The King's Secret Bride_A Royal Wedding Novella

by Alexis Angel

  Nah, fuck that.

  The second that she walks into the room, it’s all over.

  Ignora Bingsley-Who-The-Fuck-Cares might as well not have even been invited the second I lay eyes on her.

  “May I present my sister,” Prince James, my best friend and heir to the throne of Amore’s greatest ally, says as a fucking goddess in golden silk steps into the ballroom.

  Well. More like stumbles.

  She’s wearing heels so high, they’ve got her ass pushed up to the point where I could balance a glass of wine on it. Her tits are pushed up, too, hugged tight against her chest by the corset of her gown.

  Her hair falls around her sweet, little heart-shaped face in golden waves, and her lips—her gorgeous, perfectly shaped lips—are so soft and so plump that they’re just begging to take a dick between them.

  My cock goes rock hard in an instant.

  “That’s not your sister,” I say in disbelief. “No fucking way.”

  “The Princess Gwen,” James assures me with a chuckle. “In the flesh.”

  The last time I saw Princess Gwen, she was all knees and elbows, trying her damnedest to just be one of the boys.

  But that was years ago. Now, Gwen’s all grown up—and there’s no denying it.

  She’s all woman now.

  “She’s drunk,” I point out—because as soon as I’m done cataloging everything that I need to do to pretty little Gwen before my damned forced engagement becomes official, that’s the next thing that I notice.

  She’s teetering on those heels pretty heavily, even with Princess Aisling at her side, holding her up.

  “You would be, too,” James counters. “Meet her fiancé.”

  The second that I lay eyes on the man, I want to fucking spit.

  Slimy, beady-eyed, and licking his lips like a dog waiting to take a bite out of a big, juicy steak.

  Gwen might have grown up since the last time I saw her, but the Marquis de Roach hasn’t changed one fucking bit.

  “Him? Really, James?” I raise an eyebrow at my friend and shake my head. “I didn’t take your parents for sadists.”

  “Highest bidder, Ed.” James claps me on the shoulder and raises an eyebrow of his own. “Sounds like you know that story well enough, if the things I’ve heard about you and Ignora Bingsley-Doopenhorf are true.”

  “Highest bidder my ass. Why wasn’t I invited to the Princess Gwen auction?”

  “With your reputation?” James scoffs. “There’s a reason my father has held all of the diplomatic meetings between our countries on Amore soil, my friend. Gwen wouldn’t be within twenty feet of you tonight if it wasn’t for him.”

  The way that James looks at de Roach, he doesn’t seem any happier about Gwen’s engagement than I am.

  But while James can plea brotherly love, I know that my own unhappiness surrounding the situation is of a less wholesome sort.

  Dressed like that—looking like that—there’s only one bed the Princess Gwen should be warming: mine.

  “She’s wasted on him,” I growl, lower and fiercer than I mean to.

  “With her wits and talents? I’d tend to agree.” James gives me a judgmental look. “But somehow, I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

  He’s not completely right—I remember Gwen’s cleverness from when we were children. I remember her boldness, her bravery—the way she never backed down from a challenge and never believed in a fight that she couldn’t win.

  For that reason alone, it fucking kills me to see a woman like her end up with a man like him. The Marquis de Roach is notoriously cold—perverted, conniving, temperamental, and even violent, if the rumors are true.

  If Gwen’s with him, then de Roach has Gwen’s family over a barrel somehow—and the fact that she’s drowning her sorrows in alcohol instead of fighting back means that it’s bad enough that she’s given up.

  That’s what breaks my fucking heart.

  The Gwen I knew wouldn’t have ever given up.

  But James isn’t completely wrong, either. It’s not just Gwen’s spirit that I’m admiring right now.

  In fact, I’m admiring everything about her, starting at the crown of her golden head and ending with what I think she might look like beneath those golden skirts.

  Since my father died, I’ve been long past Prince Charming. James is right about another thing—I have a reputation, and not the good kind.

  Running a country takes a lot out of a man, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t buried my sorrows—and my mouth and my cock—in a royal mistress or two in my time.

  But the second I see Gwen like that—flanked by the man who bought her but doesn’t fucking deserve her—smiling through what’s either got to be a whole lot of awkwardness or a whole lot of pain…

  Even Kings can’t help but want to rescue the damsel in distress sometimes.

  And judging by Gwen’s current ability to keep her feet…

  “Ed, don’t,” James warns me—but it’s too late.

  This little princess is about to take a tumble.

  And I’ll be damned if, when she falls, it’s into anything other than my strong, steady arms.

  Gwen

  “Champagne, Madame?”

  “Yes. Hell yes. Thanks!” I say, while letting go my fiancé’s arm and grabbing two crystal flutes filled to the brim with bubbly liquid.

  With one in each hand, I chug them as lady-like as possible. Frankly, I don’t give a damn how classy I look right now; all I know is that I need every ounce of alcohol to get me through this night.

  I’m sure I’ll need more of this, seeing as how I’m engaged to the fucking Marquis de Roach. A man who makes me want to vomit just by looking at him.

  Happily-fucking-ever after to me!

  And the worst part is that he’s not even close to my idea of Prince Charming. Christ, he’s not even a prince! He’s the complete opposite of what I wanted—or dreamt of—and no fairy godmother can convince me otherwise.

  In fact, if I do have a fairy godmother, I’m pretty sure she’s in rehab right now—Cinderella never would have had to deal with this shit.

  Ignoring the Marquis de Roach and the anger that radiates from his stance, I survey the ballroom, looking for more of the delicious nectar. I’m lucky, though; the champagne is doing a great job of easing my gag reflex while I’m with him.

  I leave his side, and he glares daggers at me. But I don’t care.

  I find the nearest waiter and place my flutes down on his empty tray.

  “Where can I get a refill?” I ask, not hiding my eagerness.

  “Just that way.” The polished penguin suit-wearing man points to the other side of the ballroom.

  Ugh. I sigh and roll my eyes, annoyance replacing the temporary relief the champagne gave me.

  “Really? Through all those damn people?” I don’t mean to be rude, but apparently, the bubbly has loosened my body, including my tongue.

  It’s also one of the first times I’ve had alcohol, seeing as I’m new to it, so it’s very potent.

  It’s a shame. I’m just now able to drink and to marry, and I have to marry the vilest Roach in the kingdom. My youth is being wasted, that’s a given.

  I hope that the waiter would at least take some pity on me, given that fact, and fetch the champagne for me.

  I usually don’t act this way. I’ve never been one to complain, and I’m always up for a challenge.

  But after Daddy sold me to the man who offered the most money, regardless of the repercussions I’d have to deal with, then yes, I’m going to be a little pissed. It’s going to take all the champagne in the world to chase down that large, ugly pill that’s now my reality.

  “Sorry, Madame. I suppose so.” The waiter distracts me from my self-wallowing pity party and walks away from me.

  Ugh. What an ass!

  I steady myself on my heels. Maybe wearing five-inch stilettos wasn’t a good idea today.

  But without a passing word to the fiancé, I maneuver thr
ough the crowd of people with my eye on the prize—that liquid gold.

  Christ, it’s like a can of sardines in here. Not only is the stench of excessively perfumed old people enough to choke me, but they packed themselves so tightly I feel like I’ve groped more than enough saggy breasts and dicks to last me a lifetime.

  Looking through the crowd, I’m amazed at how many old people are here to celebrate Edward’s engagement. I thought there’d be at least some people my age—well, our age. But it just goes to show how little time we’ve had to enjoy ourselves outside of this elite bubble.

  At least when we were kids, we were able to play. Those were the days when I could roll around in the mud and tackle boys, before my parents chastised me for not being lady-like.

  It’s like I got my period and then immediately, I had to be primped and prodded. The boys could still play, but I had to be indoors, practicing my Latin or learning how to drink out of a fucking tea cup. I envied them.

  Unfortunately for my parents, the etiquette classes didn’t completely cure me of my unsavory ways. But now, I at least know how to polish my rougher edges when I need to. Like for this event.

  My father and mother would go completely mad if they saw me downing champagne like some lush. So, I guess there’s a positive to having all these people here, distracting them.

  Speaking of distractions, I’ve only seen glimpses of King Edward while making my way through this bejeweled hellhole. I remember him as a cute boy but a scrawny one, someone I loved tackling to the ground while we played all sorts of sports. He was never able to defend himself against me.

  But from what I’ve seen so far, he can dominate me now...easily. His broad shoulders and big arms prove that he’s done more than playing since I’ve seen him. The idea of that body pinning me down sends shivers down my spine and tingles my already wet pussy.

  Damn, he’s impressive. And that’s just his side view that’s riling me up.

  I watch as his handsome and chiseled jaw clenches every time he talks to someone. I laugh at the reaction, relating to that twinge of annoyance when dealing with a wet blanket.

  Too bad he’s getting engaged. Fuck, too bad I’m engaged. I’d really like to reenact some of our memories.

  And if that body is any indication of what the whole package looks like, then I’d be happy to lose a few games...for old time’s sake.

  Rubbing up against the sea of tacky dresses, I come to terms with the fact that this will be my life—champagne, old stuffy people, and a permanent fake smile, all to appease the asshat who is now my fiancé.

  How pathetic! One day, maybe, I’ll be able to find something to relieve myself of this atrocity.

  There it is! It’s so close. The tray of sparkly liquid shimmers in the light, and I swear I hear angels singing as I inch my way closer.

  “Excuse me!” I yell at this random man who steps on my dress and hip-bumps me, pushing me backward.

  I sway on my heels and swat him away. He doesn’t even realize what happened; he just continues talking about whatever the fuck.

  Turning my attention back to the champagne, I take a step forward and reach my hand out to grab a glass.

  Fuck! My heel gets stuck on the hem of my dress, and the next thing I know, I’m face up in the arms of King Edward, looking directly at that jaw.

  His full lips smile down at me, and his gaze lingers over my body, and I find myself pulled into his raw sexual magnetism. A flutter of anticipation steadily grows in my chest, and my pussy throbs in tandem, making me ache for him. It’s all happening so quickly.

  Oh, fuck.

  I’ve never wanted anyone before.

  But god, I want him.

  Now.

  I might’ve just found something better than champagne to help me through tonight, and it’s in the shape of a fucking hot-ass king.

  Edward

  “Princess Gwen,” I say to the luscious, blonde-haired beauty as she falls into my arms. “You’ve grown up.”

  Her emerald eyes sparkle and widen in shock when she notices it’s me.

  “Edward,” she says breathlessly before grabbing onto my forearms, balancing herself on those long-ass legs of hers. “I always thought just one of you would be a lot to handle—now, I’m seeing three.”

  “I think one of me will be more than enough for a woman like you, Princess.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she says, coy.

  Bastard that I am, I feint at dropping her, and she clings to me even harder in sudden fear.

  “Don’t worry, love. I’ve got you,” I assure her, making her fall look like an elegant dance move. “Even if you are a tipsy little tart.”

  “Tart?” She raises an eyebrow quizzically. “I thought the damsel in distress thing was rather sweet.”

  “It is.” I smile, charmingly. “Join me.”

  Of course.

  Her cheeks flush, and I can feel her body temperature rise.

  Fuck. She’s breathtaking. I drink her in as slowly as possible. It’s all I can do not to bend her over right here on the ballroom floor, flip the skirts of her gown up over her waist, and taste her for myself.

  Sweet or tart? I’ll be the judge of that.

  Before she can push me away, I slide my hand around her waist and pull her against me. Luckily, she falls into step and follows my lead.

  “I can’t tell if you’re being especially forward or if I’m just drunk.”

  “From the looks of things, both.”

  “I suppose you do have a reputation to uphold.”

  My smile broadens. She knows exactly the kind of reputation I’ve upheld—all ten hard, thick, throbbing inches of it.

  What can I say? The royal scepter is royally famous.

  “And how are you and your reputation doing these days?” she asks.

  She seems genuinely curious. It’s refreshing, considering I know half of these people don’t give a rat’s ass about what I’m doing or how I’ve been. All they care about is their free food and booze—and the possibility of shagging someone with a title.

  Speaking of…where is Ignorma?

  Ah, who the fuck cares. Just so long as this beauty is in my arms. It won’t be for long—I might as well enjoy this dance while it lasts.

  We glide across the dance floor seamlessly. It’s like we’re floating on air. It’s ridiculous, I know, but when you have a woman this beautiful in your arms, that’s what it fucking feels like.

  Like magic. Like heaven.

  “Things have been good, considering,” I murmur. She cocks her eyebrow in confusion.

  “But I’m much better now that you’re here. How are you, love?” I feel her body tense underneath mine as the pet name falls out of my mouth.

  Funny. I guess we’re not on that level yet.

  When we were younger, Princess Gwen had zero qualms about stripping down to nothing but her underwear around her older brother and me when she wanted to play—tag, rugby, or otherwise. She always knew exactly how to tackle and take me down.

  I wonder if she still can. And in those heels…

  “You look amazing, by the way,” I whisper in her ear, and she instinctively bends her head towards me. I feel goosebumps rise on her exposed skin underneath my hand. “But I’m sure you’re already well aware of that.”

  “Thanks, love.” She teases me, and I love it. “Your little soiree sucks, by the way.”

  My body stills for a moment, amazed by her brazen honesty, and I laugh. I’ve always loved how sassy she was, but damn, it’s fucking sexy now.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Her emerald eyes sparkle in a way that makes my cock throb.

  “I see that you’re occupying yourself with the refreshments, at least. Do they live up to your standards?” I raise an eyebrow and tighten my hands on her waist, my touch burning against her.

  She meets my eyes, and I see a glimmer in her eyes. “You can never go wrong with champagne. Did your fiancée order it?”
r />   I laugh when I hear her say that. Ignorma hasn’t done anything in her whole damn life, let alone make sure there’s champagne on the menu.

  I push her away, swinging her around in a circle. Her mouth widens in the most playful grin, and she giggles. The sound of her laugh, so pure and whole-hearted, has my cock even stiffer—and it’s been hard since the moment I saw her.

  I pull her back to me, and her perky, full breasts squeeze between us. I feel her hard nipples press through our clothes and against my abs.

  “Who taught you how to dance? Mr. Two-left Feet.” She laughs, looking so carefree.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Princess. I’ve changed a bit since the last time you saw me.”

  Her gaze quickly fills with lust, and I’m stuck, my eyes glued to hers.

  “I can see that. Too bad. I’m so used to the scrawny boy who I used to tackle, playing rugby. But I’m sure I can still beat you.” She winks and bites her lips suggestively.

  I smirk. Goddamn, she’s fucking fantastic. These past five minutes, with her in my arms, have been better than any fucking second I’ve spent with…whoever my fiancée is.

  Shit, I’m already forgetting her name.

  “You? Beat me? You might be all grown up, gorgeous, but I doubt that tiny frame of yours could take me down.” I scroll over her body, spinning her around again and taking her into my arms quicker than the last time.

  “Unless you ask nicely. I’d gladly let you tackle me,” I whisper in her ear, brushing my lips against her earlobe.

  She moans slightly—but stops herself. I can feel her body contract against mine when she does, and I grin inside, knowing that I’m affecting her the exact same way she’s affecting me.

  I know it’s not hard to see what her gorgeous self is doing to me. Her tight little body against mine and that sassy mouth of hers that drives me wild. She radiates sensuality.

  Fuck. I need to marry this woman.

  “I’m a bit rusty, I admit. I haven’t played in years, you know, since I…became a woman and such. Apparently, someone thought breasts don’t look good in rugby uniforms. As for a pussy…”

  She knows exactly what game she’s playing because I immediately envision her tits and cunt, naked and inviting.