Lucky Prince_A Fake Fiance, Real Royal Wedding Romance

by Eva Luxe

  Lucky Prince:

  A Fake Fiancé, Real Royal Wedding Romance

  Copyright © 2017 and 2018 by Eva luxe and Juliana Conners

  Published by Sizzling Hot Reads; All Rights Reserved.

  ***

  This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to real places, people or events are entirely coincidental. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format except for short quotes for review purposes, without the express written consent of the author

  Dedication

  As always, to my Prince Charming. – JC

  To girls who wished on stars and the women they grew up to be. -EL

  ***

  A Note from the Authors

  This book was originally published as Perfect Fit by Juliana Conners. Eva has brushed it up, edited and expanded it, with a new and improved royal wedding scene and other additions.

  Sign up to our mailing lists and receive an exclusive extended epilogue featuring these characters AND a free book!

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Ella

  Chapter 2

  Ella

  Chapter 3

  Ella

  Chapter 4

  Gregory

  Chapter 5

  Gregory

  Chapter 6

  Ella

  Chapter 7

  Ella

  Chapter 8

  Ella

  Chapter 9

  Gregory

  Chapter 10

  Gregory

  Chapter 11

  Ella

  Chapter 12

  Gregory

  Chapter 13

  Ella

  Chapter 14

  Gregory

  Chapter 15

  Ella

  Chapter 16

  Ella

  Chapter 17

  Gregory

  Chapter 18

  Ella

  Chapter 19

  Ella

  Chapter 20

  Ella

  Chapter 21

  Gregory

  Epilogue

  Ella

  Exclusive, New Bonus Book: Secluded Billionaire

  Out of Bounds: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

  Brother’s Best Friend is Back

  Yes, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance

  Please, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance

  Don’t Walk Away: A Second Chance Fake Fiancé Romance

  Chapter 1

  Ella

  Swish, swish, swish.

  Slip, slop, slap.

  Sluuuuurp.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  These are the sounds I hear as I approach my bedroom.

  Sex sounds.

  These are definitely, and disgustingly, the sounds of sex.

  It’s like something straight out of a Showtime TV show or an Eva Luxe romance book. Except, unlike in both of those delicious forms of entertainment, I’m not the one enjoying the action that is causing these sounds.

  Even though they’re coming from my bedroom.

  In Showtime shows, it’s likely that the guy causing the ruckus is an asshole, but we’re somehow supposed to root for him anyway. But those shows, and damn romance novels are like fairy tales.

  Setting up girls to believe that a former bad boy turned into our own personal Prince Charming will come rescue our asses— before spanking them until we’re writhing around on his lap begging him to make us come because our pussies are so dripping wet from how he’s exerting his dominance over us.

  But real life is a lot more disappointing than that. At least, mine has definitely been so far. So, it doesn’t surprise me that someone is using my bedroom for a hot sex session that doesn’t include me.

  My life has never been a fucking fairy tale.

  That’s probably why I’ve always hated them.

  As I get closer to my bedroom door, muffled voices mix in with the sounds that have already been drifting out since I was further away.

  “Oh yeah! Give it to me. Yeah, ooooooh.”

  Well, that sounds like one of my step sisters— Sheila, to be exact— which also isn’t surprising. She’s been known to fuck anything with half a brain or half a boner.

  I’m not even sure if her standards are that high; that’s probably giving her too much credit. She’d fuck any guy that shows the least bit of interest in her, although she’d prefer him to be filthy rich and as boringly handsome as a plastic Ken doll.

  The question is, though: why is she doing this in my room? The one part of this whole wretched house that is supposed to be mine and mine alone? She has her own bedroom she should be in.

  After she moved in, she painted the walls of her room pink and decorated with a lot of silver glitter. Apparently, she still has some princess obsession that she’s had since she was a tiny spoiled brat— now she’s just an older spoiled brat. Her bedroom, predictably, is much larger and nicer than mine, even though this was my house first.

  But who knows what Sheila’s up to? I shouldn’t even ask such questions to myself because I know there’s no answer that would make sense to most people.

  Sheila and my other step sister Gloria are always trying to find ways to make me miserable, because, other than banging random Ken dolls or spending all the money from my dad’s estate on overpriced clothes, they have nothing better to do.

  I don’t know exactly what Sheila is doing. But I’m sure it’s some kind of ridiculous ploy to rub the fact that I’m a virgin in my face.

  Chapter 2

  Ella

  Yeah, it’s ridiculous.

  I’m nineteen years old and still a virgin and still living with my mean step mom and two step sisters. It sounds pathetic, but I have my reasons.

  When it comes to my living situation, it’s complicated, and too painful to think about as I’m listening to sex noises coming from my bedroom. But when it comes to my virginity, well— I just want to make sure that the timing is right.

  Losing my virginity feels like the one area of my life I can control, and I’m determined to make it feel magical and perfect. I guess maybe I really do still believe in fairy tales, at least a little, even though I’ve always despised them for being unrealistic.

  I have a boyfriend named Paul and we’ve made out but we haven’t gone all the way. He’s wanted to, of course, but I just want to wait a little longer before we do it. Something just feels a little “off,” and therefore, doesn’t fit into my definition of the “absolutely perfect” circumstances that I want to exist before I do the Big Deed for my very first time.

  Paul’s told me he understands and that he’ll wait. I have a feeling, though, that he’s starting to become a tad bit impatient. Or maybe he’s just altogether tired of waiting. He sure hasn’t been around as much lately as he used to be.

  That’s why I’m at home now— which is a place I usually avoid. I can’t go hang out with Paul because I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t exactly been anxious to see me, like he used to be, back when we first started dating.

  That’s fine with me though. I could use a break from him anyway, because it’s annoying that he’s pressuring me for sex when he knows it doesn’t feel right to me yet.

  But anyway. Back to the very pressing— and loud— matter at hand.

  I’m sure it’s just Sheila and some random guy in my bedroom, and that she’s trying to rub certain facts in my face while she rubs her pussy around on said random guy’s cock and picks up an STD or two.

  She’s probably looking forward to showing me with my very own eyes that although I�
��ve never had sex before, she has sex all the time and is actually having sex on my bed— or probably on my floor or my dresser or something, knowing her.

  She’s undoubtedly doing it just to show me that she’s better than me, or at least she thinks she is. And that everything here is really hers, rather than mine. She wants me to know that just like her mom took my dad, she can take my formerly relatively happy life, and even take my spot when it comes to where I would naturally be having sex, if I were in fact having it.

  I shouldn’t go in. I shouldn’t give Sheila the satisfaction of knowing I see her doing the thing that she clearly wants me to see her doing.

  But by not giving her her way, I’d also be losing, since all I want to do is grab my Kindle that has the romance book I’m currently reading bookmarked at a really good spot and head to the bathroom for a bubble bath and some me time.

  Hey, I said I’d never had sex before— not that I’m some perfect angel. I certainly imagine all the perfect, outstanding, magical sex I’m going to have, when I have it. I just don’t act on those urges or fulfill those fantasies in real life.

  Yet. Not until everything’s perfect.

  I put my hand on the doorknob and decide it’s time to take control over my own life. Or at least my own bedroom, for a start. I’ll give Sheila a piece of my mind and tell her she can’t be giving a piece of her ass to every guy in the world right under my nose, or at least not right in my bedroom.

  But as I open the door, prepared to roll my eyes and tell Sheila and Ken Manwhore Doll to get the hell out before I snap pictures of them and post them online— although Sheila would probably like that because she’d think it would make her the next Kim Kardashian or something— I see something I wasn’t expecting. Or make that someone I wasn’t expecting.

  Sheila’s having sex on my bed of course, just as I’d expected. Typical evil Sheila. But I didn’t think her evil ways would extend to the point where it would be this person underneath her, currently gritting his teeth during an apparent near orgasm before he turns his shocked face to look at me.

  I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now. Because my life is more like a predictable train wreck than surprise happy ending. Unless you’re talking about the happy ending that my step sister just gave my boyfriend, which certainly came as a surprise to me.

  Yep. It’s Paul that Sheila is having sex with.

  He’s underneath her, his hands around her ass. Her tits are still swinging, uninterrupted, in his face, as she continues riding him into the ecstasy that I have not yet let him experience with me. And which will never, ever happen now.

  Just like that One Direction reunion tour I used to wait around for someone to announce. They’d been my favorites since early high school but since January 2016 they’ve claimed to be still together but on a “hiatus.” At some point, I realized I was waiting in vain for them to do another concert. Or maybe, I just grew up.

  Life is full of disappointments, and on a bright note, at least I don’t have to wait around to see how this one turns out. I know right here and now what the future holds when it comes to Paul and me: a big fat nothing. And at least I didn’t let him pop my cherry before he let my step sister motorboat him.

  Unfortunately, these small comforts barely make a dent in the huge range of emotions I’m feeling right now. Just what a girl has always wanted to do— walk in on her boyfriend and one of her three least favorite people in the world, getting it on like there’s no tomorrow.

  I’m beginning to wish there really was no tomorrow, no today, no right this minute— so that I wouldn’t have to face this. But here I am, face to face it with none the less, all because I was drawn towards curiosity and my love of books and bubble baths to check out the noises coming from my bedroom.

  They say curiosity killed the cat. But unlike some Disney Princess, I don’t have a friggin’ cat. I have me, myself, and I— and definitely not my boyfriend any more— and that’s exactly who is going to have to handle this, one way or another.

  Chapter 3

  Ella

  Speaking with having to deal with this, I wish I had time to think of a better way to do it. But in the heat of the moment, what I actually do is the first thing that comes to mind, which is to yell out Paul’s name, in case somehow it really isn’t him. Maybe it’s his doppleganger or something. Maybe Sheila found out he had a secret twin and brought him here to prank me instead of further ruin my life.

  Yeah, right. When pigs fly.

  “Paul?” I exclaim, loudly, vehemently, at the same time he says, “Ella?” in a confused near-whisper, the pussy.

  The only good part about me catching them in the act— which was exactly what Sheila had intended, of course— happens right here: when it becomes clear that he’s caught off guard just as much as I am. Sheila was playing us both. That’s why she was flashing me a wicked grin as she continued fucking him when I first walked in.

  But the best part of this comedic tragedy is that he starts buttoning his jeans, mid orgasm, which I do hope I interrupted, and says, “Oh shit, I got some on my Armanis!”

  That’s when I know for sure how much of a douche my boyfriend— make that ex-boyfriend— is. Not just because he just fucked my step sister, and not just because it happened in my bedroom.

  It’s not even because he didn’t wear a condom, since I figure he’ll be justly rewarded in a week or two when he breaks out into a rash and who knows what other symptoms he might have caught from whatever my step sister is bound to have. But he’s the world’s biggest douche because he cares more about his Armani jeans than he cares about any of the stuff listed above.

  These revelations mix with my continued surprise of finding him here. Humor has always been my immediate defense but of course I’m also upset underneath the comedy I use to mask the tragedy. And mostly, I’m still in shock, I suppose.

  It’s like one part of my brain is surprised, while the other really isn’t. I knew there was some reason I was holding back from going all the way with him, and now I’m just so glad I didn’t. I’m so ecstatic that I saw his true colors before it was too late, and that bridge was crossed— or, uh, broken and unable to be repaired— that part of me wants to thank Sheila, even though the other part wants to hit both of them, while simultaneously breaking out into a big crying, blubbering mess.

  “What are you doing here?” Paul and I both ask each other at the same time.

  Only Sheila is smiling, because she knows exactly what we’re both doing here. Her smug, sinister grin has morphed into lips upturned with glee.

  Her curly blonde locks— always perfectly styled— sashay from side to side as she taunts me, and her perfect dimples dot her face as if to say, “See? I told you so. I can take— and I have taken— everything you’ve ever had. Even this.”

  A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser is enough to remind me— if I didn’t already know— that I’ll never be as perfect as she is. My musty colored brown hair sticks up with humidity-induced static like it always does. My shirt has some mustard smeared on it because I was trying to write down some ideas to improve my dad’s business over lunch, which morphed into writing down story ideas, which it always does— all at the same time as I was eating.

  Compared to my svelte step sister, I look like a whale. I’ve always hated my big hips, except when it comes to my amazing ability to balance books on them when walking from one place to another. I cradle them like babies in my arms, since they let me escape to far-off places in my mind, where my miserable real life can’t intrude.

  To top it all off, everything about me is imperfect, imbalanced. One of my eyebrows sits up a little higher than the other. One of my arms has a birth mark while the other does not. Even one of my feet is bigger than the other— and that’s probably the most embarrassing thing about me. You can imagine how awkward it makes shoe shopping.

  I’m so thankful for online orders these days. As a child, I just wanted to shrivel up and die when we were in a shoe store, even thoug
h my mom and dad always told me I was perfect just the way I am. I never believed them though, and I still don’t, although I often try to.

  “Umm, Ella?” Paul asks, snapping me back into the here and now.

  He seems to realize that asking me what I’m doing here, in my own bedroom, is a stupid question. So, he changes it.

  “Why aren’t you at the shelter?”

  “It’s Tuesday,” I tell him. “Not Saturday. Why would I be…?”

  Oh.

  I trail off as I realize a couple things myself. The first thing is that my boyfriend of nearly a year doesn’t pay enough attention to me to remember which day of the week I volunteer at a homeless shelter. The second thing is that my obnoxious step sister probably lied to him about where I was, so that she could seduce Paul into this vulnerable state for me to catch them in.

  I wave my hand, as if it doesn’t matter, when everything, in fact, matters very much. I’m not going to give either of them the satisfaction of knowing that it matters, though. That’s exactly the rise Sheila is expecting to get out of me.

  “Well, why are you in my bedroom? Having sex with Sheila?” I ask him.

  He gives me a sheepish grin as he grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head. His cherub-like face seems to say, “no big deal” but he can’t fool me with that act anymore.

  I always knew he wasn’t as perfect as he seemed— doting on me, bringing me a sandwich he’d made, rubbing my feet while I read a book; he had to be hiding something sinister lurking just beneath the surface.