Prince Cheating Charming

1. Delilah

CHAPTER 1

Delilah

I t was love at first sight.

Even though I knew logically that fairy tales weren’t real, they seemed pretty damn real the first time Prince Alexander Levesque looked into my eyes.

I should have known there was some fine print to marrying Prince Charming.

Like that he was a damn dirty cheating bastard.

When I was invited to visit the Norjava Palace, I was nervous. I knew about the Crown Prince, of course. Everyone who had a pulse and access to the news knew the gorgeous international playboy’s father was putting pressure on him to get married. King William was getting older and not in good health and he was anxious to see his son find a Princess.

I was from the neighboring country of Gesaint. While Norjava was a beautiful, wealthy country known for its filthy rich aristocrats, forests, lakes, and vibrant tourism, with a prosperous tech economy to boot, my country of Gesaint was much poorer, and really only distinguished by having more varieties of sheep than anywhere else in the world.

So it was really nothing very impressive to be Lady Delilah Arden of Gesaint. My dissolute parents were very minor nobles who had died when I was a teenager, and I now lived in a crumbling leaky manor with my eccentric uncle.

Uncle Mortimer had a passion for bugs and frankly preferred them over people, and he was the one who had insisted I accept the invitation for a few weeks at the palace.

When I pointed out that, due to my unremarkable looks and personality, I was hardly the target audience for a gorgeous perfect blonde prince who had dated a string of models and ballerinas, he waved away my objections.

“If nothing else,” Uncle Mortimer said. “The food is bound to be good.”

And so I went, but right away I knew I didn’t belong. Norjava Palace looked like something from a fairytale, a huge white gleaming building, as elaborate and ornate as a wedding cake, set on a long, jewel-like lawn. It was packed with tall aristocratic women, TV stars, Olympic skiers, and stunning models. I felt incredibly out of place as an ordinary children’s book illustrator no one really looked twice at.

At 25 years old, I felt inexperienced and awkward. I had thick, curly black hair that I tried desperately to keep fashionably straight, a round little heart-shaped face with dark eyes, small breasts, and wide hips with a plump ass.

Prince Alexander was circling the room that first night as we all drank the thick, savory local beer and champagne that sparkled like diamonds in the glass, and I felt incredibly shy and out-of-place. What could I say to a hot as fuck 29-year-old playboy who could get any woman he wanted? I had always lacked confidence in myself, and Norjava Palace was so intimidating.

None of the other women seemed interested in talking to me, despite my feeble attempts, and I wondered if it was because my simple navy-blue dress marked me as practically one of the peasant class. I had chosen it because it clung to my ass, but now I was wondering if I just looked dowdy.

I sidled to the edge of the room where a stern-faced woman in her early 50s with short silvery hair was folding napkins and watching the guests. Her nametag identified her as Libby, the palace Head Housekeeper.

Searching desperately for a topic of conversation, I said, “The food is simply phenomenal.”

She turned to me, flicking assessing eyes across my face. Something she saw seemed to please her, because she gave a little reluctant nod.

“You’ll have to thank Maurice, our head chef for that,” she said, thawing a bit and turning to knock on a set of broad swinging doors that looked like they went to the kitchen.

“Maurice!” she called. “One of the ladies would like to thank you for dinner.”

I felt extremely awkward. Surely this was not an unusual occurrence. Had I just outed myself as a simpleton redneck from Gesaint who was overawed at fancy food?

A round French man in his 40s with a shining bald head and enormous moustaches came bustling out.

“This young lady would like to thank you for the meal,” Libby said, and I was embarrassed to see Maurice’s broad smile widen even further, until it looked like he might pop, as he embraced me tightly.

He smelled like pastry, and I felt suddenly less homesick.

“I was afraid,” he said, “that my pommes boulangere must have been overcooked. Since no one has mentioned them.”

I had no idea which dish he was referring to, but I had tried pretty much everything, and it had all been delicious, so felt no qualms promptly saying, “I am sure you could never overcook something.”

Maurice’s smile seemed to stretch even further, his moustaches trembling with pleasure, and then, before I barely knew what was happening, he had whirled me into the kitchens to give me a tour.

Libby followed, her stern mouth twisting up into a little half-smile.

She must have a soft side.

Maurice was having me taste-test multiple spoonfuls of cream when Prince Alexander entered the room.

I gulped, hastily wiping cream off my mouth and face as I watched him approach.

And I was gone .

The prince was so tall, towering over me, his body strong and lean, with broad shoulders and corded muscles. He looked sun-kissed and sun-tousled, with wavy golden blonde hair that curled attractively over his collar. There were a few buttons open on his shirt, showing a strong tanned throat. I felt myself convulsively swallowing. This trip was a complete waste of time. There was no way a prince who looked like that was going to be interested in me.

“Do my kitchens pass inspection?” Alexander asked, smiling at me.

I felt my body begin to tingle. He was so close to me that I had to repress an insane desire to reach out my hand and just run it down his arm where his shirt was rolled up to his elbows. I had never had such a strong physical reaction to a man before, but everything about him made my body pump out waves of pure, elemental lust. My skin felt tight, stretched, hot and prickly at how close he was.

His eyes were so blue. I’d never seen eyes that blue in my life.

My insides felt liquid, my heartbeat thrumming in my chest.

And the way he looked at me. Like I was the only person in the room, even though it was filled with palace staff.

“Y-yes, not one rat,” I said haltingly, wishing I was the kind of easy, sparkling conversationalist who could dazzle him with witty repartee.

But he laughed again, his smile big and broad and easy. Then his hand moved, with the exquisite confidence only extremely fucking hot men possess, because no one ever tells them no, to my waist. His grip was firm and assured.

“Dance with me,” he said.

And how could I ever have looked into that face and said no?

I would have followed him anywhere.

“What do you like to do in between charming the kitchen staff?” he asked as he spun me around the dance floor.

I could feel envious stares fairly burning my skin, and it made my palms feel clammy, prickly heat breaking out all over me.

“I’m—an illustrator,” I said, because it sounded too pretentious to say ‘artist,’ and might give him the mistaken impression that I had a lot of money. “And I love reading and rock-climbing.”

His gleaming megawatt smile beamed brighter at me, and he bent down to my ear, the feel of his breath across my throat sending little flickers of need all along my skin and down my spine.

“Why, Lady Delilah, I love rock-climbing too,” he said. “There are a lot of amazing routes in the hiking trails and mountains behind the palace. I can show you some of them, if you like.”

And that was it.

I never went home.

The first night I told myself sternly not to get too excited, not to get in over my skis. But I never stood a chance. I had fallen head-over-heels stupidly in love.

Alexander wanted me to stay a few weeks longer, after the other guests had gone home.

And then he just kept suggesting I stay for another week. And then a week after that.

And I didn’t want to leave.

I was desperately, madly, painfully in love with Alexander Levesque. Drop-dead gorgeous, bright-eyed, funny, warm, affectionate, supportive Alexander.

He was even brilliant. He was the heir to the throne, but he also worked in tech and programming, developing apps for the Norjava hospital system.

Even the lightest touch of his fingers set my skin on fire, and I was desperate to do anything to stay with him.

I was a very strong rock-climber, and had even competed in some low-level events in college, but when he told me to be careful on a climb that was simple, I slowed down, and I didn’t tell him. And I didn’t correct him when he patiently instructed me on the handholds I should look for on a route that I could have done in my sleep.

When I dropped lightly to the ground after completing the climb, he bent down and gave me a kiss, the touch of his lips unbearably arousing, his hand on my waist, pulling me closer.

His heat radiated against my trembling limbs, and the feel of his long legs on mine, his body pressed against me, made the place between my thighs ache with need.

My mouth was eager for his, and when he kissed me my tongue was awkward, anxious, tangling with his in my desire for him.

“Marry me,” he said.

Then Alexander reached in the pocket of his athletic shorts and pulled out a ring.

There was no question of what I was going to do.

“Yes,” I breathed, holding out my shaking hands for the huge, square-cut emerald. The gold felt old, like generations old.

He pulled me in for another kiss, both hands on my face now, and I felt dizzy with happiness.

How could this man want me ?

I could feel wetness soaking my panties, his muscular leg against my pussy, and I embarrassingly wanted to literally hump him, relieve the prickly, needy ache inside me.

Alexander broke apart regretfully, stroking my cheek with one finger.

“Your uncle told me about your traditions,” he said. “Is it all right with you if we get married as soon as possible?”

I didn’t know what in the world he was talking about, but I would have given him anything he wanted.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Anytime you want.”

“Let’s see how fast I can get the wedding planned,” Alexander said. “You don’t mind some of these stupid old traditions, do you? There’s one where your veil is supposed to be lifted up by 24 trained doves and sometimes they shit everywhere.”

“I don’t care,” I said, and I felt my eyes shining.

And it was true. I would have married him accompanied by 240,000 birds if that’s what he wanted.

It seemed like a dream come true.

But, eventually, I woke up.