Falling for my Dirty Uncle: A Virgin and Billionaire Romance

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Falling for my Dirty Uncle: A Virgin and Billionaire Romance Page 83

by Alexis Angel


  The former Speaker is charged with several felonies that include spying on a public official, attempted blackmail, espionage, and numerous violations of the USA PATRIOT Act. If convicted of all charges, the Speaker of the House could face up to 102 years in maximum security prison.

  The former Speaker is currently being held in a Washington D.C. jail and it was agreed by both branches of government that a member of the government could not effectively do their jobs while being incarcerated.

  “We think it’s best for the nation if Bob Walker were no longer the Speaker of the House,” the new Speaker stated in an interview. Mr. Walker has assembled a legal team to represent him against what will most likely be an onslaught of criminal proceedings but experts contend that based on the nature of the crimes, jail may be more preferable.

  “Let’s just say that somehow Mr. Walker is able to beat back the charges that he’s facing, this is the United States government you’re taking on. And this government is bringing over 150 separate charges against you for violating Federal laws. By the time you clear your name and get released from jail, you’re not going to have any money left after the legal fees. You’ll almost wish you could go back to prison.”

  The former Speaker has indeed been denied bail and will spend the remainder of the trial from behind bars.

  The President and his fiancée, Ms. Draper were out in Georgetown dress shopping when news of the indictments was released. The President had no comment other than to say that he was confident that the American justice system would do its work quickly and he was comfortable with whatever findings were released.

  “Let’s just be clear, Bob Walker threatened my fiancée with being a spy,” the President continued. “So if he gets out of jail, he better watch his back. I say he’s better off where he is right now. Safe from me.”

  The remainder of the President’s comments were then shushed by White House aides, his fiancée and other staff who did not want him to make a scene and enter into a situation that he was not a part of.

  So, ladies of Washington and America, I think while we had some hope that the most eligible bachelor in the world was back on the market, it’s probably fair to say that this time, he is well and truly gone. He’s never looked happier. She’s got a glow. And you know what? The country is on the right track. For the first time in a long time, people actually feel that things are headed in the right direction.

  It’s a great time to be an American. And here’s to another wonderful four years.

  Ashley

  There's nothing sweeter than the feeling of victory … going after something—especially something where the stakes are raised and you know you have to succeed. That's the kind of victory I'm talking about, and right now, I'm basking in the glow of that.

  Well, I take back the part about victory being the sweetest thing in the world. There is one thing sweeter—I'll admit that nothing tops Ashley.

  I'm sitting in the Oval Office with Tracy and Ashley, and Tracy's giving me the details of Bob Walker's sentencing for illegal wiretapping. I'm leaning into my leather chair, my arms folded behind my head and my feet resting on top of the desk.

  "Consider it an early wedding gift," Tracy smiles.

  "I still think you should've let me get married in Vegas, like I wanted to," I say.

  She playfully slaps the palm of her hand to her forehead. "Are you kidding me, Austin? A public proposal demands a public wedding. Vegas would never work."

  Ashley chimes in, "And you can't get any more public than proposing to me in from of the entire world during a televised press conference. And there's no way I'm getting married in Vegas! I don't even know why you think that's a good idea."

  She laughs and leans over, planting a quick, playful kiss on my lips.

  "Besides," Ashley continues, "with the economy on the upswing, people want a little glamour."

  "She has a point," Tracy says. "I have to say that I agree with Ashley."

  "Oh great—so now you're both ganging up on me?" I laugh. "Two against one. That doesn't feel very fair to me."

  "Just because you've gotten the country back on track in just 100 days," Ashley says, "Doesn't mean that we can go and plan a wedding that fast. These things take time, and lots of planning."

  "And why is that? Who says we can't move quickly?" I ask. "Everyone knows that there's nothing slow about Austin Bain."

  "Is that so?" Ashley says, a devilish smile spreading across her lips. Her smile alone makes my cock fucking hard. "And tell me, just how fast does Mr. Austin Bain move?" I watch as her eyes travel to my lap.

  "What do you say I show you just how fast I am?" I grin. I'd like nothing more than to lift up the tight skirt she's wearing and bend her right over this desk.

  Ashley walks over and sits in my lap, raking her fingers through my hair. Her touch sends an electric thrill down my spine.

  "We can arrange that," she purrs.

  I look down and notice that my zipper is somehow halfway unzipped, even though I haven't touched it, and I joke with her, "See? You're so hot, even my zipper is falling for you."

  I watch as Tracy gets up from her chair. I almost forgot that she was still in the room; I've been so magnetized by Ashley.

  "Okay, okay, I think that's my cue to leave," Tracy says, waving one hand through the air dismissively, as if she's trying to shoo us out of her line of sight like annoying little house flies. "I'll leave you two alone. But do me a favor and stay off the desk, will you? It's a historical relic."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I smile. "Do you Ashley?"

  Ashley plays along with my game. "Nope. Can't say that I do. Now, why would we even want to be on this desk?"

  "Very funny you two," Tracy says, smiling. "Play innocent all you want, but I'm not falling for it. I'm not that gullible; I wasn't born yesterday."

  All three of us share a laugh at that.

  Then Tracy walks out of the office, and as she leaves, we hear her lock the door behind her.

  As she closes the door, I realize that I really don't know what I'd do without Tracy. She's been such a huge part of my success. I make a mental reminder to myself that I need to get her something incredible as a thank you gift for everything she's done for me.

  And you want to know what the most important thing is?

  Without her, I wouldn't have Ashley in my life.

  It's her that I have to thank for that.

  "What are you thinking?" Ashley asks, wrapping her arms around my neck, and breaking through my thoughts.

  "I thought you always knew what I was thinking?" I reply.

  "Well, you're usually thinking about fucking me," she smiles. "So, I'll play the odds and guess that's exactly what's going through that head of yours."

  She rakes her hands through my hair again, and this time grabs a handful of hair and gives it a playful tug.

  I laugh, wrapping my arms around her waist. I then close the little remaining distance between us, and press my lips to hers. "I love you," I whisper, my mouth resting on her ear.

  "I love you more," she purrs, and then playfully adds for emphasis, "Mr. President."

  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.
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  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 now 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?"

 

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