Natalie Vs. Prince: A Steamy Royal Romance Read online

  Natalie Vs. Prince

  Mona Cox

  Naughty Angel Publishing

  Contents

  Description

  Also by Mona Cox

  Dirty Lil’ Angels

  A Note From Mona

  1. Connor

  2. Natalie

  3. Connor

  4. Natalie

  5. Natalie

  6. Connor

  7. Natalie

  8. Connor

  9. Natalie

  10. Connor

  11. Natalie

  12. Connor

  13. Natalie

  14. Connor

  15. Natalie

  16. Connor

  17. Connor

  18. Natalie

  19. Natalie

  20. Epilogue As Told By Natalie

  Also by Mona Cox

  About the Author

  Natalie Vs. Prince

  By Mona Cox

  Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

  Join Alexis’ Naughty Angel’s Newsletter and receive a bonus chapter from this book!

  Description

  Careful, Mr. Bad Boy Prince. I may look sweet and cute. But this lil’ slip of a girl can bring the Devil to his knees…

  I mean, sure, I like kitties! And I <3 wearing pink!

  But that doesn’t mean that Connor D’Avington, the infamous prince of pleasure, is gonna sweep me off my feet like he does to all those other girls around the world who swoon over him.

  I’m rolling my eyes when he’s taking off his shirt and showing me those 8-pack abs, rippling muscles, and amazing pecs.

  Been there, done that…

  I’m yawning when he’s showing me those 12 inches of…OMG! I didn’t even think they could be that big!

  Right. Not yawning now.

  Now he’s telling me he wants me to come with him.

  I mean, just once? Shouldn't it be at least three or four times?

  With as big as it is, that rocket should for sure shoot me into orbit, I think.

  All I can say is…I’m all ready for blast off! ;)

  *** It’s the cute single girl versus the Big Bad Prince in this third installment from Mona Cox. Guaranteed to be sweet, sexy, sassy, and fun. No cheating or cliffhangers. Happy Ending? Always, babe ***

  Also by Mona Cox

  Alicia Vs. Billionaire

  Ashley Vs. Boss

  This book is dedicated to Cheryl Maddox, my lovely PA.

  Dirty Lil’ Angels

  Hi ladies!

  If you’re like me, once you finish, you’re not going to want the story to end!

  To receive exclusive sneak peeks, (before anyone else!), bonus content not seen anywhere else, giveaways, and tons more swag, visit me and my Naughty Angels on Facebook at Dirty Lil’ Angels.

  We’ll make it worth your while…

  :)

  Kisses!

  Alexis

  A Note From Mona

  Well hello there, ladies!

  Let me first begin by introducing myself. My name is Alexis Angel - and I’m half of Mona Cox.

  I write steamy contemporary romance. Steamy is another word, I guess, for dirty. And dirty is another word for fun. In fact, the dirtier the better because at heart I’m just a bad girl looking to have some fun.

  That’s why I created Mona Cox with a dear friend of mine. They’re supposed to be short, sweet, sexy stories that are a quick read that make you laugh and get you a lil’ wet. Kinda like me!

  Every week, Mona Cox (get it, Moans for Cocks?) will give you a short and sweet story about a young independent girl who goes up against something in her life that gets her stronger and makes her a better person. Maybe she falls in love to. But she definitely gets to cum lol!

  Having fun is why I do this. And, I’m just having fun in the next few hundred pages, doing what I do with a wink and a nod. It’s supposed to bring out some emotions and give you a chance to forget about your cares for a little bit. That’s all I’m looking to do.

  Some people want realism in their books. I say reality is too depressing. So you might see certain things as over the top or ridiculous in terms of never being realistically possible. Yeah, I agree. You’re coming into the world of Alexis by turning the page. Into a world where you have twin stepbrother quarterbacks with 12 inch …uhmm…appendages… that fall in love with their stepsister, where you have dragons who shift into billionaire BDSM rock stars and you get the picture. I think reality should take a second place to fun.

  So I just wanted to say that, in case you know, you were hoping for like super real. The men and women in the pages below represent the best, and worst, of all of us as a collective whole. This is all about leaving your cares for the world behind, as we hold hands, and just for a little while go on a journey that makes us smile. And hopefully a lil’ wetter than before.

  Kisses!

  Alexis xoxox

  1

  Connor

  I gulp the 200-year-old aged whiskey and wonder to myself just how much of an asshole the people at JFK have to think I am.

  I'm coming back to New York City from St. Albans and I need to land now.

  But the problem is that I recently got a larger fucking plane to fly around in. Gift from my brother, Silas.

  But that plane isn't going to be able to land at any of the available private airports in and around New York City.

  That's right, love. It's too big to land at Peterborough. And it can't land anywhere in New Jersey.

  Which means, it's going to need a commercial fucking airport.

  Which means with diplomatic immunity that's afforded to me as Prince of St. Albans and as a member of the Royal Family, I am totally within my fucking rights to tell the fuckers at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey that manages JFK to clear a fucking runway.

  There's only one problem.

  "They're working sir, but they have a problem clearing the runway and it's going to take at least another two hours," my manservant Jacques is telling me. "They request we carry on a holding pattern till then. Keep ourselves entertained."

  Jacques says the last bit with a fucking smile. He knows what I like to do on planes. I usually drink a whole fucking lot and have sex with as many fucking women as possible.

  But I didn't bring any fucking women with me this time. It was primarily a state visit with my brother, the King.

  I was actually surprised that I was summoned from New York.

  "Connor," he said, walking with me down the royal gardens. "Six months ago after the incident where you got caught fucking the stripper, Dad thought it was best to send you to be the kingdom's representative to the UN. With the Constitutionalist party gaining traction, we need you now more than ever" Silas said to me. I nodded. I don't know he's so worried about the Constitutionalist party … I think it will die off. But he was right about the stripper. That's what had happened all right.

  I got an apartment once I got to the city in Turtle Bay, overlooking the East River. And I brought the party and a whole new level of fucking debauchery to Midtown East.

  "But the hope was that you'd learn your lesson and dry out," Silas says. "It turns out, you've only grown wilder."

  The two of us shared a chuckle and then Silas told me that Mom and Dad were watching. Like any good brother who just became King, he was watching out for his younger brother the Princ
e.

  And I mean, Silas had had his wild moments in the past.

  Same as I'm doing now.

  "Your Highness?" Jacques asks me. "Should I tell JFK we'll be okay?"

  See, now this here is the problem, love.

  You see, I am 6' 3" of blonde haired, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled European royalty from the last remaining monarchy in Northern Europe. I have an 8-pack set of abs and a ripped body with muscles that literally ripple. A cock that’s 12 fucking inches and dangling from my legs. Why the fuck do you not look surprised at that?

  Well, you know what will surprise you? When I pull out this bad boy from my pants and you see how thick and wide it is. About as thick as those Coke cans you Americans like drinking from.

  World famous artists have tattooed on my body and my ink is a fucking masterpiece. The Museum of Modern Art wanted me to pose still as an exhibit once, and I agreed, but a fucking hottie came over and tried to get me to stop being like one of those robots and she began to stick her hand down my pants.

  Let's just say the fucking robot didn't last. And the invite from the Met was declined after patrons began to watch the redhead and I start to fuck.

  But with all of that, I still try to do right. And I remember Silas' words.

  Be more responsible.

  The problem is, I have a meeting in an hour.

  With a PR firm, of all people.

  You want to guess what they're being hired for?

  Yup, you guessed it. To clean up my fucking image.

  So, some fucking desk jockey who never got a chance to be a fucking pilot and wants to exercise his fucking power wants to keep me up in the fucking air, that's fine.

  This prince does shit different.

  "Where are you going?" Jacques asks me as I start running to the aft compartment of the 747. "Your Highness, it's only 2 hours. You really don't have--"

  "Jacques, tell JFK that you'll land whenever they tell you that you can, but that the Prince is not going to be on board," I tell Jacques as I take off my shirt and my pants.

  Yeah, love, I know what you're staring at.

  Let's pause for a moment while you stare at my cock.

  Here, I'll even grab it's thick shaft through my boxer briefs and give it a nice little tug for you, yeah? That's 12 inches of man meat. 12 inches of pussy pleasing power. Lust muscle. Fuck stick. Ready for the next victim.

  Twelve fucking inches. But we'll talk more about this later, because I need to put on my flight suit.

  "I really hope you would reconsider, sire," Jacques says to me once I zip up the suit.

  Fuck that.

  "I'll see you at the condo," I say with a thumbs up.

  "If you survive," Jacques says with a droll voice. Don't roll your eyes at him, love. He's been with me since I've been a wee boy.

  "Open it," I order and Jacques latches onto a harness in the compartment to prevent getting carried away and pushes a button.

  The aft compartment opens up and I shoot out into the fucking sky.

  That's right. I shoot into the sky.

  I have the destination coordinates for where I need to go near the UN plugged into my wrist tracker and it shows me the bearings I need to get to from where I am. I begin making course corrections, all the while trying to keep the fear of seeing the ground getting closer and closer from overwhelming me. My heart's racing at 2,000 beats a minute and I know that with one wrong move, I would just be the former Prince, having to be scraped up off the sidewalk. The tabloids would talk about how the Prince of the Party lived hard, and definitely died hard.

  My wrist indicator starts beeping and flashing red. I'm too far off course! I begin to panic. If I don't correct myself in time, the parachute won't open properly. I focus. The ground keeps coming closer and closer.

  Just when I seem ready to consign myself to death, I manage to hit a jet stream and am able to angle my body to move just right. I glide several yards north and change my trajectory so that I'm spot on. My wrist indicator goes from red to green.

  Time to deploy the chute.

  I tug at the drawstring and the chute pops out. But in my struggle to get the proper bearings, I had waited too long. This is going to be a rough landing.

  2

  Natalie

  "He's a very important client for our firm," Lisa tells me. She has one manicured hand on her hip and the other cradling a paper cup of hot coffee. She removes the lid and blows on the steam.

  "Why does the barista insist on making it so darn hot?" she asks, momentarily distracted.

  I know why Lisa's giving me this talk. She's a veteran PR manager and has been at the Gage Price firm for over a decade now. She knows I'm young, fresh out of college, and she thinks my age and inexperience is a liability. But I know what I need to do, and I'm not going to mess this up. I'm motivated. If I play my cards right with this client, I know I'll be up for a promotion.

  "You don't need to worry about me," I reply. "I realize that Connor D'Avington is paying good money for our PR."

  "It's more than just good money," Lisa says. "It's more money than Gage Price has ever received from a diplomat before—and we've represented quite a few. But we're definitely going to need to work extra hard for him. Prince D'Avington has a lot going against him right now."

  "I saw the YouTube video," I nod in agreement. That notorious video has 5 million views already and counting.

  "The one in Vegas?" she asks.

  "Connor, three strippers, one hot tub—yeah, it was definitely Vegas."

  "The media is having a field day with that one," she says, shaking her head. "Did you see the way he was boasting in front of the camera, pounding his chest like Tarzan? Who does that?"

  It's true, that video didn't cast Connor in a favorable light—scandalous, boastful, and with an ego that borderlines narcissistic.

  "I don't know," I say. "But I'm here to help him turn that all around."

  "Good," Lisa replies. "That's the right attitude. But you should also know that he's facing increased political opposition in St Albans from a local party—the Constitutionalists. You and George are going to have your work cut out for you,” she says, referring to my direct manager, George Brown.

  "Yes, and they want to do away with the Monarchy, correct?"

  "That's right; they believe the country should be overhauled. So the D'Avingtons are working extra hard to gain the trust of the people of St. Albans."

  As she's talking, I look down at my watch—I know, I know … I'm a Millennial who wears a watch. I like to be punctual okay? In fact, I'll admit that it borderlines on OCD. And according to the time, Prince D'Avington should be here any minute. We’re supposed to be meeting in the lobby of the U.N.

  "Lisa, I better go."

  "Good luck, the firm is depending on you," she says with a wink. “I know you’ll wow George with how you manage this one, babe,” she tells me. Her confidence seems unshakeable.

  No pressure.

  I wave goodbye to Lisa and look around the lobby. I see various men in suits walking past flags representing a number of different countries, and I wonder how late the Prince is going to be. Chronic lateness is a pet peeve of mine.

  Honestly, it's a huge turn off.

  But I don't wonder for long because all of a sudden I hear gasps erupting around the lobby and a crowd forming. There appears to be a man falling from the sky with a parachute on his back, and he's headed straight for the UN lobby.

  I squint and try to get a better look.

  Recreational skydivers aren't allowed to jump from planes into New York City, are they? So who could this man be, and what is he trying to do?

  I'm standing near the large glass doors, squinting at the sky as the figure of the man draws closer and closer …

  This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  People are frozen. They’re pointing, but most are fleeing.

  I mean, some guy starts coming out of the sky, you’re first thought is to get the hell out of there
.

  Wait, I should be running too.

  I mean, the guy is headed straight for the lobby.

  And then the startling realization hits me … that guy swooping down… it's Connor D'Avington.

  What the fuck is he doing?

  Within a minute I watch as he crashes through the glass. My knee-jerk reaction is to squint my eyes shut. I don't want to watch him get hurt. I hear people scream and scramble out of the way. I can even hear a young child crying off in the distance. Then Connor bursts through a pane of glass, tumbles into the lobby in a spectacular summersault, and jumps to his feet within a mere 10 feet from me.

  I’m cringing, shielding myself from any flying shards.

  Please don’t let today be the day I die. I’m too young!

  Eventually, I open my eyes to see the man get up and remove his helmet. He sees me and smiles.

  Of course he would. I’m the only one fool enough to still be standing in the lobby. Never late for a meeting, right?

  "You must be Natalie," he smiles, walking over to me with an outstretched hand. "I'm Connor D'Avington, Prince of St. Albans."

  The first thing I notice is that he’s even more handsome in real life than he is on the Internet. His blonde hair is windswept from the fall, no doubt, and his eyes are the color of a clear summer sky.

  But I shake those thoughts from my head. I have a job to do. I have a zero margin for error, and here he is, crashing through the UN. Security will be here any minute to see what this mess and racket is about, and I'm sure at least half a dozen people probably recorded the whole thing on their phones and uploaded it to Facebook … or YouTube.

  Hell, it's probably already going viral.

  "I know who you are," I say, not amused. "You're a loser, and you're late."