My Stepbrother, His Highness: A Royal Stepbrother Billionaire Bad Boy Romance Read online

  My Stepbrother, His Highness

  A Royal Stepbrother Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

  Victoria Cabot

  Sinful Selections Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Silas

  2. Becca

  3. Silas

  4. Becca

  5. Silas

  6. Becca

  7. Silas

  8. Becca

  9. Silas

  10. Becca

  11. Silas

  12. Becca

  13. Silas

  14. Becca

  15. Silas

  16. Becca

  17. Silas

  18. Becca

  19. Silas

  20. Becca

  21. Silas

  22. Becca

  23. Silas

  24. Becca

  25. Silas

  26. Becca

  27. Becca - Epilogue

  Note From The Author

  About the Author

  Rent With Benefits

  Copyright

  The Meeting

  The Deal

  The Price

  The Call Out

  Fringe Benefits

  The Tip

  The Rest Of The Iceberg

  The Bodyguard

  The Date

  The Goal

  The Confession

  The Fight

  The Jon

  The Couple

  The Duty

  My Stepbrother, His Highness

  A Royal Stepbrother Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

  By Victoria Cabot

  Copyright 2016 by Victoria Cabot

  All rights reserved

  Kindle Edition

  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.

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  This book is dedicated to the Prince in my life. I’d be nowhere without you, babe.

  1

  Silas

  I gulped the 200-year old aged scotch whiskey and pondered just how much of an asshole the airport officials at Lambert-St. Louis Airport had to think I was to have to take over the usage of one of their runways on an unscheduled stop because my personal jet was too big to fit the runways or hangar of the private airfield.

  Other people with planes used the private airport, like good little billionaires. But that was too small for me.

  Yeah, too large, I thought to myself with a smirk. Like my ten-inch cock was too big for the slut I banged last night.

  I had partied till dawn and gotten on my plane to sleep off the effects of the booze and the women. Despite the fact that my father, the Honorable King Percival D'Avington had decreed I was to take some time to cool off outside of the heady heights of St. Penares, I knew I could squeeze in a big bash before I left. Hell, all I needed was a steady supply of booze and music, the women were already lined up to throw themselves, flaunt themselves, and shuck themselves at me... all to get a moment alone with the prince. They gave fuck all about their dignity and chastity, these noble ladies, some of whom were from the oldest royal families of St. Penares and greater Europe. And they were just hungry for my cock. Who was I to deny them their request?

  I had left 'O', the nightclub that I had purchased a year ago and made my own personal bacchanalia most nights -- sometime after seven in the morning. I had fucked the daughter of a Baron, and then the lovely Lady Gigi had joined in the fun in the VIP area. I slept most of the flight across the Atlantic and then did some calisthenics and weights to work out the toxins. I had learned to work out in tight quarters in Afghanistan, and it kept my body lean and hard.

  And I was a sight to fucking behold - a prince among men both figuratively and literally. I stood 6' 4", imposing on others with my presence whenever I came into a room. Royal genes had given me looks that would make any man jealous, no matter how big a cock he had or how big his bank account.

  Male models? They couldn't match my ripped physique, with muscles rippling out my biceps, delts, triceps, or my fucking 8 pack abs and cut pecs.

  Gigolos? They had nothing on the 10-inch cock swinging between my legs, thick as a soda can, veiny, and ready to please any damsel in distress. And in distress they were, when they saw my royal ice blue eyes, my tattoos up and down my body, my warrior physique, or when they heard my fucking title.

  Billionaires? Got nothing on me. I had billionaires working for me. I was the definite leader of the motherfucking pack - I took what I wanted, whether that was women, status, or accolades.

  Of course, the realm of commoners, with their disability of being so dreadfully common and boring couldn't take my greatness. The tabloids had had a wonderful couple of years. Entertainment Tonight, CNN, Bloomberg, NDTV, SkyNews, National Enquirer all built extra offices and must have hired people to keep up with my antics. "Prince of the Party" they called me after a particularly long booze-fueled orgy I had on a yacht on the River Tiber outside of Rome's Vatican City. "Prince Hung" Fox News dubbed me after I got on stage at a Kravitz concert and flashed my cock out to the adoring fans who went wild. "Prince Player" ET named me after they spotted me with five women in five nights.

  Yes, it was good to be the fucking prince, they all fucking thought. That's all they ever knew and that's all they ever wanted to know. So, why not give the masses exactly what the fuck they want. I had no problem with that.

  "Pearson?" I called out and from the aft compartment of the 747 my personal servant and assistant since I was 10 popped out. He was an older gentleman of the old school. Back in Vietnam, he had fought with the Americans. Killed a bunch of Commies and then taken five years and backpacked across the world. Staked a claim on a Thai girl in Chiang Mai and learned to speak the language. He had a son who was a Royal Marine commander stationed in St. Penares. He had decided to get into Royal service after moving to St. Penares when his wife died away and saw on the news how my mother was passing away as the cancer began to eat all her insides.

  I got to hand it to that man, he was there when I needed family. When I needed a mother, Pearson was right there. When I needed a father, there was Pearson. But above all, when I needed a friend, Pearson was right there. When my mother died at 10, I would have wanted to curl up in my room and never leave. He taught me the importance of my role and how I needed to be strong for the nation.

  When my dad married again, Pearson taught me how I needed to accept and move on. My father had a duty to the nation, and the nation could not be governed by a widow and his son. There needed to be a feminine touch to the kingdom. My father had been at the Olympics in Athens and had met some American woman from St. Louis - Samantha Ewing. She was eight years younger than him but the two had hit it off like nobody's business. They were in love in a month and married by that summer. Fucking crazy right? The look I saw in my father’s eyes was like nothing I had ever seen for my mother - but then again that had been an arranged marriage, as was still common among the nobility.

  "Yes, Your Highness?" Pearson said, approaching me from the aft of the plane. I could tell the plane was making its final descent into the St. Louis airspace.

  "Do we have the coordinates ready?" I asked.

  He nodde
d. "All set, sir, although as per usual, I wouldn't advise that you drink as you carry this out."

  I laughed out loud and downed the glass of scotch. I poured out another one and gulped that down too. The amber liquid burned on its way down and then warmed me all over. I needed another drink and poured one more, gulping it down. Pearson looked at me in disapproval.

  "What?" I asked shrugging. "It's going to be fucking cold. This will warm me up, mate."

  Pearson said nothing, setting the flight suit on the leather chair across from me. "If you say so sir, you're all set to get suited up."

  My father wanted me to go stay with my stepsister Becca? That's exactly what he was going to get. There was a limo and retinue ready and waiting at Lambert airport to take me to the house that she and my stepmother had lived in before moving to St. Penares. Apparently Becca still lived there, as she prepared to continue her graduate studies at the university nearby after graduating from University this year. Her graduate studies were in Art and I had literally only seen her once - during the wedding. She was a bridesmaid for her mother and only 13 years old. I was a few years older, but had no interest in the gangly little kid who was all arms and legs. I didn't know what my father intended to accomplish with this temporary exile.

  "You need to get your bearings, son," he had said in his study as he told me of my banishment. "You're becoming a national disgrace. Nothing but fodder for the Free Republic wing of Parliament to point to and say why the nation should abolish the 1900-year-old monarchy."

  "I'll change my ways, just don't send me to the middle of nowhere," I had protested.

  My father had been firm. He was dignified and regal. Cut from the same cloth as Pearson. His word was his bond and his word was final. "I need you to be around a calming influence. Samantha suggested you spend some time with your stepsister. She never wanted to be a princess, and in fact, aside from light security, she's never been anything but a model royal. Out of sight, engaged in something she's passionate about, and most importantly, not having her picture splashed across newspapers and television screens worldwide."

  "She just hasn't lived yet," I said with a smirk.

  My father held up the St. Penares Daily - our newspaper along with a copy of the New York Post. Both had a picture of me climbing out through the moon roof of a stretch Hummer limousine while two women - one a Lady and the other a hooker had their hands down my pants. I had on a suit coat with my shirt nearly all unbuttoned. My tattoo was showing and I had a bottle of champagne in each hand. I winced. The St. Penares Daily had a caption, "The Next Prince Is Already King of the World." Fucking Titanic.

  "If this is what you mean by living, son, then no, she hasn't lived yet. And I want you to learn from her," he said, his mind already made up.

  "When can I come back?" I asked.

  "You'll have access to your trust fund and all royal privilege, but I don't want you back until you're either ready to marry and can tell me who, or you've calmed down a bit and can assume the title of King without the entire nation going into shock."

  "This is all about getting married isn't it?" I asked, realizing that perhaps the old King had been pushing me this way all the time. First he had told me I needed to settle down. Then he had given me a list of noble ladies across Europe that I should choose from to get married to. When none of that worked, he had waited patiently until the media storm got to be so loud and now he was shipping me off.

  Well, I may not be in freewheeling St. Penares, but I was sure bringing some of it with me if I had to stay with Becca for an extended period of time.

  The 747 was cruising over St. Louis, in contact with the folks at Lambert Airport. They had had to divert regularly scheduled passenger planes because I was coming in and flying under the flag of diplomatic immunity. So they had to take me, but they didn't have to be nice or polite about it. Overfed airport workers gave snide answers to each comment. It had pissed me off. I decided the plane would land and park at the airport, sure. But not me.

  No, I was going to jump from the sky and land in the front door of my sister's house. Pearson had sighed at first when I told him my plan. I had couched it in terms of helping me get the alcohol out of my system and sobering me up. I had been drinking as soon as I woke up. Hey, it was an airplane flight. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?

  Now, I got up and took off my shirt and pants. I squeezed my cock, wondering what kind of friends Becca had and if they had ever dreamed of fucking a prince before. The last I had seen her was as that gangly 13-year old and I hoped she wasn't some fat graduate student who had no friends.

  Deep down, I also felt a sense of excitement - can't deny it - that I was going to get a chance to meet with my stepsister again. She had voluntarily given up the trappings of royal power. Sure, she visited St. Penares at times during the summer, but I was always away - either at school, the Army, or abroad. This would be the first time I would actually get a chance to see her. I knew that her visits were only a week or so and that because of her mother, Samantha, she had wanted to carve out some space of her own. In a way, I envied her.

  I had put on my flight suit and I gestured towards Pearson. Taking a deep breath, he nodded and began walking towards the back of the plane, towards the cargo hold. He was going to close off the main cabin and depressurize from there, so none of the finery would blow out with me. The plane was low enough to the ground that it wouldn't be hard to open the hatch, drop me off, and then close off and land at the airport. Let those chumps figure out where the Prince had gone off to.

  "Are you sure, Your Highness?" Pearson asked.

  I nodded.

  "Are you ready, then?" he asked with a sigh. I nodded again.

  He strapped himself in to prevent himself from getting sucked out, and without any warning he pushed the button to open the cargo hatch.

  I had two seconds to wish I had brought the bottle of scotch with me but none of that was a concern any longer as I felt myself getting sucked out of the airplane with a sudden whoosh. Before I knew it, I was in the sky, free-falling towards the ground. Thoughts of alcohol, women, war wounds, and royalty went out my head and I became an insignificant little speck of biological matter hurtling towards the ground at dizzying speeds.

  I had the destination coordinates for Becca plugged into my wrist and it showed me the bearings I needed to get to from where I was. I began making course corrections, all the while trying to keep the fear of seeing the ground getting closer and closer from overwhelming me. My heart was racing at 2000 beats a minute and I knew one wrong move and 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 started beeping and flashing red. I was too far off course! I began to panic. If I didn't correct myself in time, the parachute wouldn't open properly. I focused. The ground kept coming closer and closer.

  Just when it seemed ready to consign myself to death, I managed to hit a jet stream and was able to angle my body to move just right. I glided several yards north and changed my trajectory so that I was no spot on. My wrist indicator went from red to green.

  Time to deploy the chute.

  I tugged at the drawstring and the chute came out. But in my struggle to get the proper bearing, I had waited too long. It was going to be a rough landing.

  2

  Becca

  “Becca, watch this!” Tommy yelled as he jumped into the above ground pool.

  I winced as a giant splash of water crested out. Tommy was a little on the heavy side but at only 10-years old he was more interested in using his weight to make cannonball splashes than working off what was still hopefully baby fat.

  “Very good, Tommy,” I called back to him. His mother was working in the city and the sitter had called out sick so she had come asking me. I didn't have the heart to turn her away and Tommy and I had always gotten along rather well. By himself, he could be a handful, but since school
was out for the summer, he had some friends come over and I told them that as long as I was outside they could play in the pool.

  I didn’t mind. If it made some children happy, it was worth it to me. Plus, it gave me a chance to catch up on my portfolio. I had just finished college and was about start my first year of graduate school for Art History, and that meant that on Day One I had to have my portfolio ready and up to snuff. I looked at the blank canvas in front of me and sighed. So far, that’s all I had. I was having trouble concentrating and finding focus to be able to get paint onto canvas to create anything. As much as it would make me chuckle, watching Tommy and his friends jumping into above-ground pools was not enough to get my mental juices flowing.

  Add to that the fact that I had gotten a call from mother two days ago telling me that none other than Prince Silas was going to be coming to visit, and possibly staying for a while. Why someone the media had dubbed “The Prince of the Party” and “The Prince of Passion” was coming to a suburb of St. Louis was beyond me. I had seen him maybe twice. Once when I was 13 when mom got married to the King. The second time I had seen him was four years ago. He hadn't known me or seen me. But he made his presence known.

  I was coming over during Spring Break from college with some of my girlfriends after they had pestered me nonstop during the semester. We hit the beaches and it quickly became clear to me why my girlfriends had been so intent on coming to St. Penares as opposed to any other island. There, standing fresh from a tour of duty deployment in Afghanistan stood my shirtless stepbrother. Over six feet of pure tattooed muscle. He was out on the water, in a yacht. I had begged and pleaded with my mother to keep my arrival a secret and she had – only telling her husband, the King, that I was visiting. My reasons were simple. I didn't think I was cut out for any of the royal duties that came naturally to King Percival, Prince Silas, or even my mom. I was just some kid from Missouri whose mom got married somehow to a King. I was afraid of the cameras and kind of shy. My heart literally sped up whenever anything royal was involved.