pouty lips curve up into a salacious smirk.
“Oh, love. I have my ways.” We glide across the dance floor, and I nod at her brother who’s staring at us, concern filling his expression.
“Enlighten me. I’m very interested in learning all your dirty little secrets.”
Who would’ve thought that the little princess I played with so many years ago would turn into this bombshell, making my cock hard as a fucking diamond while she teases me about fucking her? Hell, not me.
By the way he’s eyeing us, apparently, not her brother, either.
“It’s much better if I show you.” She squeezes my shoulders and slides her hand down my arms tightly. “Seeing is believing, isn’t it?”
“I think it’d be best if we got out of here. It looks like some people don’t like the kind of showing we’re doing.”
She looks at me, and I nod towards the direction of her brother. She turns her head to face him and sniffs indignantly.
“If he doesn’t want to see, he shouldn’t look.” She smiles and nods at him, then turns back to me, her eyes darkened and clouded with desire. “But I’d love to get out of here.”
I bend my head down to her, my lips inches away from her pink pouted lips. “If you let me in on your secrets, I’ll show every move I know, Princess. So…care to play?”
“Why don’t you show me your throne room first?” Her eyes narrow in delight, and I take her hand before we get pulled away.
I lead her to the throne room in the back of the room as quickly as possible.
“You’re too fast!” She giggles as she tries to keep up with me, dodging people left and right and ignoring the noisy cynics.
“I could say the same about you, Princess.”
I’m wasting no time here. I need to have this damn woman—under me, over me, and filled with me. I don’t care how; it just needs to happen before I explode in front of this whole fucking palace.
But I don’t just want to fuck her, I want to marry her.
Tonight, on the night of my engagement, it seems I’ve met my bride.
And while she’s not the one I’m supposed to be marrying…
She fucking will be.
Want to know what happened to Edward and Gwen? The King’s Virgin Bride is out now on Amazon!
Author’s Note
Fairytales aren’t for the faint of heart. I think we fall for these tales because we want to dream of a life that more’s spectacular, more fulfilling…just something more. Whether your fairytale includes a Prince, a Queen, or the boy or girl next door, it’s something we hold out hope for and believe in.
But for me, this story is for those babes out there who might’ve stopped believing in these tales or have never believed in them at all.
In this love affair, both David and Vivienne struggle with believing. One is too stubborn and determined to look past their own rules, while the other lives in their own puffed up version of reality, never noticing what’s in front of them. But once caught in a compromising position, they must come together to save not only their reputation but themselves. With love and a little bit of belief in each other, they’ll be able to see what they’ve been blinded to all along. You might find yourself frustrated with them, or angry that they can’t just let it go and be free. But I promise, their struggles make the ending so much sweeter.
They’re both hot, headstrong characters, who aren’t afraid to tell you like it is. Oh, and their sexual tension is off the charts! But my favorite part? Well…you’ll just have to wait and see. But, one hint—the fairytale becomes very twisted!
I hope you enjoy my royally erotic tale of David and Vivienne, babes! Cheers to happily-ever-after’s!
And as always, my Angels, thank you for your love and support.
Xoxo
Alexis
P.S. I’ve included a few bonuses for you, babe, so you can just keep on reading if you loved this story! If you’re all about the royal theme, check out Princely Passions. Then I’ve got some of my favorite office romances, Executive Engagement and Boxers & Briefs. And of course if you want more hot, steamy fairytale fun, Three Beasts is just what you’re looking for. Enjoy!
Princely Passions
A Royal Romance
By Alexis Angel
Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Derrick
I own the motherfucking world.
Seriously, sometimes it just feels like I am the fucking prince of all fucking creation.
Never more so than when I'm looking out the fucking window of my condo in the fucking clouds high above New York City.
I live in One57. That's right. Right in the center of Manhattan on a street they call Billionaire's Row. You don't get much more fucking materialistic and pretentious than this.
"Your Highness," Pressly, my manservant says to me, coming into the large living room with floor to ceiling windows of the sky. "Your motorcycle is ready. Are you quite able to ride today?"
That's just like Pressly. Always watching out for me. Ever since my mother died when I was thirteen, he's become more like my primary guardian than anything else. He gives off the look and feel of Alfred from Batman, but I know Pressly's had his fun in life. He used to fight for my Kingdom, St. Livy, when we gave forces to the Americans in Vietnam. He lost his wife to cancer - same as my mother, only earlier. I guess we have that going for us. But the number one thing that makes him invaluable is that he doesn't fucking judge me like the rest of the world.
And the world would be fucking judge me right no
w if they could. I feel like shit. I only got in about fifteen minutes ago - around 5 am. I was at my nightclub in the Meatpacking District, having a fucking orgy with three Russian models in town for one night. Try drinking a bottle of vodka with some Russian birds and then cumming countless times on their eager faces and you'll understand what I mean when I say that I’m fucking tired enough to go mental.
"I've prepared some breakfast for you, Sire," Pressly continues, "It'll help you get some energy for the day ahead."
I turn to look in the mirror. Even for a night of heavy drinking, you’re going to think I’m a cocky fucking asshole when I say I look fucking good. My ice blue eyes are soulfully distant. They can look right into your soul. I have a strong as fuck jawline and a sculpted face. That’s the product of 2000 years of royal fucking blood flowing through me. My chest is cut. My shoulders are fucking broad. I may be a prince, but I look like a King. My arms are the product of over a decade of working out. And my abs. Fuck. Let’s just say that I’ve defined them so well that even if you’re blind, tracing your finger along them will get you fucking hot.
I’ve gotten you fucking hot now too, haven’t I?
Admit it. You’re fucking smiling.
No?
How about now?
Whatever. I’ve never let a bird get me down if she wasn’t feeling me.
Why am I calling girls ‘birds’ you’re wondering? I don’t fucking know. The Brits do. And St. Livy is close enough to them that I guess that shit rubs off.
But enough about me for now. Breakfast sounds like a very good idea after the night I’ve had. I pad over to the breakfast room and sit down at the clear and sleek glass table - a present from my brother in arms, Silas D'Avington. We fought together for St. Penares in Afghanistan - I was in his group and we were trapped in the mountains near Kandahar for close to a week, surviving on our own. Everything I learned about being a fucking badass came from that fucking guy. After Afghanistan, I came to New York, determined not to lose a single day of my life. My goal - simple - indulge in everything that I ever desired. Whether that was liquor, women, or anything else -- it was all fair game. Never really did any drugs though - it would have made it hard to keep my physique. That's right. My fucking body. What drives the birds fucking wild. 6 feet 4 inches of cut, ripped, and sculpted muscles and sinew. A set of abs that was chiseled by fucking Apollo himself. But let’s not forget the raison d'être of this marvelous body - it was all for the 11-inch cock that was swinging between my fucking legs. People call it an organ. I call it a fucking muscle for what I'm able to do with it. For the absolute bliss that I'm able to inflict upon the female population of this fine city.
And right now, I'm wolfing down my eggs and bacon, washing it down with some hand squeezed juice and running out the door. The Royal Press Secretary, a woman named Samantha in St. Livy, had booked a spot for me on Today, USA. I fucking hate Samantha. I know she’s fucking my Dad. But I don’t say anything because she’s the mother of Alicia. And Alicia…Fuck, we’ll talk about her later. Anyways, Samantha has me on some fucking morning show for people who slept well enough the night before to be up and at 'em at 6 in the morning. My interview is scheduled for 6 on the dot, and if I ride fast, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.
I bound out of the elevator and out of the steel and glass superstructure that I live in and hop on the motorcycle that the valet had brought out for me. It roars to life and I take off down 7th Avenue heading south to Rockefeller Center.
But first, I have to get through fucking Midtown traffic. Lucky for me, I'm on a bike. Not in a cab or on two feet like the pathetically weak pedestrians.
"Hey buddy, watch where you're going, will ya?" a Bangladeshi cabbie yells at me as I skirt by between two lanes and zip past him. Whatever. I give him the middle finger and dive forward. The light's yellow, but I put my foot to the gas. I'm going to fucking making it.
A fucking MAC truck blares its horns at me, just barely missing me as I zoom down 7th Avenue. I laugh to myself and yell as pedestrians get out of my way. Oh yeah, I may be driving on a sidewalk now.
"Fucking asshole!" some guy in black hoodie yells at me.
I stop the bike. Did I just hear what I think I heard? I'm maybe twenty feet past him but I get off the bike and turn around. I look at him. Wannabe gangsta. Thinks he Jay-fucking-Z.
"What did you say, mate?" I say.
He looks at me. I'm at least a foot fucking taller than this guy. He's got dreads but that's no match for the fucking skull and rose tattoo I have or the rose and thorns adorning both my arms. You can see them because I'm wearing a wife beater. But you can see my fucking muscles too, and right now, I don't mind flexing them.
The gangsta-wannabe looks at me for a second, then drops his eyes. "Nothin' man," he murmurs slowly.
"That's what I thought, mate," I say, and get back on the bike. It roars back to life and this time I fucking peal into the traffic.
But traffic is intense. And I'm fucking hungover. So I do the only thing I can to get some open road.
I head over to the other side of the street. With the oncoming traffic for the last block coming right fucking at me.
It's not a problem really. Most of the cars honk at me but I don't fucking care. They swerve out of the way, but I've already made my turn onto 51st street.
Life is fucking grand.
"Sir, you can't park that here," the building security rent-a-cop is telling me when I park in the ‘Reserved For Loading’ section.
I wave him the fuck off. I don't have time for this. It's 5:45 am and I need to fucking get upstairs.
"Sir! Sir!" he yells like a fucking parrot.
Luckily for me, my security contingent who was struggling to keep up catches up just as I head into the building. I'm not worried. Pressly leads the security detail. He'll deal with the rent-a-cop.
I head up the elevator, not giving two shits that I look so out of place with the rest of the people in there – dressed in their suits and uniforms of corporate slavery. What the fuck do I care? The women are staring me up and down. Hunger in their eyes. Lust in their hearts. Their husbands forgotten. The men are shrinking away from me - afraid when an Alpha is among them. Just the way I fucking like it.
"The interview is in Room 3, Prince Blaine," the receptionist who meets me outside the elevator is telling me as I walk out. She recognizes me instantly. I'm not surprised. Most people would, with the number of times the Post and the Daily News have my face splashed on there. "Mindy Friedman is waiting for you. They'll do hair and makeup as she preps you for the interview."
I'm not paying much attention to her, because we've just walked into the studio that's going to host the interview segment. The receptionist actually never came into the room - her job was done so she just gives fuck all about me. Leave it to the next schmo to take it from there.
The studio is empty except for a cameraman manning a camera and the interviewer - world famous Mindy Friedman.
"Where's the hair and makeup?" I ask, walking over.
Fuck me, this bird is fine. She's wearing a dark blue short skirt and a blue silk blouse. She blushes when she sees me. I give her an evil smile right back at her.
"You must be Prince Derrick," she says to me, a blush creeping across her face as she gets up. I can tell she's flustered.
Her tits are nice. Could be nicer. Body okay. Definitely fuckable.
I don't know what I'm doing but in times like this I usually just go with it. I reach over and pull off my wife-beater.
"What are you doing, man?" the cameraman exclaims.
Fuck. I had forgotten he was there. Mindy's looking at me with a look of shock as well.
"Get the fuck out," I say strongly to the camera man, pointing towards him.
"Excuse me?" the incredulous cameraman asks. He can't believe this shit. Neither can I. Which makes it hilarious.
"You heard me," I say. "Get the fuck out of here. Now."
I flex my upper body. My muscles glisten under the
light and ripple. Mindy is entranced.
I smile to myself as the cameraman scurries away, more used to listening to orders than standing up to orders that are bollocks.
I mean, I know what you're thinking. Who the fuck am I? Why am I such a fucking asshole.
Well, I'll tell you who I am. I'm Prince fucking Derrick Blaine from St. Livy. I'm heir to the 10th largest economy in the world after my father. And I truly am a fucking asshole.
I'm also still rather drunk.
But let's go back to Mindy, shall we? Her mouth is hanging open and she's looking at me like I've gone fucking mental.
"We got some time, love," I say. "Follow me into bliss, or stand back and watch me get naked."
"Are you crazy?" she asks - her mouth agape. She's trying to be indignant. But I can see where her eyes are looking.
"Not at all, love," I say. "But we can argue, or we can fuck. Which one do you want?"
She hesitates. I undo the belt buckle of my pants and let them fall. My cock is twitching being around the presence of a female and my boxer briefs are showcasing my 11-inch bulge quite nicely.
Mindy begins unbuttoning her blouse.
So much for high minded morals or professionalism, eh?
"Faster," I say with a glint in my eyes.
Her face is blank, as if she's hypnotized. The blouse comes off and falls to the floor. I walk over and unzip the skirt, letting it fall too. I move her so she steps out of it.
She's wearing black lace boy shorts and a black lace bra. Nice. I reach over and squeeze her tits, kneading them like dough. My cock is alive. Her hands are on my boxer briefs and they go underneath the waistband. I feel her hand brush against my cock and then wrap around it. She grasps my shaft and her eyes go fucking wide.
"Jesus, Prin-" I cut her off before she can continue.
"Call me Derrick, love," I say softly. "Derrick Blaine."
My boxer briefs are on the floor now and my 11-inch anaconda is pointing at her. Thick and fucking hard. I unclasp her bra and she unceremoniously casts her panties aside. I let my eyes wander over her hourglass figure, and I just know there’s no escaping this - I have to fuck her, come hell or high water. And this is going to have to be fast. I turn her over and she gets on her hands and knees on the chair that she was sitting in not five minutes ago.