Home > Prince With Benefits A Billionaire Royal Romance

Prince With Benefits A Billionaire Royal Romance
Author: Nicole Snow



Cinderella had it easy. I'm lying to millions of people, and it's all Silas' fault.

Yes, that Silas. Billionaire. Prince. Scandals galore. Downright royal bastard.

Everything that screams run. If only it weren't for his rock hard edges and wild tattoos, tempting anything female on all seven continents.

But I don't care about his looks. Really.

Our deal is simple. He needs a pretty little lie, a wife to cover up his dirty deeds. I need a fortune to buy the treatment that just might save my father's life.

Match made in hell? Totally, and I'm going to make it work.

No, I'm not stupid. I'm not getting played by this billionaire prince. Forget his banter, his charms, the rumors I've heard about his ridiculously over-sized...ego.

What's that phrase he teases me with - Prince with benefits? Not in a billion years.

Yes, I'll lie for him. But I swear, my panties are absolutely, positively not melting every time I imagine his kiss...


It's almost perfect. An engagement with an American girl, desperate as she is beautiful. Anything goes with Erin, except one rule.

Her body's off limits. She's joking, right?

Charming any girl I want into my bed doesn't mean a thing when there's only one on my mind.

I want Miss Make Believe. My fake, sassy, sexy fiancee. She, who says 'no,' and makes me so obsessed I'm about to trade in my designer suit for a straitjacket.

I convinced her to wear my ring, easy. I'll get her clothes off next. Show her what the world's most infamous player does when he's on fire. Then I'll move on.

No more playing castle. I'll have my Princess with benefits on her knees, treating me like royalty...






Tripped Up (Erin)



“Look, I know American reporters, and their little interns. I've worked with plenty. You think you can get away with anything as soon as the cameras roll, but let me remind you again. We have rules. No flash, no interruptions, and absolutely no unauthorized social media. His Highness keeps a very strict media presence, and it's my privilege to enforce it.”

How I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at this pompous, self-absorbed bitch, I'll never know.

Serena Hastings flips her long blonde hair back, giving me the stink eye one last time, before she moves through the gaggle of media and finally takes her seat.

Eyeballing the stage, I'm wondering if I made a huge mistake taking my summer off campus to come to Saint Moore.

It's my father's crowning career achievement, though. An interview with Prince Silas Erik Bearington the Third.

It isn't hard to understand dad's excitement. It's taken his whole life to get here, and I'm just along for the ride. A very hellish, testing-my-patience-every-damned-day kind of ride.

From the brutal jet lag flying from LA across the Atlantic, to the correspondence dinners where I have to be on my best behavior to avoid embarrassing him, to the constant entourage around the palace who think they're sent by God...sweet Jesus.

Now, I'm sitting here in these stupid heels that are way too tight, wishing for a miracle. What comes next dwarfs everything.

Don't worry, dad said. He told me he'd show me how it's done. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, didn't I?

When the lighting adjusts and a hot, narrow beam shines on my face, pulling sweat from my pores, I really have to wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.

Of course, dad isn't even sweating before his interview with Prince Playboy himself begins. Yes, that Prince.

The twenty-something, six foot and then some giant who's scandalized several continents. The Prince who's brought the tabloids and dirty blogs more gossip than a hundred celebrity wardrobe malfunctions.

He, who my friends used to swoon over during late night truth-or-dare sessions in our freshmen year dorm, putting him at the top of most eligible celeb bachelors they'd love to have between the sheets. A man I've never been able to stand, much less crush on. A living argument against any country having kings and Queens in modern times, when all they're likely to get out of it are media scoundrels.

Prince Charming, Prince Skirt Chaser, Prince Hung, and a thousand other names.

The Prince, the bastard, the legend.


“One minute, Mister Warwick!” the camera man shouts to my father as he climbs up onto the stage, taking one of the two empty chairs beneath the halo.

The other, with the gold and burgundy back, is reserved for the devil himself. I wonder if he's going to walk into this interview late, and throw my dad one more complication.

That would be just like him, wouldn't it? It's not like he takes this Prince thing seriously. It's just the world's biggest license to be a dick, to drink and fuck himself stupid every chance he gets. That's what the blogs have told me, anyway.

None of it fazes dad, ever the professional. He sits up there in his finest suit, his silver hair slicked back, the same prim smile on his lips that I've seen him use in a hundred interviews growing up.

Game time. It's the look that makes me wonder if I'm really cut out to follow in his footsteps. He's wearing the calm, measured, controlled mask I've tried to don before, and failed every time.

I don't have to wonder long because there's new commotion surging through the room. The door off to the side opens, and in walks four strong men in designer suits, the Bearington family crest pinned to their lapels in royal purple and gold. It's a double-headed eagle holding a crown.

A taller, younger, stronger man steps out between them. They part like water, making way for His Highness.

My heart skips a beat. It's him. For real.

Prince Silas, arriving in all his smug, unwavering, damnably sexy glory.

Okay, so maybe the SOB really is what they say in the looks department. If I had any doubt, it's blown to pieces, now that he's quickly stepping toward the stage, taking the five stairs up in two big strides.

My father stands respectfully, extending a hand. The Prince takes it, towering over him by nearly a whole foot, and dad isn't a short guy.

“Charmed, Mister Warwick.” The Prince has that foreign, not-quite-English accent everybody in the kingdom does, except his is somehow thicker, more refined.

“It's my honor, Your Highness. I've been looking forward to this for a long time,” dad says, nodding.

“Twenty seconds!” Another cameraman roars out, flinching for a second in the hopes that his interruption hasn't upset the Prince.

Based on what I've read, I don't think that's even possible. Nothing upsets him. He basks in every scandal and fresh jab the media takes at him like they're triumphs.

They both take their seats across from each other. I can't believe they look so casual, like it's the most natural thing in the world, when there's so much on the line.

If dad pulls this off, he's going to be seen by billions over the next week. Serena, bitch that she is, has reminded us since day one that the Royal Press Corps is looking for a new American correspondent. And with rumors swirling about how much longer Queen Marina will continue to rule before passing the crown to her grandson, my father could be front and center at the Bearington's wild court for a very long time to come.

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