Someday My Prince Will Come (in a HOT new novel underway now!)

BrutallyHandsomeWell, so to speak.  I might as well spill the beans on my work-in-progress.  Go on and steal it, copycats!  I’ll still do a better job on it, just like I did with “the football story” that everyone was suddenly writing after I started posting GTC.  🙂

OK so who is this HAWT dude next door to this sentence?  I don’t know who he is in reality, but in a few paragraphs, I’ll tell you who he is to me.

So, I was talking a while ago with a friend of mine.  We both have an interest in artificial intelligence, and he forwarded me a story about Netflix and its genre descriptions.  I read the article and looked at the charts, and it was funny to see what the top keywords were in so many searches:

Favorite Subject: Marriage and Royalty

Favorite Adjective:  Romantic

Favorite Location:  Europe

So I write him back and joked, “Well, crap, if that’s where the money is, then the next Brad Vance novel should be about two European princes who fall in love and get gay-married!”

Be careful what you wish for!  Suddenly I had an idea.  Like, suddenly I was taking it seriously.  And now, “A Great Prince” is underway.  I’m willing to spill the beans on this because, well, I’m making some positive changes in my life, which includes, FINALLY, writing a heteromance under another pen name, since I’ve found some folks who are going to to be “Rose and Sherry” to my “Dane” and help me get it out there.  More details to come on that later for sure 🙂  So even if someone steals the basic concept and gets first-to-market with gay princes, well, fuck ’em.  I have other irons in the fire now.  I’ll be tag-teaming development on this one at the same time as the heteromance.

So.  There aren’t two princes after all, because one is a Prince and one is already a young King.  And this guy, in the picture?  Well, he’s Nikolas.  Who’s Nikolas?  Well, read on…here for your Friday breakfast pleasure is some rough draftage of “A Great Prince.”

YES.  It’s true.  I had my fun with “Apollo’s Curse” and proved I could write sexless romance.  Now it’s back to HOT SEXIN’!  No, not in the excerpt, not yet, but it’s buildin’ to a boilin’, I guarantee it!  DO PLEASE Let me know how you like it so far!



His Royal and Imperial Highness, Prince Franz Albert, Heir to the House of Habsburg-Esterhazy and the Throne of Burgenland, had a very bad case of sweaty palms.

It was not his first time speaking in front of a crowd. Far from it. He had delivered his first speech at the age of six, to a crowd of farmers at a rural horse show. He had only stumbled once over his short, memorized speech, for which he was appropriately punished.

In fact, you couldn’t even call this a crowd. For a short period in January, the World Economic Forum in Davos was the center of world power. And those who paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to attend had better things to do than actually listen to the speeches.

Franz Albert had figured it out the first day. People only sat in because it was a quiet place to commune with their smartphones. The whole Davos experience was about networking, being seen and heard, not about listening quietly.

The front of the hall was nearly empty. Most of the audience sat near the back, where they could make a quick and discreet exit when they wanted to.

And why shouldn’t they? Prince Franz Albert was just another talking head, with another prepared speech, hot air prereleased to the media – “Our commitment to progressing forward into the challenging future blah blah, blah blah blah.”

But today would be different. And that was why his palms were sweating.

Princes do not sweat. They might perspire. No, not even that, Franz Albert had been taught. So how could he wipe his hands on the legs of his suit when everyone was watching? And when you were a prince, everyone was watching. Always.

“Remember Trollope?” Sonia had asked him on the phone, when he’d called her backstage for one last confidence boost.

He remembered Anthony Trollope’s novels. Just before entering drawing rooms full of their enemies, young people fortified themselves with a simple thought.

“They cannot eat me,” he replied.

“Remember, you are in charge. You will be King of Burgenland, a nation where the King still rules.”

It was true. He would be King, and Burgenland was, like Liechtenstein, one of the few states left in Europe where the monarch was more than a figurehead. Not an absolute monarch, but a very powerful one. Even monarchs of old had to answer to their nobles. In Burgenland, the King answered to the bankers – the world’s new aristocrats.

And to the Palace. The Imperial bureaucracy was referred to as “the Palace,” as if they held the power and not the King. Well, it felt that way sometimes. God knows their wrath would fall on his head after this…

“Yes, Governess,” he laughed, addressing her as he had all through his youth.

“Good. Now go tear them a new asshole.”


He had a pleasant speaking voice, deep and strong, and his English was flawless. Nobody would misunderstand him. He took a breath and began to read the “secret speech,” the one he had written himself.

“The theme of this Forum is ‘Global Cooperation for Leveraging Synergy.’ Global cooperation sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Like a scene from Doctor Seuss, with all the Whos in Whoville, holding hands and singing to enlarge the heart of the Grinch.

“But what does global cooperation actually entail? Nations around the globe cooperate to exploit natural resources, help the rich dodge taxes, launder immoral earnings, enable slavery, and deliberately widen the gap between rich and poor.”

Heads looked up. The seasoned veterans of many a conference knew something was off, because he was actually saying something.

“The titans of government, industry, and media don’t meet here to solve the world’s problems. No. Just to keep them manageable, so they don’t impact their own comfort and power.”

Now people were stirring. Phones were raised and cameras turned on.

“And my government, my country, is as guilty as anyone. We are enablers. Our secretive banking system is one of the linchpins of global corruption…”

He didn’t speak long. Five minutes tops, he’d decided – long enough to get anyone to watch the whole YouTube video. Franz Albert was from an old royal line, but he was young and tech-savvy and knew all about short attention spans.

When he finished, there was scatted clapping, not because the speech was bad, but because the audience was in shock.

Behind the curtain once more, Franz Albert gave into his humanity and wiped the…yes, sweat from his brow. He had gone on stage and performed, just like his namesake, Francis Albert Sinatra. Whether or not he had knocked ‘em dead remained to be seen. But, he smiled, I did it my way.


His Most Gracious and Imperial Majesty, King Nikolas of Danubia, got low on his snowboard, aiming straight down the black diamond run. His security detail was back there somewhere, he supposed. Near a turn in the run, one of the paparazzi was hiding in the snow.

Some security detail I’ve got, he thought. This guy could have a gun instead of a camera.

With a twitch of his hips, he banked sharply, the heels of his feet digging into the mountain. The effect was like a belt sander on a piece of metal, frozen sparks flying through the air. He hoped it ruined the picture. (It didn’t – it showed Nikolas’ powerful form kicking up a spray of ice as if it were a wave he was surfing, another wonderful cover shot of His Sexy Majesty for the tabloids.)

He looked back. The paparazzo had fallen over in fright, and his security men were hunched over their skis, poles held tight to their bodies, trying to catch up with their King.

But he was too fast, even for those athletic men. Weighing over 200 and standing six foot three would be a liability if he’d wanted to be a trick rider, doing flips in a halfpipe – those guys were always astonishingly short. But for speed racing, size was an asset – the more you weighed, the faster you went downhill.

“I’m James Bond, bitches,” he whispered to himself. And they were the Bond villain’s henchmen, trying to run him down. But James Bond always won the race.

And he wasn’t that concerned about his safety here. This was Davos, after all. Anyone who didn’t look like a billionaire was probably detained by the Swiss police. Hell, if they hadn’t known I was a fucking King they would arrest me. I still look like a suspicious character.

Down in the flats, he started making S turns, little braking moves to slow himself down. His security detail formed back around him, two in front, two behind. Their half-unzipped jackets flapped in the breeze as they moved down the hill. Lots of jackets flapped in the breeze here in Davos, especially with this convention thing going on. Open coats provided easy access to holstered weapons. A half open coat, and no gloves, that was the giveaway.

Nikolas noticed things like that. Noticing things like that had kept him alive in the years when there was nobody to stop a man with a hand inside his jacket, staring him down, preparing to take a life.

Well, that was a long time ago. It had been five years since he’d been a fucking nobody, just a wannabe gengszter, a punk kid on the streets of Szombathely.

A girl squeaked as he just missed her by inches. Make way for the King, motherfuckers!

A caravan of snowmobiles discreetly pulled up as he came to a stop. There was already a man at his feet, whose sole job was to get Nikolas out of the quick release bindings on his board. Nikolas was lifting a foot before the man was done freeing it, knowing with royalty’s confidence that no obstacle would ever hinder him. The man was good – he’d dropped to his knees just as Nikolas stopped, both his hands flying to release the boots from the board.

“Thanks, man,” Nikolas said quietly. Manners had been very handy when he’d lived on the streets – disrespecting the wrong person was a quick ticket to the graveyard. And the habit was too ingrained now to discard, even if he wanted to. His servant nodded discreetly.

Also, he thought, you never know when you’ll be the servant again. Nothing lasts forever, not even a throne. Be nice on the way up, et cetera.

He hopped on the back of one of the snowmobiles. They were the new, electric ones, he noticed. Quiet, discreet, inoffensive. He frowned. Made in fucking Burgenland, of course. We don’t make anything in Danubia.

The snowmobiles took him and his detail to a waiting Rolls-Royce. It was parked in a No Parking zone, like so many cars in Davos, where rules were for other people, not for “Us.”

Barnabas was standing by the door, holding it open. The old scarecrow, Nikolas thought with affection at the sight of him. His long black cashmere coat might as well be a cape, the way it made him look like Dracula. How could Nikolas have ennobled him as anything but a Count?

“Your grace,” Barnabas croaked. “We are late for an appointment.”

Nikolas peeled off his coat and extended his hand. Someone was there to take it, of course. He ducked into the Rolls and threw himself into the far corner. A glass of Jack Daniels was already poured in a crystal glass, set on a lacquered wooden tray. The glass held two fingers’ worth of the whiskey – two of Barnabas’ fingers, exactly. A perfect measure as always, since Barnabas used the only two fingers he still had on his left hand.

His Lord Chamberlain slid in next to him, shut the door, and rapped on the glass to let the driver know it was time to go.

“Royalty is never late, Barnabas,” Nikolas said, savoring his drink. “The appointed time is the time at which Royalty arrives.” He was warm from his ride, and the drink. He pulled off his tight black Spider pullover, losing some of the heat he’d built up on his ride. Below that he wore a white, equally form-fitting UnderArmour t-shirt. He looked down at his own body with pleasure, knowing he could still carry off the tight stuff. Good living hadn’t made him fat yet. Like many who’d endured starvation early in life, it probably never would.

“Not when the appointment is with other royalty,” Barnabas said sarcastically. “Your grace,” he remembered to add.

Nikolas sighed. “So what, do I have to wear a suit or something?”

“Yes, your grace, you do. You are meeting the Crown Prince of Burgenland, and he will most certainly be wearing a suit.”

“I bet he will.” Nikolas thought of the pictures he’d seen over the years of “old Frankie,” as he called him. He was twenty, four years younger than Nikolas. But he looked about ten years older, always walking and talking like an old man. He was so stiff he made England’s Prince Charles look like a party animal.

“So,” Nikolas ventured. “Have you found me a good translator for this evening?”

Barnabas snorted. “Yes, your grace, a most capable ‘translator’ has been found for you. Quite to your taste.”

“Excellent.” The World Economic Forum talked a good game about gathering together to discuss stimulating ideas, but when so many powerful men gathered in one place, they wanted plenty of women around to cater to their needs. Of course, everyone pretended otherwise. Talk to a Russian hooker loitering in the lobby of the Belvedere or the National, and in her broken English she would always claim, “I am translator.”

He and his security entourage swept through the lobby of the Belvedere, just another world leader and his bulky friends – nothing to see here. In his room, he showered quickly and emerged from the bathroom in his towel.

But not until after he’d spent a minute examining himself in the mirror. He was twenty-four years old, and had the body of a man who’d lived a vigorous, rigorous life. There were scars from knife fights, scars from cigarette burns, one scar where a bullet had grazed his side. He hated that one the most; the crazy angle ruined the otherwise perfect symmetry of his six pack and the V shape at his hips.

He’d been lean and stringy in his early teens, from hunger and deprivation. Once he’d been taken in by the gangsters of Szombathely, where nobody went hungry, genetics kicked in. He shot up three inches and gained fifty pounds, all muscle.

He watched the droplets of water roll over his abs as he clenched them. Even the soft life of a King hadn’t spoiled his chiseled core. Yet. Lots of exercise, lots of sex, and of course some good coke now and then would keep him in fighting trim.

His dark eyes and hair, and his slightly olive skin, were the inheritance of Central Europe’s old clashes with the Muslim world. People said he looked like Novak Djokovic, or what the tennis player would look like if he put on about fifty pounds of muscle. He kept his hair buzzcut with the #2 clipper attachment. Which was most un-Royal, or so he was told by the world’s “royal watchers,” the media’s bottom feeders.

Well, fuck them, it’s my hair. And it’s good to be the King.

Back in the bedroom, Barnabas had laid out his clothes. The King dropped his towel shamelessly, and made a great show of tucking his very large endowment into his briefs, as if there was some doubt that it would fit. The briefs, however, were built to stretch.

He threw on the suit that Barnabas had laid out for him. “You’re a Count now, Barnie old pal. You shouldn’t be doing this sort of thing.”

“If I could find anyone I trusted to do it right, your grace, I surely would.”

Barnabas helped him tie his tie, more adept at it than Nikolas, even though Nikolas had two more fingers than the Count did.

Nikolas looked at himself in the mirror, and nodded. He looked pretty fucking great.

So why am I nervous? The thought flitted across his mind for just a moment. Then he smiled at himself. A cat may look at a King, and so why shouldn’t one King look at another?

Sure, Franz Albert was from a royal line that went back hundreds of years, but so was he. Just because his family got caught on the wrong side of the occupation zone in World War II didn’t make his blood any less noble than the other man’s.

Your mother was a Gypsy, though. His mother was a movie star.

He went to the minibar. Locked. “Barnabas. I need a mini before we go.”

“I’m sorry, your majesty, but you had a whiskey in the car. And there will be cameras downstairs.”

Nikolas sighed. “Well, in that case, let’s hurry up and do this so I can get my evening started properly.”


For this historic meeting, flash photography had been forbidden by the Palace. Franz Albert’s steel-blue eyes were sensitive to the light, just as his mother’s had been. The late Queen had forbidden the use of flashes as well.

As a movie star, Valerie Muller had been powerless to stop the press from blinding her, and she’d attended all premieres, awards ceremonies, and such like, wearing large sunglasses. But once she was a Queen, she could make the rules.

The entrance of both royals was meticulously choreographed. Neither would enter the Bistro Voila before the other. The two ships of state would turn and sail in together.

Franz Albert was experienced at this sort of thing. All his life they’d been preparing him for moments like these, and between his horsemanship, his military training, his dancing lessons and his etiquette tutor, he would never fall a step behind, or get a step ahead, of the man next to him.

Whether or not this should be the case had been a matter of great debate within the Palace. It exhausted Franz Albert, going to these meetings with these old queens and fusspots whose own sense of dignity was wrapped up in his, and the treatment he received.

“The so-called King of Danubia is a jumped-up street rat from a lesser branch of the Almásy. His mother was a Gypsy and…”

“The King of Danubia is a King,” another said. “To deny the precedence of a King over a Prince would be to jeopardize, why, the whole system!”

“And what could be worse than that…” Franz Albert muttered, to the consternation of the old biddies.

There was no “Palace” in Danubia to argue the point as exhaustively as it had been argued in Burgenland. Instead, the Danubian ambassador reported Burgenland’s request to King Nikolas, who laughed at the whole thing and said whatever was fine with him.

For that, Franz Albert envied him.


Nikolas had a different kind of training. He knew how to shadow a man down the street, without being noticed. He knew how to jump a man in an alley without being heard. And he knew how to walk behind a powerful man, close enough to protect him, to be seen to be with him, but not so close as to shame him by making him look weak and in need of protection.

He knew how to dance, too. Well, how to stage dive, which was a dance in itself. You had to read the crowd, you had to know who was watching, who would catch you, who wasn’t so fucked up on E they’d let you hit the concrete floor.

And so he, too, was ready for this dance.


Men with things in their ears communicated in low voices, and the two ships of state were pushed toward each other. They were to meet in front of the bistro doors, shake hands for a moment for the cameras, and then turn and walk, together, into the restaurant. There they would be left alone to make small talk for a few minutes – long enough for the photographers to depart, at any rate.

On cue, they walked toward each other. Both men smiled – Franz Albert stiffly, Nikolas loose, amused.

He’s a dry old stick, Nikolas thought, seeing his dance partner approach. Franz Albert was six foot two, a bit shorter than Nikolas, and about thirty to forty pounds lighter. Maybe 190, 195 pounds, he thought. But he was certainly fit. Nikolas could tell from the cords in the man’s neck, the sculpted planes of his face, his sharp jawline. It was the athleticism of the upper class, with just a touch of plumpness in the skin, no signs of any past suffering or deprivation. He was handsome, in a severe sort of way – like a model. Or a member of Kraftwerk, Nikolas smirked.

All the same, Franz Albert’s blue eyes really were astonishing. They were that Paul Newman blue, a pure bright gemlike color – exactly the same as his mother’s famous eyes. And they were so full of…something. Energy, life, and blazing intelligence.

They shook hands, and Franz Albert’s grip was strong. His hand was muscular, a swordsman’s hand. But the skin was soft, other than the calluses from various aristocratic sports – horseback riding, polo, fencing, no doubt.

All the same. At the touch, Nikolas felt a little something down there, below his guts and behind his cock. That pleasant tremor that promised much more pleasure if he didn’t let go.

Franz Albert’s eyes widened. He knew that Nikolas had lived a much harder life than he had. The King had been raised as a peasant by the former Communist regime, extracting great propaganda value by keeping his aristocratic family alive, the last of their line, and humiliating them at every turn. Humiliation which included forcibly marrying Nikolas’ father to a Gypsy woman.

But Franz Albert hadn’t been prepared for the rough thick paw that grasped his own soft hand. It was calloused and scaly as only a working man’s hands could be, and so very hot – it was like putting his hands into the warmers his servants kept ready for him after a day of skiing, only not soft and smooth. It was like being grabbed by a bear.

The pleasant tremor that Nikolas felt at the touch was an earthquake inside Franz Albert. My God, Nikolas was…beautiful. Radiantly handsome, with eyes, brow and nose possessing the finely drawn features of his aristocratic heritage. But below that, his lips, his jaw, were thick and sensual from his peasant ancestry, almost brutal, an animal snarl on his lips…

Those lips now curled into a knowing smirk, as he registered the surprise in Franz Albert’s eyes for what it was – lust. Why, he’s gay as a goose, Nikolas thought. From what he’d seen on TV and in magazines over the years, he’d always thought the Burgen Prince was a bit of a fusspot. But he’d been around enough aristos to know that fussy didn’t always mean gay. It sure does this time!

Franz Albert flushed as he realized that Nikolas was on to him. He cursed himself – all his life his training had taught him to hide his feelings, whether that feeling was boredom at a long reception line, irritation at an ear-bending dignitary…or blazing desire. Princes did not feel blazing desire, or at any rate, they did not give into it. They kept a stiff upper lip, as the English said.

His lip wasn’t the only thing getting stiff, to his horror.

“Your Majesty,” Franz Albert said, bowing to his social superior.

“Your Highness,” Nikolas replied, matching his bow as he gave the prince the slightly lesser honorific. “Shall we?”

They turned away from the crowd and Nikolas put his arm through Franz Albert’s, just like two old friends strolling through the park.

Nikolas’ big bicep was up against Franz Albert’s tricep, the baseball-sized muscle pressing insistently against him. Franz shivered with something he hadn’t felt since he was eighteen years old, a fresh faced foreign student at Sandhurst Royal Military Academy…

Nikolas was a student of bodies, of body language, and he felt Franz Albert melt, give in, and let Nikolas practically carry him into the room. The doors were shut behind them with great ceremony, and a single waiter attended a table in the otherwise empty bistro.

“Coffee, please,” Franz Albert said to the waiter when they were seated.

“Irish coffee for me, thanks,” Nikolas said, itching for the drink that Barnabas had denied him upstairs.

Franz Albert flushed. He felt like a Boy Scout, ordering coffee when this man was ordering alcohol. He envied Nikolas his devil-may-care attitude.

Nikolas saw it. “You can have a drink, you know. Nobody’s watching.”

“That’s not why I didn’t order one,” he said defensively. “I didn’t…I have other duties to attend to later.”

“Ah.” Nikolas put a hand on his napkin, held down by the heavy silverware. With a flashing motion, he snapped it out from under the silver like a magician pulling a tablecloth off a table full of dishes. He finished with a snap that billowed the napkin out, then let it settle on his thigh.

“A very nice trick,” Franz Albert said.

“Yes, thank you. I can show you how if you like.”

“No, thank you.”

Aren’t you a tight assed little bitch, Nikolas thought with indulgent good humor. I bet your hole is clenched so hard I couldn’t even get up in there… The thought made his large cock swell uncomfortably in his tight slacks, which surprised him.

Nikolas was straight. Well, mostly – if he watched porn, it would be straight porn. If he went out looking for sex, it would be with a woman. But. His friend Istvan had taught him years ago that pleasure is pleasure. He’d been shocked to discover that his fellow gangster was gay – Istvan had rolled with the toughest of them, and given and taken his share of beatings.

One night he and Istvan had a few drinks, then a few more, and they were ribbing each other good-naturedly when that ribbing turned into wrestling. And then Nikolas had pinned his smaller friend down, but when Istvan slipped his hand out from under Nikolas’ grip, it didn’t go to his attacker’s face, but to his crotch. There was a fever in his friend’s eyes that wasn’t from drink.

Nikolas had been shocked, but not so shocked he didn’t feel a surge of pleasure as Istvan stroked his cock through his jeans.

“Get on your back,” Istvan commanded, and Nikolas did so willingly. Propping his head up with his hands behind them, he watched in fascination as Istvan undid his belt, unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock…and then he closed his eyes as Istvan’s surprising expertise was put to work.

After that experience, he decided that if something handsome and willing (and talented) fell into lap, so to speak, well, why not? Who would deny the King’s pleasure?

All the same, this was…different. This wasn’t a pretty young thing throwing himself at the studly King. This was a, what? A challenge?

Franz Albert drank his coffee black, the aroma of Nikolas’ whiskey-laced beverage making him jealous. The waiter was well trained; as soon as the Prince turned his head in that direction, the man was there.

“I’ll have an Irish coffee as well, please.”

“And I’ll take another,” Nikolas said, emptying his cup. “And make his a double,” Nikolas called after the waiter.

“So I have some catching up to do with you, is that it?”

“I think you do, yes.”

Nikolas’ meaning was clear. He was the sexual expert, the Imperial Eagle indeed, and poor Franz Albert was a naive little rabbit, nibbling on a carrot with no idea what was sweeping down on him.

Franz Albert’s blue eyes narrowed. Who was this person, to treat me this way? Today I have already defied my father, my King, my handlers, with a speech that will rock the world. What is this man to me?

Those eyes were icy now, burning cold with Imperial rage, full of the power of his ancestors – kings and emperors, absolute monarchs, world shakers and remakers.

Nikolas felt the same chill that so many had felt over the centuries at that look. It reminded him that Franz Albert really was royalty, where he was just…a convenience for certain people.

“You might be surprised to find a level playing field there.”

Nikolas laughed, delighted. “No, I would have been surprised. But not anymore, your highness.”

There was no mockery in the honorific, only admiration for the steel Franz Albert had shown.

Then the moment was over – the doors had opened, and a not-so-discreet cough from a member of the Palace staff ruined everything. As always, Franz Albert thought.

“Your highness, we are expected at the reception for the ambassador’s…”

“We will be with you presently,” Franz Albert said.

Everything stopped. Even the waiter lost a step for a moment. Nikolas thought of an old, battered paperback he’d found in a box of trash on the streets, back when he was a teenager struggling to learn English. Dune had been such a cool story, it had motivated him to try harder. Istvan had translated the first few chapters for him, reading it aloud. Then he’d stopped, and insisted that Nikolas learn to read the rest himself. He punched Istvan for that, and Istvan punched him back, and then they wrestled, and then the book was forgotten, for a few hours…

But he had to know the rest of that story, of the desert rebels on a distant planet who defeated an Emperor and took power. And now he thought of the power of the “witches,” the religious order of the Bene Gesseret sisters, and the “power of voice” that they cultivated. “Voice” was a tone of command that could make any man obey unthinkingly, his body responding before his brain could think about it.

That was what he heard from Franz Albert just then. There’s steel in there, after all, Nikolas thought. His groin throbbed at the thought of it. All his partners since his coronation had been passive, receptive, bowing down all too willingly before the King. I would have to wrestle this one down to the ground.

“Of course, your highness,” the little man said, scurrying back out of the room, shutting the doors again.

Franz Albert dumped the little silver pot of creamer into his Irish coffee to cool it down, and knocked it back in one gulp.

“Rough day?” Nikolas asked him, sipping his own. The night ahead would be long, and he’d need his stamina. He was going to have to stick his dick in something tonight, more than once, to ease the pressure building up every moment he looked at Franz Albert. I want to see his throat swell up with my cock deep inside it. I want to tear those finely tailored slacks right at the seam over his ass and just…

“Yes. I gave a speech today. Not the speech I was supposed to give.”

“Ah. That’s highly irregular for royalty, I think.”

“It is. But there are things that needed to be said. Things that impact you and your country as well, I have to tell you.”


“I talked about the porous border between our nations. The flow of drugs and counterfeit merchandise and women transported into white slavery by the gangsters of your country…”

“No,” Nikolas said, and now he was the one with the Voice. “No women are used that way. Not by us.”

“They come across your border, from Russia, from Hungary, from all points East…”

“I think you know my history. I grew up with these gangsters. There is one thing that sets them apart from the rest. No women. Drugs, counterfeit merchandise, counterfeit money, stolen goods, yes. All that. But anyone who tried to move women would pay dearly.”

It was true. Kristof had been the closest thing Nikolas had to a real father, since his biological father was a national joke. Kristof had been the leader of the most powerful gang in Danubia, and his word was law. And that law stated that women were our sisters, our mothers, our daughters. They would not be touched.

Of course there were always enterprising souls who tried to go into that line of business, especially when they saw criminals in other nations doing it so profitably. They were found, eventually, by the Rendőrség, the police. Or by the gengzsters. Their entire bodies turned up, piece by piece. All the pieces but one.

“They are moving across your border all the same. I will send you the report I’ve received from the Bundespolizei.”

“You do that,” Nikolas said coldly.

Franz Albert stared at him. It was true, he thought, everything they said about him. The man the tabloids called the “Punk Prince” was nothing but a party animal, a figurehead, who let the gangsters run the country while he drank champagne and snorted cocaine. No sense of duty at all. He had no idea what went on in his own country, right under his coke-crusted nose!

Franz Albert stood up, and bowed to the King of Danubia as stiffly as any of his Teutonic ancestors. “Good day, then.”

Nikolas blinked. This little shit doesn’t believe me! “Yeah, your masters await you. I won’t hold you up.”

He watched as Franz Albert stormed towards the door, his tall trim figure, his broad back and narrow waist flattered by his tailor’s work.

What he needs is a good hard fucking, Nikolas thought, his groin stirring at the thought. Man or woman, it was always the repressed ones who turned out to be the best sex – so much fire to be stirred and kindled.

After the Prince was gone, leaving the double doors thrown open in his wake, Barnabas coughed discreetly at the doorway. “Your majesty.”

“Yes. Barnabas, I think I’m going to need two translators tonight.”



4 Comments on Someday My Prince Will Come (in a HOT new novel underway now!)

  1. Great stuff! Looking forward to the finished book.

  2. looking forward to it! Loved GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES of course

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  1. Blog Tour : Interview questions, Excerpt & Giveaway Appolo’s Curse by Brad Vance | Love Bytes

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