by Nicole Snow
God, yes. He grabs the back of my neck and holds me, domineering as ever, gazing into my eyes.
It's so hard not to get lost in each other. But right now I need to get lost in his flesh, and I lean in for a kiss, probing his tongue with mine in long, carnal strokes that leave no doubt about what I want.
“Then shake your pretty ass. I'm not sleeping 'til I find out how my new wife fucks in every damned position.”
“No way! You didn't!” I'm in his arms, running my hands over his rough, handsome face as he carries me in. I do a double take and start laughing when I see the bed.
It's even more ridiculous than the one in his old room. It's like a Victorian thing on steroids with posts reaching almost to the ceiling, and a burgundy canopy threatening to envelope us for days, leaving us stranded together.
“I specifically requested it. Didn't get a chance to do half the shit I wanted to with that old bed, and this thing gives me all kinds of ways to hold you down 'til you're pregnant.”
Pregnant. Just the word makes me grab him and kiss him, hungry and hard as I can.
Okay, yeah, it's a little early in my new career for a baby, but writing is always family friendly. He's talked about having a big family for months, and my panties burn a little more each time I think about our future.
I'm ready. I'm willing. And I'm going to give him the greatest gift of all.
“Get this damned thing off before I shred it,” he growls, pushing me onto the bed. We climb in together as he shoves the curtain shut.
I pick at my dress, trying to unwrap it, while he effortlessly drops out of his fancy uniform. There's no brakes once he's naked.
“Too slow. Now, you're losing those panties first, then everything except the heels.” I laugh and try to slap him away, but he's too determined.
He reaches up beneath my skirt and rips them down, spreading my legs. He doesn't bother getting my dress off before he shoves his face between my legs.
My fingernails reach for the smooth sheets and grab fistfuls. I pull them hard, tense, all I can do not to lose my mind as I'm sweating rivulets in my wedding dress, staining it with wild lust for this crazy, beautiful man.
Chris growls as he licks through my folds, tonguing my pussy before driving up to my clit. He draws it deep, holds it when I start to buck my hips, panting and calling his name.
Chris, Chris, Chris! His name becomes a curse and a prayer before I'm too blitzed for words at all.
His fingers stroke my pussy while he laps my bud with insistent, fiery licks, sending me crashing into ecstasy. The white of my wedding gown engulfs everything as I see stars, coming on his face for the first time as a married woman.
I glide down from the high, but it fades less than ever. He pulls me up and lifts me out of the dress, surprisingly gently, using his SEAL precision.
“Hands on the post, babe. Don't move 'em 'til I say so.” He takes my hands and wraps them around the big corner post, spreading my thighs. “I'll hose you off in the morning with the champagne chilling in that bucket, whenever we're too exhausted to fuck again.”
Oh, God. With the edge in his voice, it sounds like it's going to be days, and my pussy pulses. He doesn't even need a belt or a rope this time – his words are enough to keep me bound where he wants me.
I'm still marveling at it when I feel his hands on my ass. He pushes into me with a firm, powerful thrust, grunting when he his cock drives deep into my unprotected depths.
My sex drive is off the charts since we went natural. I don't know if I've been off the stuff long enough to truly get pregnant, but I'm certainly going to try.
And with the way he's fucking me, so is he. He plows into me, stretching me open, shaking my entire body with a passion that's ten times more intense than every other time he's been inside me.
I'm thrown onto the precipice in a matter of minutes. He's drilling me, fucking me, owning me like the ring on my finger gives him permission to ravage me on demand, any way he wants.
Of course, it does, and I love it.
I'm screaming from the tension building between my legs when I start to come. Everything below my waist turns into a hot, twisted, sticky mess. My body explodes an instant, gushing on the sheets.
“Fucking shit, is finding out you're a squirter part of tonight too?” he growls, grabbing at my hair. “Doesn't matter, babe. Here it comes. I love you so goddamned much.”
It's the last thing he can say before his sounds become one long, drawn out growl. I feel his cock stab into me and stop, rooted, swelling in my pulsing silk. He's come inside me dozens of times before, but never like this.
When I feel his ropes shoot into me, it's somehow hotter, wilder, rich and mysterious with the stuff of life. My pussy convulses all over again, taking everything he has to offer, fusing with him until we're throbbing and groaning as one.
I'm his furnace that moment, and he's the fuel.
He's given me his energy, his life, and he's turned me into something marvelous. Now I'm going to take his love, his seed, and give him our entire future.
When the firestorm finally releases us, we lay tangled together, his huge inked body cocooning me. His cock feels good against my ass half-hard. I know it won't be long before he's ready again, and this is a perfect place to lift my leg and start while his hand covers my breast, flicking my nipple as we kiss.
“You're the hottest woman on the planet when you're wrapped around my cock,” he says, stamping his lips over my neck. “The new recruits are fucked. I'd tell 'em to find a good woman to push them through the bullshit overseas, but I've got myself the best. Nobody compares to you, sis.”
I turn my head, smiling into his bright green eyes. He hasn't called me that for awhile. It shouldn't be this exciting – especially when it's not even true anymore.
“We're not stepsiblings anymore, Chris. You shouldn't keep pretending.”
“Yeah, thank fuck. Pretending? Babe, I don't give a shit who or what the fuck you are. You're my woman, my bride, my property, my cement in this perfect family we're about to make. Is it so wrong I love you like a sister, a soul mate, and a whore all in one?”
His filthy words should shock me, but instead I just smile. The passion rolling out of his mouth still scares me sometimes in the best ways.
He's crazy, he's wonderful, and he's a badass. He's everything I'll ever want and all I'll ever need.
When I'm finally ready to answer him, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the length hardening against me, pulsing with new need that won't be satisfied until I'm his vessel again.
“I don't think anything with you will ever be wrong,” I say, gently stroking up and down, waiting for him to push my hand away and spread my legs. “I love you so much, husband. SEAL. Stepbrother.”
He grins, tangling his fingers through my hair, and pushing me onto my back. I watch as he moves between my legs, holding his cock at my entrance, full and teasing.
“Good. Let's use some of that love to find out who we'll be when we're complete.” He lowers his face to my ear, nipping at my earlobe before he speaks more. “Don't think I'll ever stop fucking you through the nursery rhymes and family holidays. I'll never get enough of your body, your taste, or the way you make my heart boom like a damned rocket.”
I run my hands over the angry dragon that's been re-inked since his scars healed, and the trident that reminds me every day I'm safe forever with this man.
He's right. I can feel his heartbeat. I let my palms linger there, pushing into his hard muscle as he sinks inside me, claiming me again.
We're both getting better with words, but there's still so much only our bodies can say. And right now, his talks loud and clear, telling me he'll love me forever.
Chris isn't just my stepbrother or a cocky SEAL I've fallen madly in love with. He's everything that makes me smile, want, and love.
He's my entire life. Unsealed, a little unhinged, and glorious.
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Kisses,
Nicole Snow
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SEXY SAMPLES: PRINCE WITH BENEFITS
I: Tripped Up (Erin)
“Look, I know American reporters, and their little interns. I've worked with plenty. You think you can get away with anything as soon as the cameras roll, but let me remind you again. We have rules. No flash, no interruptions, and absolutely no unauthorized social media. His Highness keeps a very strict media presence, and it's my privilege to enforce it.”
How I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at this pompous, self-absorbed bitch, I'll never know.
Serena Hastings flips her long blonde hair back, giving me the stink eye one last time, before she moves through the gaggle of media and finally takes her seat.
Eyeballing the stage, I'm wondering if I made a huge mistake taking my summer off campus to come to Saint Moore.
It's my father's crowning career achievement, though. An interview with Prince Silas Erik Bearington the Third.
It isn't hard to understand dad's excitement. It's taken his whole life to get here, and I'm just along for the ride. A very hellish, testing-my-patience-every-damned-day kind of ride.
From the brutal jet lag flying from LA across the Atlantic, to the correspondence dinners where I have to be on my best behavior to avoid embarrassing him, to the constant entourage around the palace who think they're sent by God...sweet Jesus.
Now, I'm sitting here in these stupid heels that are way too tight, wishing for a miracle. What comes next dwarfs everything.
Don't worry, dad said. He told me he'd show me how it's done. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, didn't I?
When the lighting adjusts and a hot, narrow beam shines on my face, pulling sweat from my pores, I really have to wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
Of course, dad isn't even sweating before his interview with Prince Playboy himself begins. Yes, that Prince.
The twenty-something, six foot and then some giant who's scandalized several continents. The Prince who's brought the tabloids and dirty blogs more gossip than a hundred celebrity wardrobe malfunctions.
He, who my friends used to swoon over during late night truth-or-dare sessions in our freshmen year dorm, putting him at the top of most eligible celeb bachelors they'd love to have between the sheets. A man I've never been able to stand, much less crush on. A living argument against any country having kings and Queens in modern times, when all they're likely to get out of it are media scoundrels.
Prince Charming, Prince Skirt Chaser, Prince Hung, and a thousand other names.
The Prince, the bastard, the legend.
Silas.
“One minute, Mister Warwick!” the camera man shouts to my father as he climbs up onto the stage, taking one of the two empty chairs beneath the halo.
The other, with the gold and burgundy back, is reserved for the devil himself. I wonder if he's going to walk into this interview late, and throw my dad one more complication.
That would be just like him, wouldn't it? It's not like he takes this Prince thing seriously. It's just the world's biggest license to be a dick, to drink and fuck himself stupid every chance he gets. That's what the blogs have told me, anyway.
None of it fazes dad, ever the professional. He sits up there in his finest suit, his silver hair slicked back, the same prim smile on his lips that I've seen him use in a hundred interviews growing up.
Game time. It's the look that makes me wonder if I'm really cut out to follow in his footsteps. He's wearing the calm, measured, controlled mask I've tried to don before, and failed every time.
I don't have to wonder long because there's new commotion surging through the room. The door off to the side opens, and in walks four strong men in designer suits, the Bearington family crest pinned to their lapels in royal purple and gold. It's a double-headed eagle holding a crown.
A taller, younger, stronger man steps out between them. They part like water, making way for His Highness.
My heart skips a beat. It's him. For real.
Prince Silas, arriving in all his smug, unwavering, damnably sexy glory.
Okay, so maybe the SOB really is what they say in the looks department. If I had any doubt, it's blown to pieces, now that he's quickly stepping toward the stage, taking the five stairs up in two big strides.
My father stands respectfully, extending a hand. The Prince takes it, towering over him by nearly a whole foot, and dad isn't a short guy.
“Charmed, Mister Warwick.” The Prince has that foreign, not-quite-English accent everybody in the kingdom does, except his is somehow thicker, more refined.
“It's my honor, Your Highness. I've been looking forward to this for a long time,” dad says, nodding.
“Twenty seconds!” Another cameraman roars out, flinching for a second in the hopes that his interruption hasn't upset the Prince.
Based on what I've read, I don't think that's even possible. Nothing upsets him. He basks in every scandal and fresh jab the media takes at him like they're triumphs.
They both take their seats across from each other. I can't believe they look so casual, like it's the most natural thing in the world, when there's so much on the line.
If dad pulls this off, he's going to be seen by billions over the next week. Serena, bitch that she is, has reminded us since day one that the Royal Press Corps is looking for a new American correspondent. And with rumors swirling about how much longer Queen Marina will continue to rule before passing the crown to her grandson, my father could be front and center at the Bearington's wild court for a very long time to come.
As for the Prince, it's his time to shine with something besides his dick. It's no secret the world's been holding its breath, waiting for him to shape up, and act like a statesman for one of the wealthiest countries in the world. A future King.
Saint Moore is virtually the last monarchy in Europe where the ruler is more than just a figurehead. For fifty years, Queen Marina has rallied her country to good causes and swayed more than a few votes in their parliament, even if she's been very respectful of democracy.
As for Prince Hung – who knows? He's taken his pleasure demonstrating all the things he'll do with modern day concubines throwing t
hemselves at him. Not politics.
“Five...four...three...two...one...”
Cameras roll. Dad looks into the closest one confidently, and begins to speak.
“Welcome to this special edition of the Warwick Report, ladies and gentleman. Today, I'm coming to you from the Kingdom of Saint Moore, where I'm sitting down with a man who needs no introduction.” He pauses, three seconds, just long enough to let everybody tuning in remember the insanity that surrounds everything Silas. “Prince Silas Erik Bearington, heir to the island's throne, one of the most powerful, scandalized, and adventurous men in the world.”
“Tom, you flatter me too much,” Silas says, that wicked smirk above his chiseled jaw pointing up like pitchfork ends. “Let's get it on, shall we?”
“Absolutely, Your Highness,” dad says. If he's rattled at all by the Prince's need to control the conversation, he doesn't show it. “You're recently back in the kingdom after completing your duty in the Royal Marines, serving in Afghanistan. Tell me, sir, how has that experience changed you? I think everyone was surprised to hear about a Bearington Prince flying into an active combat zone. Thankfully, on our side, this time.”
The Prince smiles. Smug as ever, but a little darkly.
“Yes, we always did like to play both sides, up until the Second World War. It's been good for me, Tom. Reminds me why I'm really here, next in line to the crown, how fortunate I am to be born into this royal lineage. There's pride in serving a man's kingdom, and beyond. I'd never imagined Afghanistan until I stepped foot there. Some truly awful circumstances, just beyond our borders. Life and death. War. Poverty. Terrorism. A lot more exciting than who's wearing last year's style at the next big charity ball, I'm sure you can imagine. Also, a much bigger challenge for me, and I love those.”
