Paris and the Prince: A BWWM Billionaire Romance (Royal Weddings Book 1) (6 page)

Paris nodded, and Alex reached quickly into a drawer, pulling out a condom, and slipping it on.

Something about his kindness, his willingness to stop if that's what she wanted, drove her even more mad for him. Her movements were electricity, waves of the ocean, and in one quick twirl, her legs wrapped around his waist, Alex was on his back, and Paris was on top of him.

With her hands on his shoulders, and their lips locked in a passionate kiss, Paris took the length of Alex's hard cock inside of her. It wasn't the first time she'd felt a man inside of her, but it was the first time it had ever felt so perfect. Every pulse of him, every throb of his exquisite manhood in her pussy, brought on another rush of euphoria.

As Paris rode atop Alex, every inhibition, every bit of self-consciousness she ever felt, dropped away. Alex looked up at her with eyes full of adoration, hands that couldn't get enough of just touching her, and Paris suddenly felt like the goddess Alex saw her to be. With her hands in her hair, she slid on and off him, feeling her own orgasm coming on her like summer storm.

He put his hands on her waist and cried out. “Paris… I'm about to—”

And with one epic thrust, they both exploded with delicious rapture. The sound of Alex's warm voice calling out her name made Paris' orgasm that much more intense, paired with the sensation of him filling her up inside, and in moments her whole body was wracked with shivers. She collapsed on Alex, the sweat of their sex soaking both of them head to toe.

As Paris gasped for air, her head resting on Alex's sinewy chest, he wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her as tight as he was able. He whispered in her ear, “I'm not letting you go.”

W
ith the lights
of the city bathing their bodies with a soothing glow, still wrapped in each other's loving embrace, Alex and Paris drifted into an exhausted sleep.

Neither of them heard Alex's phone buzzing insistently from the pocket of his pants in the corner of the room. The screen lit up:

Whitney – 17 missed calls

The In-Laws – 10 missed calls

Mom – 1 missed call

W
hitney couldn't explain
why she was suddenly so pissed. But when the bartender refused to be roused from his drunken stupor, she found herself stewing over the fact that Alexander was planning to blow her off for the rest of their trip.

This wasn’t the first time, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last, and usually she didn’t care. They would lead separate lives, which suited her perfectly, but she also didn’t appreciate being ignored. The more he ignored her, the angrier she became.

They'd specifically come to this god-forsaken city for a few photo opportunities and to show off for the paparazzi, and yeah, he had some stupid political stuff to do, but now he wasn't going to see her at all? For five days? That was unacceptable.

She'd already put in several late night, drunken phone calls to her parents, who were also apparently hammered at some sort of cocktail party. After considerable pouting and empty threats of suicide (her trademark), her daddy had agreed to call Alexander's parents and make him, at the very least, show up at her fashion show the next day.

Once she'd cleared the mini-bar of all its liquor, and put a call in for more, she was starting to feel a little better.

Then, the bartender started to stir.

That was more like it.

I
t was 4am in Dalvana
. The private line in King Alexander and Queen Catriona’s bedroom was ringing off the hook. Alexander cursed at the ceiling and finally rolled over to pick it up. He hadn't even said “hello” when a drunken Leonard began screaming at him over the background noise of a party. Catriona rolled over, her sleep mask still obscuring her view of the room, but her ears still perfectly capable of hearing every word being shouted over the receiver.

Alexander lay back down and set the receiver on his stomach, letting Leonard yell into thin air. Cat pulled off her mask, sighed, and rolled over to her husband. “So what did our son do now?”

T
he soft morning
sun filled the bedroom with light, gently rousing Paris from a dreamless sleep. She stretched her arms out wide into the empty space around her, a deep yawn escaping her plump lips. As she reached out beside her, she realized all at once that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. A dingy little room hardly bigger than a broom closet at the hotel in the shady district of the city she had been staying at, this most definitely was
not.

She blinked several times, trying to get her bearings. The events of the previous day came flooding back to her.

“Well, Paris, I don’t think you’re in Kansas anymore…” she murmured to herself, her words echoing in the large bedchamber.

She also realized in that moment that Alex wasn't in the bed anymore. Paris sat up pin straight, searching the room through sleepy eyes, but finding no one. She felt a pang of nervousness in her stomach, briefly afraid that Alex had disappeared and left her here in this strange, although gorgeous, hotel room.

Paris was just about to pull the sheet from the bed to cover herself up, when she noticed a thick robe lying on a chair in the corner of the room, with a calla lily placed gently on top of it. She smiled to herself as she crawled out of the bed and padded across the soft, plush carpet to the armchair, and as she slipped the robe onto her naked curves, she sighed at the feel of the downy fabric against her smooth skin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—her hair wild in that ‘I just had sex’ sort of way—and she gave herself a wry smile.

Paris opened the bedroom doors that led into the living area of the penthouse, and she was almost blinded by the sunlight pouring in from the balcony windows. The room was filled with the smell of fresh pastries and blooming flowers, and Paris felt her senses becoming overwhelmed in the best possible way once more. At first, she couldn't see Alex anywhere, and that initial feeling of panic returned, the fear that he had left. But then, all at once, he was there, larger than life, filling up every space in her mind. She shivered with delight as she remembered the way he had filled her body as well.

Alex was standing on the balcony, leaning on the stone wall, his long legs clad in striped pajama pants, and his large bare feet crossed over each other. He was shirtless, his muscular torso and back elongated as he stretched out to take in the vista of Paris in the morning. His thick auburn hair was still messy from sleep, but somehow it looked even more perfect that way.

Paris felt her breath catch in her throat, suddenly overcome with the desire to touch him, the same desire she felt next to him on the couch last night. She didn't know how long she'd been staring at him, but when she finally looked up from his perfect back, she realized his head was turned, and he staring back her, smiling.

“You're awake, beautiful! I ordered up some croissants and coffee and juice. And they sent some fruit too. I hope you're hungry.”

Alex's face was beaming, and Paris was drawn to him. She walked out to the balcony and stood next to him, her whole body alight at just the closeness of their skin. Alex inched over closer to Paris, so their arms were touching, and kissed her softly on the cheek.

“How did you sleep? Well, I hope.”

Paris let out a long, contented sigh. “Better than I have in ages. That bed was amazing. And you wore me out, I don't mind saying.”

Alex laughed, warm and loud, and gathered Paris into his arms. He kissed her slow and deep, letting his tongue explore her mouth, and Paris let herself melt into him. They were both so lost in the moment, neither of them noticed the flash of a camera from the street below.

They definitely didn't see the self-satisfied smirk of a paparazzo as he mentally calculated how much he could charge for a few pictures of the Crown Prince of Dalvana cheating on his fiancée.

A
fter a long
, leisurely breakfast, Paris found herself wondering if this was going to be the end of her time with Alex, if perhaps, despite all of the romance, maybe this truly was going to be a one-night-stand. As she stared absentmindedly out the penthouse windows, Alex seemed to be reading her mind.

“I know you said you had a few days before your classes started. I'd like to spend the day with you, if you don't have any other plans. Perhaps do some more sight-seeing?”

Paris felt her stomach flip-flop. She knew so little about this beautiful man in front of her, and yet she couldn't bear the thought of being away from him. Now, as she contemplated spending another day with him, seeing Paris through his eyes and learning everything he knew, she was elated.

“Yes, I'd love to spend the day with you. What did you have in mind?”

Alex felt his stomach flip-flop. He suddenly remembered Whitney's fashion show, and the fact that the epicenter of Paris would be taken over by the fashion industry. They couldn't go anywhere where they might be seen by Whitney, her parents, or most dangerous of all, the press.
Where is the one place no one in Whitney's crowd will be today?
Alex thought.

“Why don't we spend the day at the Jardin des Plantes? It's the largest botanical garden in Paris, on the Left Bank. It's such a beautiful day; it would be a shame to spend it cooped up inside anywhere.”

Paris imagined wandering among the exotic flowers, hand-in-hand with Alex. It sounded like the perfect day. “That sounds like a great idea.”

Paris knew she wasn't hiding the massive smile that was slowly creeping across her face, but she didn't care.

B
ecause Paris
still wasn't positive where her hotel was, and all she had were the clothes she'd been wearing when she arrived in Paris, Alex had sent off for a collection of outfits for her to choose from.

This has to be a dream, doesn’t it?
It was a question she had asked herself a million times since yesterday.
On what planet could something like this be real?
And yet, every time she literally pinched herself—hard—it hurt like hell.

When she began opening the boxes with the names of designers she only recognized from hearing them in the mouths of famous actors and music stars on TV, she couldn't believe how beautiful they were: flowing skirts, soft t-shirts, a pre-washed denim jacket, cotton bras and cute underwear, all in her size.

Something told her that though these were “simple” items, they were outrageously expensive. The seams were hand-stitched, and the fabric was a deceptively light weight for the high thread count. Every bit of embroidery and lace had the slight variations and imperfections that told her these were custom—not machine—made.

A part of her wanted to object. These items were much too precious for her to wear. But the girly part of her wanted to try on everything. She knew Alex was already dressed and waiting for her, though, so she slipped on a long pink gauzy skirt, a snug white t-shirt that emphasized her generous curves, and the denim jacket, then slid on her converse sneakers. Even without her makeup, Paris felt lovely and ready to explore Paris at Alex's side.

When Paris walked out of the bedroom, her breath caught in her chest at the sight of Alex, sitting at the bar and sipping an espresso. His sparkling eyes were framed in black-rimmed glasses that perfectly highlighted his chiseled cheeks. A navy blue sweater fit snugly over top of a crisp white button-down, all of which accented his muscular physique.

Alex's outfit was finished off with a pair of skinny faded jeans and a pair of Converse that matched Paris', and he looked every bit the handsome man of Paris' dreams. Paris couldn't stop herself from rushing up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and kissing him with all of her being.

When she finally let him free of her embrace, Alex was grinning like a fool. “What was that for, beautiful?”

Paris shook her head, looking down, and then gave him one more quick kiss before taking his hand in her own and pulling him toward the door like a child on Christmas morning, desperate to see what presents Santa had left for them the night before.

“Just because! Come on... we've got a botanical garden to explore!”

T
he strobe lights
inside the immense hall made it impossible to actually see any of the clothes that were being modeled by the bored women as they sauntered down the makeshift runway. The DJ crammed in the dusky corner had the music thumping so loudly that no one in the sparse audience could hear Whitney in the back, screaming at her manager.

“What IS this bullshit, Nigel? My line was supposed to debut at a Fashion Week venue! Not at some crappy nightclub five miles from anything! This is ridiculous! No one is even here! How could you possibly be so incompetent?”

As if on cue, the runway collapsed out from underneath two of the models, sending them flying to the floor, and filling the club with dust and debris. Even over the music, you could hear the sound of one of Whitney's creations tearing off its model, ruining about $2000 worth of mulberry silk. And if you really focused, faintly in the distance, you could hear the sharp smack of Whitney's hand as she slapped her manager across the face.

P
aris couldn't stop giggling
as the lavender-scented wind whipped through her hair, her hands free from the handlebars as she flew down the bicycle path in the Jardin des Plantes. From behind her, she could hear Alex calling out, “Slow down, maniac! You're going to end up in a rose bush rushing around like that!”

Alex finally caught up to Paris, falling into her rhythm, reaching up to adjust his low hat that had been thrown off-kilter by the breeze. They had been riding bikes through the botanical gardens all morning, stopping from time to time to marvel over a beautiful statue, or take in the lovely scent of a freshly-blooming group of wildflowers. When they finally reached the small zoo on the far side of the garden, and began to lock up their bikes, Paris excused herself to go to the restroom.

“Alex, can you wait one second? I’ll be right back.”

Paris walked away, and as he watched her retreating figure, a deep panic began to creep from the middle of Alex's stomach and spread through his chest, before settling square in the middle of his forehead.

He began feeling all of his pockets: front, back, even the pocket of the button-down under his sweater.
His phone.
He'd left his phone in his pants from last night. If his parents, or worse, Whitney, tried to call him, they'd end up wearing down the battery pretty quickly when he didn't answer. There was going to be an all-out war when he finally got back to his phone later.

As Paris walked back over to him, Alex tried to paste a smile on his face, and hide his mounting fear over what kind of trouble he was going to be in with his family. He gathered up Paris in his arms and kissed her on the head, as she took in a deep breath of him. He smelled like the gardens, and the soft wool of his sweater.

She clung to his collar, wrapping her arms around his neck. To the other patrons of the botanical garden, Paris and Alex just looked like any other happy couple, lost in love for one another in the most romantic city in the world.

But to the paparazzo snapping pictures of Paris and Alex, the same one who had followed them all the way from the hotel, chasing them on foot despite his sweaty and rotund shape, all he saw was a payday. And with this latest batch of pictures, he could officially cash in on “the cheating Prince of Dalvana.”

Yup... it was going to be a good day.