Obviously, if I had realized how hot Belle was going to be, I’d have paid significantly more attention.  I didn't even know she was going to be in Vegas – or that I was going to be in Vegas.  It was an impromptu week of debauchery with my friends.  I'd tired of Europe, and what better place for debauchery with American women than Las Vegas?  I had no idea who she was when I met her – it wasn't until we signed the wedding paperwork that I recognized her last name.  And by then, well, I was too drunk to care.

“How did you know I was in Africa?” she asks.

I shrug, the gesture more nonchalant than I feel.  So what if I did a little research on her after the Vegas trip?  It’s not every day that a girl I spend all night just talking to – and marry, no less – ditches me and runs off without so much as a see you later.

I found out that Belle had been off the radar for two years, doing some charity work in Africa.  She’d only been back in the United States for a few days before the infamous Vegas trip.  And I found out that she was Sofia Kensington’s daughter.

“Do you really think I’m not going to check out the background of a girl I married?”  I ask, holding up my hand to stop her from interrupting.  “I found out who you were after the fact.”

“But you knew who I was before this announcement today,” she says, a look of horror coming over her face.  “You knew that I was your new…”

“Stepsister?” I ask.

“Oh my God,” she says, her hand covering her mouth.  “I’m totally going to vomit.”

“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” I say.

“You think I’m being dramatic?” she asks, her voice going up an octave.  “I got whisked away on a private jet, taken to a palace, and told that my mother is going to marry a king.  And that the hot guy I spent a night hanging out with in Vegas – and married, by the way – is my new stepbrother.”

“Hot guy?” I ask.

“What?” she asks, looking at me blankly, her hands on her hips.

“You just said I was hot.”

She looks taken aback.  “I totally did not.”

“Uh, I beg to differ,” I say.

“You’re completely delusional if you think I said you were hot,” she protests.  “You’re hearing things.”

“I know what I heard,” I tell her.  “If you like, I’ll get the security footage and play it back to show you.  You called me a hot guy.  You should just admit it.”

Her eyes go wide.  “There are cameras on us in here?”

“Lighten up, luv,” I say, rolling my eyes.  “I think you’re the most tightly wound woman I’ve ever met in my life.  I was kidding.  There are no cameras.  My father has a thing about us not being watched – the only cameras in this place are in the public rooms."

“Don’t do that,” she says, shaking her head.

“Don’t joke?” I ask.  “You’re going to have to get a sense of humor if you’re going to make it in a palace, luv.”

“That,” she says.  “Don’t call me luv,” she says.  “Just because we spent a night doing tequila shots in Vegas doesn’t mean you get to do that.  You don’t get to give me pet names.”

“Luv,” I say, drawing the word out more slowly, my voice more gravely than I’d like, the arousal in my tone more evident than it should be.  “Luv.  I like how it just rolls off the tongue.  You’re going to beg me to call you luv.”

“I can promise you that I’m never going to beg you to call me anything.”

“And I can promise you that I’m not going to let you come until you ask me to call you luv.  Politely, too.  Like a lady.”

“You’re a real piece of work,” she says, shaking her head.  But at least she’s smiling.  “Do you get slapped a lot?”

“Is that what you’re into?” I ask, looking her over.  “I could have guessed that you’d be into some kinky shit.”

“Oh my God, I am not into any kinky shit,” she says.

“I don’t believe you, luv,” I say.  It’s always the nice-looking ones, the most straight-laced, prim-and-proper ones, who are the wildest in the sack.  Although that might not be true in this case.  Little Miss Do-Gooder seems to have quite the stick up her ass.

“Well, you’re never going to find out,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she shakes her head.  She looks at me, her nose wrinkling like she’s smelling something bad.  “Do women fall for this whole Casanova act?”

“Works like a charm,” I say.  I don’t have to do much actual work to get women to take off their panties.  It’s one of the benefits of being royalty.

Life is a buffet of pussy, and I’m a damn connoisseur.

“Well, just so you know,” she says.  “That is not on the table here.”

“What’s not on the table?” I ask.  “Sex?  I wasn’t thinking of fucking you on the table, luv.  Not the first time, anyway.  I’d take my time with you, the first time.  Or maybe not.  You seem like you'd like it hard and rough – something public, maybe?  The threat of getting caught turns you on, doesn’t it?”

She interrupts, holding up her hand to silence me.  “I just left an irresponsible, no-good, womanizing dickhead.  And, well, okay, so I apparently drunkenly married another one in what’s, in retrospect, an extremely regrettable incident.  But there’s no going to be no fucking happening here.  There’s going to be no coming.  In fact, I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were literally the last prince on earth.”

I can’t help but smile, and I don’t even try to hide it.  “I’m going to remind you that you said that.”

“You won’t need to remind me,” she says.  “Because I’m not going to forget it.  Why are you smirking?  It’s so annoying.  I just said I wasn’t going to sleep with you.  How is that remotely funny?”

I shrug.  “What can I say?” I ask.  “You’re amusing.  I enjoy a challenge.”

I can’t even recall the last time anyone told me no.  That’s one of the benefits – or drawbacks, depending on your perspective – of being royalty, too.  No one ever says no, no matter how ridiculous the request.  You have hundreds of people dedicated to carrying out your every ridiculous whim.

It sounds fantastic.  But honestly, it’s really fucking boring.

When was the last time a girl told me no?

When was the last time a girl didn’t know who I was when she met me?  Or spent a night with me, laughing and talking drunkenly because she thought she’d never see me again?

That’s happened exactly once in my life.

It just doesn’t happen when you’re a prince.

“That’s so patronizing,” she says.

“What is?”

“Calling me amusing.  Implying that I’m a challenge,” she says.  “I’m not an obstacle course.”

I open my mouth to say something about exactly what obstacles on her I’d like to climb, but she glares at me, speaking before I can.

“Don’t even say it.”

“What?” I ask innocently.

“You were about to make some disgusting, reprehensible comment,” she says.

“You’re so observant,” I say.  “Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking?”

“Ugh.  No,” she says.  “How are you even a prince?  Aren’t princes required to maintain some sort of regal bearing?”

“That’s for public, luv,” I say.  “All bets are off in private.”

“Somehow I doubt you’re any different in a public setting,” she says.  “So how are we going to take care of this catastrophe?”

“What catastrophe are you referring to, exactly?” I ask.  “The one where are parents are getting married, sis?”

“Do not speak that word again,” she says.

“Sis?” I ask.  “But we’re going to be related now.  Would you prefer that I call you wife?”

“Both of those words are off-limits.”

“There’s a giant list of things that are off-limits with you, aren’t there?”  I ask.  “Has anyone told you that life’s a lot more fun if you loosen up a little bit?”

“You’re loose enough for both of us.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say to your husband.”

“Stop calling yourself that,” she says.  “It’s a fake marriage.  We were intoxicated.  How could they marry us?  I don’t think it’s even legal to get married while drunk.”