Royally Wicked

  ROYALLY WICKED

  ALEXA KAYE

  Copyright Alexa Kaye 2016

  Yeah, I’m a prince. But I’m no prince-effing-charming. I’m not looking to make some girl’s Cinderella fantasy come true.

  Until I meet her. My Riley. My sexy, sweet little American with a body built for sin.

  Which is fitting, since we’re in Las Vegas, Sin City. Where anything can happen. Even a guy like me falling in love--at first sight.

  Now that I have her in my arms, and in my bed, I have no intention of letting her go. No matter what it takes.

  She has no idea who I am.

  She has no idea what I am.

  She has no idea what I’m up to…

  When she finds out the truth, will my princess let me sweep her off her feet, or will she put this knight-in-shining armor through the battle of his life?

  Warning: This is a short, dirty, over-the-top story of insta-love that may make you throw down your Kindle and do naughty things in the dark. If you want a long read that’ll take you all summer to finish and inspire deep, philosophical thoughts try War and Peace.

  Are you looking for sexy, cheesy insta-love stories that'll make your Kindle melt?

  Looking for something that won't take a month to read but is satisfying, with a hero who deserves his happily ever after and would never cheat on his woman?

  Look no further! Alexa Kaye promises to deliver exactly what you want! Short, brimming-to-the-top-with-tropes reads with plenty of sexy times and to-die-for heroes who make sure their women are satisfied...in all ways.

  © Can Stock Photo Inc. / curaphotography

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  Chapter 1

  Riley

  Vegas, baby!

  I’m so ready to put that expression to the test. You know which one I mean, right? The one that goes, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”.

  Yep, that one.

  After that last grueling semester (my final grueling semester-yay!) I’m ready to kick up my heels and have some fucking fun! With a capital F. U. N. I know after this it’ll be all work. When I get home I’ll find a job and settle down into a real adult’s life, complete with utility bills and car loans and stuff.

  Which is why I did something impulsive. And probably (make that most definitely) stupid.

  What did I do? I practically cleaned out my bank account and bought a Vegas vacation (airfare and hotel included).

  Credit cards will take care of the rest.

  Now, before you judge, let me explain.

  My life hasn’t been all that great. Parents? What are those? Love? What’s that? Affection? Stability? Fun? Totally foreign to me.

  But I’m not whining. I’ve moved on. I don’t dwell on the past. That doesn’t accomplish anything. It is what it is, and all those years of struggle have made me tough. And driven. There’s something to be said for that.

  However, I’ve given myself this one chance to let go. To do whatever I want. To have fun.

  I have five days. Only five precious days. To forget about everything and let loose. Be wild. Do anything that isn’t illegal (in Nevada). And I’m going to do them all. Go to shows. Gamble. Take a helicopter ride over the Hoover-fucking-Dam.

  And if it’s at all possible, hire a male prostitute to deal with one embarrassing issue—that of my virginity.

  Yes, even in this day and age, I’ve managed to remain a virgin at twenty-two.

  There’s a solid reason for it, and it’s not what you think. I didn’t take one of those silly vows and wear a fake wedding ring, promising to keep pure for my future husband. I’m not that sweet. If I’d had the chance I would’ve jumped the first guy who’d unzipped his pants. But, since I was dating Branson all four years of college (until he dumped me a month ago), and (being a so-called devout Baptist) he didn’t believe in premarital sex (until he screwed the whore of Angus Hall and got her pregnant), I remained a virgin.

  Well screw him!

  There’s better out there.

  Asshole.

  Better looking.

  More committed.

  Jackass.

  I’m so glad we didn’t have sex. Because then I’d be really mad.

  Madder than I am right now.

  I want to tear his head off. So you can just imagine how bad it would be if we’d fucked.

  God, I hope there’s male prostitutes in Nevada! I want a man to slam me against the wall and take me hard.

  I want to be swept up in lust.

  I want to forget that cheating weasel.

  I want one night of mind-blowing, depraved, panty-ripping pleasure.

  But I want to be smart about it. And in Nevada, the prostitutes (and gigolos, I hope) are regulated. Tested regularly. That kind of thing. Which the average asshole is not.

  You see? I’m smart about some stuff. Just not so great at picking boyfriends.

  Traveling alone isn’t all that fun. But because I intend to do some embarrassingly naughty things, I sneaked away, not telling my friends where I was headed after graduation.

  I considered (for a minute or two) bringing my bestie, Morgan, but I decided against it. Sure, she’s about as nonjudgmental as they come, but still. I want to feel free to do whatever I want. As it is my internal voice of reason (you know that nagging voice, right?) will probably be screaming in my ear the whole time I’m here. I don’t need to add hers to the mix.

  No. I’m here to let it all hang out.

  To go for broke.

  And all those other clichés.

  Starting right now.

  This minute.

  I check my reflection in my hotel room’s bathroom mirror.

  I gotta say, those two hours of shaving and plucking and curling and makeup-ing have done some good. I look as hot as I’ve ever looked. And the little dress I’m wearing (which I wouldn’t be caught dead in back home) clings to my curves like a second skin.

  Because you can literally see everything underneath, I couldn’t even wear a thong. Or a bra. Wouldn’t want any bumps to ruin the look, you know.

  I’m totally nekkid underneath my fuck-me dress. And I’m ready to party.

  Let the games begin!

  I stuff my key card into my little evening handbag and slide my feet into the sexy shoes I borrowed from Morgan. They, coupled with the extremely high hemline of my dress, make my legs look model-long. And the fake tan I bought looks fantastic against the shoe’s silver straps.

  Tonight I’m going to get my feet wet, so to speak. Ease into the pool of deviant sin. I’ll drink a little (or a lot) and gamble for a while, until I blow today’s (meager) gambling allowance. Then I’ll head back to my room, masturbate to some porn, and call it a night.

  My mission is set.

  I smooth my hands down my hips as I pull open my room’s door. My heart does a little flutter. God, I’m nervous, palms sweaty. But I’m excited too. Here, where nobody knows me and nobody cares, I can be anyone I want t
o be. Even a sex fiend with a limitless appetite.

  Yeah, that’s me. Sex fiend. Who likes it hard.

  I feel myself smile as I stomp down the hall like a runway model.

  At the bank of elevators, I poke the button and fiddle with the strap of my little black evening bag. There are six cars in this hotel. And it feels like forever before one stops on my floor. The chime rings, and I smile to myself.

  This is it. My first night of guilt-free excess.

  The door rumbles open.

  And the fucking angels sing.

  The car is cram-packed with hot men. Literally wall-to-wall. When I squeeze my slutty self in there, I’ll be the only female.

  It’s a sign! From God.

  Okay, maybe not. It’s more likely a sign from somebody else. The guy with horns and a pitchfork.

  I step forward, letting the crowd of hotties know I’m not waiting for the next car, which will probably be full of eighty-something cronies. I give them a sassy smile and wiggle into the tiny space between the two boys in front. They shift slightly to give me a smidge more room. Still, we’re close. Like, personal-bubble-obliterated close. And I’m good with that. Really good with it. For one thing, the hottie on the left smells amazing.

  I glance up at him, studying him though the fan of my faux (heavily-mascara’d) eyelashes.

  Ohmygod, is he hot.

  Dark hair. I’ve always liked them dark-haired.

  Branson was blond.

  A deep shadow of stubble coating his jaw.

  Sharp cheekbones and carved hollows that make him look like he was carved of stone.

  And a mouth that makes my insides clench.

  Those lips, the ones I’m admiring right now, are curving up. Into a seductive half-smile.

  Oooh. I’m melting. If I had panties on, they’d be wet.

  Maybe I won’t need porn tonight. I’ll masturbate to the memory of that smile.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m Riley. Riley Hall.”

  “Hello, Riley Hall,” he says. “Max.”

  Oooh, Max has an accent. It’s sexy. Just like the rest of him.

  Hoping the elevator will get stuck or something because I want to talk to this hottie-with-an-accent some more, I do a little shuffling-while-turning move until I’m facing him directly. I glance at the numbers illuminated above the door to gauge my time. We’re on the twenty-eighth floor. But the elevator is rumbling along at a good clip. This ride will be over in a blink.

  Which means every second counts.

  “I hear an accent,” I say, hoping he’ll look down the top of my dress. He’ll get a nice view of my cleavage if he does. “Where are you from?”

  “Belvaria,” he answers.

  I have no idea where that is, but I don’t want to look stupid. So I smile and nod like I know exactly where it is. “Oh, Belvaria.”

  “You know where Belvaria is?” Max from Belvaria asks.

  “Yes, of course I do.” Yeah, it’s a lie. So shoot me. Come on, he’s hot! And I’ll probably never see him again.

  And I’m a sex-crazed slut.

  He slants a brow. “This surprises me. Not many American’s do.”

  “Yes, well, that’s because most Americans are stupid.” Mental note: Look up Belvaria ASAP.

  His smile brightens. He agrees with me. We’re off to a great start!

  “Where is your man?” he asks. “A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be wandering this city alone.”

  Ohmygod, he said I’m beautiful! “Maybe in your neck of the woods, women don’t travel alone, but here in the good ole US of A, we girls take vacations by ourselves. Whenever we want.”

  “Then you have no man?”

  So glad he’s asking! “Not at the moment. Are you volunteering for the job?”

  “Perhaps. For the evening.”

  I want to scream, accepted! But I don’t want to appear too eager. You know, because then he’ll lose interest. I tap my chin and give him a coy come-hither smile. “Hmmm. I’ll consider your offer and let you know.”

  He cups my elbow.

  That’s a touch, folks! A possessive kind of touch!

  Remember, this boy isn’t a gigolo. He isn’t tested.

  Or is he?

  “I hope you will,” he says, his gaze growing intense.

  Oh hell, so what if he isn’t a pro? That’s what condoms are for, right? This guy is as good looking as any gigolo could be.

  The air is getting mighty thin in this elevator. And warm.

  I resist the urge to fan my flaming face. “I will.”

  The car chimes.

  Damn. I knew the end would come too fast.

  I’m in front, blocking the boys’ exit. So it’s up to me to leave first. “I’ll let you know. Where will I find you?”

  His gaze wanders down my body then climbs back up. He doesn’t even try to hide his perusal. It’s bold. He’s bold. I like it! “I’ll find you.”

  Promise? “All right, then. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes.”

  Ohmygod! Did that really just happen? Was that sassy, bold and flirty girl me?

  Feeling slightly unsteady but determined to hide it, I step out of the car and into the relative cool of the hotel’s main floor. And while I’m pretending to be busy checking out the menu hanging outside the nearest restaurant, the gang piles out, my hot foreigner leading the pack. From the corner of my eye, I watch them go before yanking out my phone to Google Belvaria.

  It’s a small country in northeast Europe.

  So now I know.

  I scope out some photos and tourist info before shutting down the browser. On the off chance that my hot Belvarian asks me what I know about his homeland, I’m armed with a few facts.

  I’m not ready to eat, so I click-clack down the hall. This place is massive, a city within a building, with restaurants, designer (aka, wayyyy out of my budget) stores, pools, spas, salons, venues housing a variety of shows… and, of course, the massive casino. You name it, and it’s here.

  There’s no reason, really, why I would need to leave this place…if it weren’t for that little issue I’m in need of correcting.

  Then again, maybe I could reconsider my options there. Is it really necessary I hire a pro? In all reality I’ll probably have to travel a couple of hours out of Vegas to get to a brothel. And then there’s no guarantee of there being a male gigolo on staff.

  I’ll admit, I didn’t do my research before I left (there’s a solid reason for that—I didn’t want to give myself any reason to cancel—I need this trip).

  Is there such a thing as a legal male whore in Nevada? Enquiring minds want to know.

  When my feet decide it’s time to stop walking (which doesn’t take long), I buy some tokens from the cashier and find myself a friendly-looking one-armed-bandit. Twenty bucks. It wasn’t going to last long at seventy-five cents a pull. But I wasn’t here to gamble, anyway. I was here to live. To experience. To explore and test my boundaries. Sitting at this chiming, whirling machine for hours upon hours isn’t going to let me do any of those things.

  To my surprise the money isn’t swallowed up in minutes. The little bastard knows how to tease a girl, how to string her along. I give and he takes. Then he gives back some of what I’ve stuffed down his throat. And when he does that, he rewards me with this delightful ching-ching-ching sound that makes me happy.

  I don’t keep track of the time. I just keep hitting that button and watching those wheels spin and waiting for the sweet ching-ching-ching.

  Oh, and I drink the world’s best margaritas. There’s that, too.

  My waitress--who is so hot I’d be tempted to go lesbian if I weren’t so fond of burly shoulders and ripped abs--keeps bringing me a new drink before I’ve finished the last. And they’re free!

  Free alcohol tastes soooo much better.

  I’ve lost track of both the time and the number of margaritas I’ve consumed when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  Have I hogged this machine for
too long? Was some old lady growing impatient, waiting for her one-armed mechanical boyfriend?

  Oooh, that sounds kinky.

  I smile and swivel around on the swivel-y stool.

  It’s my handsome, sexy, panty-melting foreign friend from Belvaria. Or was it Bolivia?

  Oh, who cares? One look at him and all political boundaries melt away.

  So do some other things. Namely, my personal boundaries.

  I swing an arm over his shoulder. “It’s about time.”

  He chuckles. The sound literally travels through my body, vibrations that tickle my insides. “I’m sorry. I had some…personal matters to take care of.”

  I glance over his shoulder as I use his bulk to help me steady myself on my feet. “Where’s the posse?”

  “I ditched them.” He loops an arm around my waist and pulls me snug to his big, hard bod. “I wanted some time alone...with you.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “First…” He presses his lips to my nose.

  He just kissed my nose.

  My nose. Why? It’s not the sexiest part of my body.

  Is it a custom of his country? I’d rather he kissed lower.

  I purse my lips a little to send him a message.

  “There’s a little game I’m expected at,” he tells me, ignoring my hint. Oh well. There’s always time later for kisses.

  “I like games. What kind?”

  “Poker.” He slides his other hand down my back, to my butt. He gives it a pat and a little squeeze.

  Oh yes, there will definitely be kisses later. And more. I am so not going to be a virgin for long.

  My insides squeeze. If I were wearing panties, they’d be wringing-wet right now.

  “Come with me,” he commands.

  “Sure.” He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. And he wants me. Like I’d say anything but yes?

  I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid!

  Chapter 2

  Max

  My balls are going to explode. Right here. Right now.