Paris and the Prince: A BWWM Billionaire Romance (Royal Weddings Book 1) (14 page)

I
t was
a busy night at the Beauty & Hook, the restaurant and bar where Orlando had been working for the last two years. Filled with all the local young people who had never left their little town, Paris had agreed to help Orlando behind the bar for the night, just to get out of the cabin.

She'd only been there for a day, but a day of wallowing was more than she was used to, so the distraction was a nice switch. Since Paris was behind the bar, Orlando was using the opportunity to play some of his music on the small stage in the corner. As always, Orlando’s bluesy voice livened the atmosphere to the point that people were dancing next to their tables.

Paris loved serving drinks and talking to people, but she couldn't help but feel distracted. She'd already contacted her school to explain, partially, the situation. They were expecting her back in a week to resume classes, and they promised her that she wouldn't lose any credits if she picked right back up where she had left off. She was excited to get back into a routine, but it felt like every movement she took, every word she said, was clad in the mist of Alex's memory.

Midnight approached in the Beauty & Hook, and more of the locals were piling in to hear Orlando play, and lavish in the craft beers that the bar specialized in—a weekend two-for-one special. The bar was so packed, Paris couldn't even see her brother on the other side—just a swarming crowd of hipsters getting drunk and dancing.

Paris felt her legs starting to ache from being on her feet so long, and getting no break. She limped over to the manager, Scott, and motioned at him that she wanted to go outside. But instead of saying yes, Scott started shouting something at her. Paris couldn't make out a thing he was saying over the noise, so she shouted back at him.

“I can't hear a THING you're saying, Scott! I'm going to take a break! I'll be right back!”

As she turned around, Scott grabbed her arm and stopped her from leaving. She scowled at his hand on her arm and raised her eyebrows at him. Scott scrunched up his face in an exasperated frown and leaned as close to her ear as he could get.

Even though Paris could tell he was shouting, she barely heard him say, “There is someone here to see you! At the end of the bar! He's been waiting a while!”

Paris pulled back, confused. No one knew her here but her family. Who would be here to see her? She inched toward the other end of the bar, confused, and deeply apprehensive about what might await her. Part of her was worried it was some sort of security guard, come all the way from Dalvana to reclaim the designer dress. She'd happily give it back, but she'd lived in it for almost two days, so she was pretty sure they wouldn't want it anyway.

She was halfway down the bar when a hand reached out and grabbed her.

“Yo! Can I get the Strawberry Basil Gimlet with a splash of organic grapefruit?”

Paris didn't appreciate being deterred from her mission, but the tourists from out of town didn't appreciate when they were kept waiting. Paris smiled politely and set about mixing his drink, and muddling the strawberry, basil, and grapefruit together.

She couldn't help but roll her eyes, wondering,
Doesn't anyone just drink regular ole’ beer anymore?

She was just mixing the drink together in the glass when a voice from across the bar, a voice that filled her stomach with affection and fear, a voice with a very familiar accent that hit her across the chest like a snowball thrown by a errant child on a winter day, shouted out, “Does no one in this country just drink beer?”

Paris almost dropped the glass when she looked up and saw Alex smiling back at her, his eyes full of light and love. She knew her own pupils had gone wide in alarm, there was no hiding it, and her mouth fell open like a trout.

She walked like a zombie to the guy who had ordered the drink and slid it across the bar to his waiting hand. He handed her back a twenty dollar bill, which left Paris with a dollar tip. She turned up her face in a bitter half smile and muttered, “Thanks a lot.”

Knowing she couldn't avoid him forever, she walked over to where Alex had settled himself at the bar and found him reading the drink menu.

Her heart clenched, and her breath caught in her throat as she approached him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The awkward silence between them was not alleviated by the cacophony of the bar. Alex spoke first, finding it hard to think of what to say.

“Did that man just pay nineteen dollars for a drink? Nineteen AMERICAN dollars? And more importantly, did he only tip you a dollar after all that clever work you did making it?”

Paris shrugged.

“It’s become a hipster bar. Out of towners come slumming it, “ironically.” It happens more than you'd think. We charge them a “pain in the ass” tax. The more they pay, the less they tip. Anyway, I'm guessing you weren't just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by for a drink?”

Alex set the menu down. His face got serious as he leaned across the bar.

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk? It's terribly loud in here.”

Paris nodded, and gestured to Scott that she was going outside. Then she pointed to the door, indicating to Alex to meet her in front of the bar. She grabbed her coat from underneath the register and made her way through the kitchen to the back door that led out to the parking lot. Once she was outside in the cold night air, she felt her defenses rising. Alex may have come all this way, but it didn't change what had happened in Dalvana. It didn't change the text messages to Whitney.

When Paris rounded the corner, she saw Alex leaning against the stone wall outside the bar. He seemed to be prepared for the cold mountain air; he had on jeans and heavy black boots, a silk black dress shirt paired with a black silk tie, and over his grey suit jacket was a black over-coat, with the collar turned up to protect his face from the biting wind. As his hair ruffled in the breeze and he blew into his hands to keep warm, he could have been any handsome North East transplant, new to the area to start up a business, or a visiting investor looking for new business ventures. Unless you really looked at him, you would never have known he was a prince, and next in line to be king of an entire country.

Paris walked up to Alex, pulling her brother’s over-sized ski jacket tighter around her, as if that were enough to keep out not the cold, but her feelings. As Alex looked up and smiled at her, she had to admit, the coat wasn't going to do anything.

“I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you here. If you wanted the dress back, you could have just called. I sent it to the dry cleaners, but it’s probably never going to look new again. I’m sorry about that.”

Alex furrowed his brow.

“Dress? What dress?” He shook his head. “I don’t give a damn about any dress. That's not why I'm here, Paris. I'm here for
you
.”

Paris kicked at the dirt of the parking lot.

“Why? It seems perfectly clear that we had no future. I was dumb to let myself think—even for a few moments—that anything might be possible. I realize now that that I... threw myself at you. I was silly—I know that I mean nothing to you. It was—”

Her voice caught in her throat, and she raised the back of her hand to her mouth to muffle a sob that escaped.

Alex dropped his head and thought to himself,
Damn you, Whitney. Damn you.

“Paris, whatever Whitney said to you, whatever Whitney convinced you of, it wasn't real. She’s a born liar. Paris, please believe me. You mean everything to me.
Everything.
”

Paris sniffled.

“They were text messages, Alex.
I saw them.
You said you loved her. That I was—that you were going to get rid of me. You have terrible spelling by the way.”

Alex hesitated and then let out a low chuckle, and then he laughed, deep and loud, so loud it echoed across the parking lot. “Is that what convinced you? A few text messages?”

“Paris, I never once, in all the years I knew Whitney Bishop-St.Claire, told her I loved her. But more importantly, I was a Language and Literature major at University. My spelling is impeccable. Whitney, on the other hand, wouldn't be able to spell her own name if she hadn't had a tutor for that specific purpose. Her family has been inbreeding for so many generations, she is practically a poodle.”

Now it was Paris' turn to laugh through her tears. She choked back her words.

“I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?”

“A beautiful, ravishing, tempting, delightful idiot that I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Paris nodded, looking down at her feet, questioning herself—why had she really run away? She could have confronted Alex about the text messages on Dalvana. The truth was—the truth was that she had been scared. Scared of being happy, of losing herself and her goals—but most of all, scared that Whitney was right. She was a little nothing, nobody—it was silly for her to believe she could ever be anything else. And so, Whitney had only confirmed what she secretly believed.

“Well? How many more times do I have to ask you?”

Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, delicate box. He opened it and nestled inside was the diamond ring she’d given back to him. “Now, for what I hope will be the last time. Paris Martell, will you marry me?”

She didn't know why, if it were anyone else she never would have just taken his words at face value, but because it was Alex, she believed him. She saw the love shining in his eyes, and for once in her life she started to believe that fairy tales might just come true after all.

She believed him and she closed the distance between and jumped into Alex's arms. When he kissed her, she felt all of his love for her in the kiss, and she knew that whatever happened from this moment forward, they could weather any storm together.

Alex pulled away, and kissed her softly on the forehead.

“So will you come back to Dalvana with me?”

Paris shook her head no. Alex looked wounded, until Paris leaned forward and kissed him again.

“I want you to meet my family first.”

“
S
o
, you want to marry my sister, huh?”

It was almost 2am, and the bar was mostly empty now. Alex had agreed to stay over for a few nights to get to know Orlando and the rest of the family before he and Paris flew back to Dalvana. Now they were sitting around a corner table by a fireplace, sipping craft beer as the jukebox played Bob Dylan. A few couples were dancing lazily to “To Make You Feel My Love” as Scott wiped down the bar. As Alex held Paris' hand under the table, he nodded solemnly at Orlando.

“Yes. Very much. I know we haven't known each other very long, but I knew the moment I saw her, that I would never want to let her go. I knew I would love her for the rest of my life. And I want to spent the rest of my life making her the happiest woman in the world, if you'll allow it.”

Orlando looked at Alex with a raised eyebrow.

“Will Paris be a... princess?”

Paris kicked her brother under the table, raising her eyebrows at him. He shrugged his wide shoulders. The thought terrified her. Alex squeezed her hand before he answered.

“No, sir. Our lineage is laid out as such that one must be born into the title of prince or princes. Paris would a Duchess of the capital city, so her official title would be Duchess Paris Lennox of Kara's Vale. But, eventually, when the crown passes on to me, she would... be Queen.”

Paris and Orlando both choked on their beer at the same time. Alex gave a bemused smile at their shock. Orlando wiped the foam away from his mouth and regained his composure.

“Well, that sounds... nice. But will she be able to continue her studies? She’s worked damned hard to get where she has.”

“I was wondering that myself,” Paris added.

Alex nodded again.

“Of course! She should be able to do whatever makes her happy. As soon as we get back, we'll make arrangements for her to take up her studies at our University. Then she can work as much or as little as she likes once she graduates. I've lived a very itinerate lifestyle these last few years, so it would be wonderful to settle down on the estate. Or wherever Paris decides feels more like home.”

Orlando finished off the last of his beer and slammed the mug down on the table.

“Well… I’m not her keeper. But if I ever see her crying again the way she did when she got here—you’ll have to answer to me, you got that?”

Paris kicked her brother again.
Hard.

Alex smiled and reached out his hand to shake Orlando’s. “Got it.”

Scott switched off the “open” sign and Springsteen began singing on the jukebox as Orlando, Alex, and Paris laughed and drank into the night.

O
rlando’s cabin
only had one bedroom, so Paris found a small bed and breakfast in town that was still open and got Alex a room. The only room that was still available at the late hour was the honeymoon suite, which suited Alex and Paris just fine. But when they saw the room, they were blown away by how elegant and lovely it was.

The walls were a combination of oak panels and cream-colored walls. A stained-glass window was set over a king-sized bed, piled high with white and green pillows, atop of fluffy white comforter. A gold and purple chandelier twinkled over the bed, setting off the colors in a pale purple chiffon canopy, which was tied to two tall, thin real tree stumps set next to the bed. The bedside tables were also made of wood, and they were embedded into the trees, with a bouquet of white roses on each. Paris thought it was the most beautiful room she'd ever seen, and she'd seen many over the last few weeks.

Before they could walk through the doorway, Alex effortlessly lifted Paris up into his arms, and carried her across the threshold of the room.

The moon formed a halo around the Prince and the golden light of the fireplace accented his light skin, the ripples of his muscles and taught abdomen, the powerful line of his jaw, as he carried her over the threshold.

Paris leaned back, opening herself to him, reaching out and running her small hand along his jawline, turning his face to hers.

With a small groan, he gave in to the temptation he hadn’t wanted to resist anyway.

Alex gently set her down and they leaned into the soft pillows of the canopied bed. He wrapped his hand around her waist, moving to the small of her back, and pulled her closer. Feeling bolder, she reached a hand up and ran her fingers through his sandy hair.

He had always explored her body—he had always been the one in control—now she wondered if he would let her satisfy her own desires to explore him.

She let her hand run down the nape of his neck and along his jawline where the soft stubble of his beard peppered his face. His lips were beautifully formed with a high arch and soft skin. He bent his head to kiss her—to claim her, to mark her as his.

He lowered his head further, claiming her right breast, suckling the tight little nipple at the tip. He tugged on it gently and she wrapped her hands in his hair, drawing his head closer, cradling him with her body.

Her legs were wound around his and she felt his cock—hard and insistent against her thigh. She loved the feel of it, the thick turgid length, but most of all she loved knowing that she was the one who made him that way.

They made short work of divesting themselves of their clothing, and soon it was in a heap on the floor as they resumed their caresses.

Alex's other hand was on her breast, caressing her soft flesh, tracing the length of her body, the smooth curve of her hip. His hard body against her supple, yielding one delighted her senses. The soft smattering of hair on his chest rubbed against her, creating friction that sent a frisson down her core.

He played her body like a musician who was an expert at his instruments. His hand went to the juncture of her thighs and her legs spread wider, opening for him with little resistance.

Alex sought the access to her most secret place. Her wet slit opened for him, his hands rhythmically playing against her clit, rubbing it, bringing the little bud between her legs to life. His cock sought entrance, straining hard against her legs, but the Prince wanted to make this encounter last.

It was always a surprise to Alex, how much he wanted to hear Paris scream and moan in delight, how much pleasure he derived in giving her orgasms. Whether the women in his past had enjoyed themselves, it had always been incidental to his own pleasure. With Paris however, it was a point of pride for him to be able to make her experience sensations she had never experienced before.

His head was below her waist and he trailed kisses from her belly button to her mons. She gasped as he took her clit in his mouth, sucking on it, swirling his tongue around, enticing the head of her clit from its hiding place.

Paris's gasps and moans were coming furiously, the sounds reverberating in the still room, and in the cool night air. Through half lidded eyes, Paris could make out the shapes and shadows highlighted by the dancing fireplace.

The light of the flames caressed Alex's skin. In between her legs, Paris could see the rise and fall of the Prince’s tight buttocks and his thighs rubbing together as he strained, his cock pressing hard into the mattress. His lips were licking, tasting, delighting her.

He thrust two fingers deeply into her, matching the rhythm of his tongue on her clit. Her pussy was drenched with juices, slick and inviting to him.

Paris wanted to taste him, she wanted to taste him the way he tasted her. She tried to move but Alex resisted.

“Let me, I want to," she said.

Bemused, Alex let himself be led and turned onto his back. Paris was on him then, mounting him, raining kisses down his body. His hard flesh, warm and rough under her fingers, the ripple of muscles—of animal power barely contained—thrilled her. She let her tongue linger on his nipples, playing with one, and then the other. His hand was on her head, and he gently guided her even lower to where his cock was standing proud and erect, waiting for her.

She grasped him in her hands, spitting for lubrication, and began working on him. She opened her mouth and swallowed his cock, the smooth head going past her plump lips, her tongue swirling, tasting the salty musk of his smooth skin. Her hands were working furiously on the shaft of his cock, as one hand cupped his balls and played with them.

Alex moaned, his hands turning to fists as he grasped Paris’ curly hair, drawing her face closer to his cock, his thrusts growing deeper, and more frantic.

His hips were undulating as she worked her tongue on the shaft and the head of his cock. She kept time with his movements, his cock hitting the back of her throat, straining against her.

He wanted more.

So much more.

He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to feel the slick lips of her pussy enveloping him, the way her mouth was. It was his turn to roll her over, and he was between her legs before she could react.

She sensed his intentions as he splayed her legs wide, allowing them to rest on his shoulders as he aimed his cock for her tight hole.

He thrust in; her wet petals parted easily to give him access to her moist pussy.

They moaned together as he entered her.

"Oh, yes," she gasped.

He grunted, thrusting in deeply, housing himself to the hilt in her tight quim. He could never get enough of her; she fit him perfectly.

Accepting the length and breadth of him, his wide cock stretched her to the limit each time. His fingers continued to play the drum beats on her clit. As he thrust, harder and harder, his thrusts spread her legs wider, until she thought she would die from the pleasure.

Her pussy stretched tightly around his thrusting penis, the slick wetness guiding him, accepting him, as he pounded her. He thrust into her pussy, his hips undulating wildly, his tight, toned ass rising above her outstretched thighs, slamming home, as he withdrew and buried himself to the hilt with each downward thrust.

Each thrust drew a gasp of startled delight from Paris’s plump, full lips. Alex kissed her; he kissed her long and hard, his tongue thrusting at hers in the same way his hips thrust at her pussy. They were joined together in that ancient mating dance, and not for the first time.

His hands grasped her thighs. He drew her closer as though somehow he could bury himself even more deeply into her tight, warm wetness. His movements were growing more wild, more frantic, and Paris knew he was close.

Her breath was coming in gasps and she was almost there herself. She sensed he was holding himself back until she came.

She let herself fall over the edge, feeling the way his cock invaded every part of her senses. She wanted him deeper, and deeper, and she felt her legs wrapped around his thrusting ass, drawing him closer, holding him in, not letting him leave.

Her hands went to his hand on her pussy, and she held him there. She held him in just the right spot as he made her come. She came long, and hard, the waves of her pulsing pussy wrapping around his hard shaft, milking it.

He moaned in surprise, his own come arriving suddenly as he lost himself in her.

She felt him jerk against her body, the movements of his hips and the way his cock had grown even harder—almost impossibly hard inside her—and she knew he was coming.

The hard head of his shaft was as deep inside her as it could possibly go. They could not have been more joined together as he held her limp sweaty body close to his. He slumped against her, his lips nuzzling her neck, his cock still between her outstretched thighs.

He lay on her and she let her hands linger on his back tracing the ridges and contours there, the curve of his tight ass. They lay against each other, their breathing heavy and shallow, his skin glistening in the firelight.

In that moment they were one.