Prince With Benefits: A Billionaire Royal Romance (7 page)

But that isn't going to happen. Not unless I marry – yes,
marry
– the playboy Prince, the tease, the last man on Earth who should've been born to royal blood.

Running my hands over my face, I wait for my temples to stop throbbing. After another minute, they do.

The weight inside me shifts, settles. I'm making peace.

I think I'm ready.

I'm going to do this. I just need to swallow my pride, pretend it's just another job, and brace myself for the public eye.

It's worth dad's life. I'll humiliate myself a thousand times over to keep him from dying young.

Though in this case, I doubt I'll ever get the chance to do it alone. Prince Silas will be more than happy to embarrass both of us if he doesn't give me a heat stroke first from all the blushing, teasing, red hot agony he's bound to bring, too.

When I stand up and press the intercom on the wall to his valet, asking for an audience with the Prince, I want to believe I'm doing something noble.

Noble. Ha! Ha ha.

No, not this time. It feels like I just told my warden I'm ready for my execution, and now I'm just waiting for him to lead me down the long walk to my doom.

S
he's standing
in front of me on the balcony, holding her hands in front of her like I'm her priest at confession, and she's about to tell me something filthy.

I wish.
I'd love to know all her dirty little secrets, but I want her agreement more.

“I'll do it, Your Highness. But I have terms.” Erin looks up, her soft brown eyes glowing in the moonlight, the wind flipping that chestnut hair I want to pull so fucking hard over her shoulder.

“Terms?” I look into my glass of scotch and give the melting ice a shake. “Let's hear them.”

Her mouth is moving, but I'm barely comprehending what she's saying. I'm only on my second drink of the evening, so it isn't the booze.

It's that dress. She's wearing the first thing that isn't some mass produced casual horseshit, one of many fine pieces I had left in her room, and she looks gorgeous. The lily white evening dress clings to her skin, accents her curves, makes my cock stir like a hungry animal in my trousers.

“...and yes, I need everything in writing. We can keep it between you and me, I don't care, but I want something solid. Trust, but verify, you understand.” My eyes are on her lips the whole time while she's yammering on. I wonder how they'd twitch if I sunk my teeth in. “And one more thing, Your Highness...no sex. I mean, you said this was all make believe, so I'm guessing that's a given. I wanted to get it out there, anyway.”

“No sex?” I repeat numbly, feeling my cock pulse harder. “Half the women in this kingdom would jump at the chance to have a Prince with benefits. You know that, don't you?”

She makes a face. Probably hiding the flush, the heat that makes her want to take it back. I know a woman when she's playing coy, and when her mind is far from made up.

“Of course I know,” she says, staring me dead in the eyes. “No sex. I'm not one of your admirers.”

Goddamn, this is going to be a challenge. In principle, I agree.

Fucking her would only make this harder, a hell of a lot more complicated than it needs to be.

Too bad she's just taunted me. There are
very
few things in this world I can't have by virtue of money and power. I can't even remember the last time I've met a pussy I want that's telling me 'no.'

“Is any of this going to be a problem?” she asks, nervously twisting her hands when I wait too long to answer.

“No. Everything you've said is more than reasonable. I'll have my lawyer draw up a prenup tomorrow and a separate document with the terms you mentioned. I have a man who isn't connected to the palace just for these sorts of things, so we can keep this out of grandmom's prying eyes.”

“And the last part?” she whispers, fighting to keep her eyes locked with mine.

I take a step closer, polishing off my scotch, setting the glass down on the little table. “No sex?”

“Yeah.”

“It's a deal.” I wait until we're barely a couple inches apart before I say anything more. “You're a special woman, Miss Warwick. I think you have the honor of being the first woman I've met to make me promise
not
to fuck her brains out.”

There's a tick in her lips. Quick, fiery, almost imperceptible. I can smell every molecule rolling off her, a scent my cock knows, pheromones so electric they tell me this is going to be the hardest fucking promise I've ever had to keep.

“I'm glad we can keep this...professional,” she says, finally snatching her eyes away, looking over my shoulder at the capital gleaming in the distance.

“So am I. You've got a very bright future ahead when this is through. Believe me, I'm glad I can do this with a woman who's close to my level. Intellectually, at least.”

She looks at me like I've just insulted her. What can I say?

Mentally, we're partners in crime.

As for the money, class, ambition? We're worlds apart.

My brain doesn't let go of its old habits so easily. I'm still in hunt mode, eager to wrap this minx around every inch of me, put my mouth on hers, feel her tight little cunt dripping all over my balls.

Everything I want. Everything I can't have. Not unless I want to ruin this before I've even given it a chance.

“I hope you'll try to be a little more tactful when we're married,” she says. “I'm going to be your wife. A...a Princess, I guess. God.”

“You guess?” I raise an eyebrow. “That's exactly the title that comes with this job. Princess of Sealesland, Saint Moore, and All Her Tributaries. The next living, beautiful, royal vessel to continue the family line.”

I reach for her. She's burning up when I touch her, gently sliding my hands up over her arms, a slow moving embrace that causes my cock to leak like a melting candle in my pants.

“No sex!” she whimpers, sucking her bottom lip.

“No sex. I'm a man of my word, Erin,” I growl, bringing my face to hers, close enough to let her smell the liquor on my breath. “But we have to get used to more tender forms of contact, of course. What would an engagement, a wedding be, without a kiss?”

Her eyes go wide. She's trembling in my arms, but it isn't just nerves talking.

I know this heat, this waver, this fire in the blood. She wants me. I want her.

No, I want to be inside her.

We're both prisoners here, holding back on our natural instincts for a greater purpose, the way it has to be. We can only graze, but never gorge.

We can't rip off each other's clothes. We can't try every position I know, and invent several new ones. We can't fuck, and it kills me, the part deep down inside that loves a good conquest.

Fuck.

“It's too soon for that,” she tells me, nearly breathless. Her sweet, plump tits wedge against my chest, and I swear I can feel her nipples through several layers. “I need some time to adjust to all this. Please, Your Highness.”

“Fine.” I tear myself away from her, pulling her with me by one hand, to the balcony's stone edge. “You should really start calling me Silas behind closed doors.”

She looks at me, and blinks. I don't say a word, just run one hand up across her shoulder, cup her cheek, and gently tilt her face to the scenery.

“Take a good, long look at all that. It's the very reason you're here. You're doing this with me to save your father's life. For me, this is about a family, a kingdom. All the people down there in that glittering city, and the thousand other villages and towns beyond that make up this island.”

“How noble.” Sarcasm drips from those little lips I want to bury in mine. “It's not that I don't believe you. It just seems...so unlike you, Silas.”

“What do you know?” I growl. “We barely know each other. To be fair, that's the way it ought to be. There's more to this life than fucking and partying. They're simply the fine perks I allow myself, something to keep myself sane when I have to face who I am, and what I've been destined to do since the day I was born.”

She stares at me a lot more seriously now. Just like I expect.

This is all too familiar. I've brought dozens of women up here before, and sometimes I launch into this bullshit, after one too many drinks. I haven't had that tonight, but everything's creeping up, slowly strangling me.

The impending engagement. The wedding. The ridiculous marriage I'm going to have to pretend to be enjoy for the next three years, and the divorce that will come next.

Then there's the possibility Her Majesty could drop dead any time. Fuck, I haven't thought about what I'd do if I have to take the crown while I'm still married to this woman.

For a split second, doubt courses through me, deflating my erection. It doesn't go further than that.

I wouldn't be alive today if I let second guesses rule me. I take her hand in mine, squeeze it, and we stare across the capital together, my eyes focused on the palace in the distance.

“Let me tell you a secret,” I whisper, wondering why I'm trying to convince her. “I'm not the bastard you think I am. If you'd come up here tonight and told me you wanted nothing to do with this proposal, I'd have let your father stay in Mexico anyway. I won't turn away a dying man from the treatment he needs. I'm not a monster.”

Her eyes soften. She shifts, resting one arm against the high stone banister, just as the wind kicks up, ruffling her skirt. The wedding dress illusion to the damned thing makes my cock throb again, though this is far more casual than the long, ornate getup she'll be forced to wear at the actual wedding.

“That's good to know, but it doesn't change my mind. I'm not backing out of anything. I told you I'd marry you, go through with what we need to do. It's only right that we live up to both ends of our bargain. I don't need to know who I'm marrying. I don't care. I just want to get this over with. It's all make believe, like you said, right?”

She studies me closely. Of course, she's right. I give her hand one more fierce squeeze before I draw away from her, slumping against the balcony's edge, allowing my turquoise tie to hang in the breeze.

“Absolutely right.” I turn my head, taking her in, trying not to let my eyes roam her curves for too long. “We can both be very fair. Strange bedfellows, as they say, except we won't really be bedfellows at all.”

“No sex,” she says sweetly, smiling. “Remember?”

“Like I have any reason to forget. Luckily for me, I've got pussy chasing this dick all the time. They don't call me Prince Hung for nothing. I can have my pick, Erin, night after night after night. I'll bring you to the club downstairs sometime so you can see for yourself. You're more than welcome to share the facilities now that we're going to be married.”

“Gross.” She makes a face, sticking out her tongue. “I don't need to. What you do on your own time, in private...well, that's your business. Just like we agreed.”

There's some hesitation in her voice. A noticeable two second delay that makes me want to rip that thin ivory dress off, lay her down out here, and fuck her until sunrise. Against the better judgment I'm barely holding onto, of course.

“What about me?” she asks, sizing me up. “I'm going to need to see the final draft of this agreement. Need to know you're not going to put me in a chastity belt or something weird in the clause about sex.”

I'm rolling my eyes. “Please. They went out of style about two hundred years ago, love. There's a couple of the fucking things hanging up at the royal museum. I'd be happy to take you down there sometime for a tour, just to see them, if you're really so interested.”

“Please!” She's laughing, but it doesn't hide the rosy red blush on her cheeks.

“You're free to make your own arrangements with men, so long as you're careful.”

Naturally, she's free. I'm not really her husband, her Prince, or her lover.

Why do the words taste so sour when I say them, then? I shouldn't feel my muscles angrily tensing, the way they used to before going on patrol outside Kandahar, when I think about that perfectly slappable ass she's hiding grinding against another man's cock.

“I will be. I've always been extremely careful with that part of my life, Silas. God.” She pauses, closing her eyes. “It's going to take me awhile to get used to calling you by your first time.”

“Save the Your Highness crap for the press, and formal audiences. After the wedding, you're free to talk to me as your friend in the open, anywhere except the most rigid, stuffy, and fucking stupid royal functions.”

She smiles. “Friends. I think we can do that.”

“I hope so,” I say, clenching my teeth because my cock keeps hounding me to make her a whole lot more. My dick won't let up on that
Prince with benefits
idea. “Let's go over more in the morning. I'll bring Vic and Serena in for a full briefing.”

Christ, Serena. I wonder how the hell she'll react to my abrupt engagement. One more problem I'll have to deal with tomorrow, hoping the warning has sunk into my lovestruck press secretary.

“Yeah? What's on the agenda?”

“First thing's first,” I say, running through the long list of things to do to make this fake marriage happen. “We'll have to tell grandmom, after my closest aides. She'll need an audience with both of us.”

“Grandmom? You mean...the Queen?” Her eyes glisten, big and dark and beautiful. Swept up in what must be an outrageous fairy tale to this American girl without an ounce of royal blood in her veins.

“Yes, Her Majesty, in the flesh.” I'm going to need a few more drinks to get through the shock and awe tomorrow.

“Get some rest,” I tell her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and leading her back inside my suite. “I'll make sure you get your own aides assigned tomorrow, too, so you'll have some help settling in. After grandmom receives the news, we'll have a press conference. I leave you to decide what you want to tell your father.”

“Damn, don't remind me! It's going to be difficult.” She drifts out of my embrace near the door leading out, rubbing her temples. “Jesus. This is happening so fast. Whatever, we'll figure it out. I'm in this with you, Silas. I won't let you down.”

“No, you won't. I always make the right choice. You're going to be the best goddamned plastic Princess a future King could hope for. If anything comes up, I'll be here, right down the hall. Starting tomorrow, you don't need to check with Vic to request my presence. If anything comes up, you know where to find me.”

“Okay. Goodnight,” she says, shooting me one more look with those chocolate eyes I want to lose myself in.

Smiling, we leave off there, and I shut the door.

I'm alone, left to wonder what the fuck I've done. The most restless night of my life since my father died on that damned yacht begins.

Flipping through my phone, I look through the numbers of men I served with, and stop just short of dialing them. I haven't talked to most of them since I got discharged, even the ones who were like brothers in arms.

They're good men. They held my life in their hands, like I kept theirs, and that will never, ever change.

But they're commoners. Happily married, some with families, without crowns to worry about.

They can't understand this shit. They can't help me with this, like they could with Taliban sentries. Nobody can.

I'm too fucked up to go to the club. So, I break out a fresh bottle of scotch, settle into my granite bathtub with the waterfalls running out of the wall, and drink.