The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance Read online

  The Proposal Problem

  A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance

  Natalie Knight

  Daphne Dawn

  Crimson Vixens

  Contents

  Also By Crimson Vixens

  Author’s Note

  Table of Contents Instructions

  Anton

  1. Anton

  2. Percy

  3. Percy

  4. Percy

  5. Anton

  6. Percy

  7. Percy

  8. Percy

  9. Anton

  10. Percy

  11. Anton

  12. Percy

  13. Percy

  14. Anton

  15. Percy

  16. Percy

  17. Percy

  18. Percy

  19. Anton

  20. Percy

  21. Anton

  22. Percy

  23. Anton

  24. Percy

  25. Percy

  26. Percy

  27. Anton

  28. Percy

  29. Anton

  30. Percy

  31. Percy

  32. Percy

  33. Anton

  34. Percy

  35. Anton

  36. Percy

  37. Percy

  38. Percy

  39. Anton

  40. Percy

  41. Anton

  Big Package

  Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad

  Double Feature

  Taste

  Hard & Fast

  Hard Luck

  Caught On Tape

  Painting Her

  The Proposal Problem

  A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance

  By Natalie Knight & Daphne Dawn

  Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens

  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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  Also By Crimson Vixens

  Daphne Dawn

  Double Dealing

  3 Men of the House

  Double Feature

  Triple Pleasure

  Caught On Tape

  Goldicox

  Double Stuffed

  Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad

  Triple Taught

  The Other Brother

  4 Men of the House

  The Marriage Mistake

  Triple Threat

  Natalie Knight

  Taste

  Painting Her

  Triple Pleasure

  Caught On Tape

  Hard & Fast

  Double Stuffed

  Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad

  Wanted: Big Bad Brother

  The Other Brother

  4 Men of the House

  The Marriage Mistake

  Vivien Vale

  Hard Bargain

  Hard Luck

  Hard Pressed

  Hard & Fast

  Triple Taught

  Mountain Man Baby Daddy

  Wanted: Big Bad Brother

  Big Package (A Dark Vixens Novella)

  The Good Twin’s Baby

  Spring Break Bride

  To Erik

  Author’s Note

  We might deny it, dance around the issue, swear up and down that we don’t want it and lie through our teeth about not needing it, but let’s face it, Vixens—at the end of the day, everybody wants to feel loved.

  Sometimes, we don’t think we deserve it.

  Sometimes, we convince ourselves that we never will.

  But the universe is a funny place, Vixens. Sometimes the one thing that we’re trying our damnedest to fight is the one thing that keeps coming back to us, over and over again.

  This is a story about love, Vixens. But not just any kind of love! This is a story about that love that just won’t quit—a love that you can deny yourself, deny each other, push away and run away from as fast as your Louboutins can carry you…but a love that will always, always prevail in the end.

  Sound like fun? Then we hope you’re ready for an adventure! Welcome to Amsterdam, where the party never stops and neither do the sexy, sexy men! Writing this for you all was a wild ride from start to finish—so we hope you’ll have just as wild of a time reading along.

  Best of all, we think it’s a ride you’ll be happy to remember ;)

  xoxo,

  Natalie Knight & Daphne Dawn

  Table of Contents Instructions

  WAIT!

  Please use the TOC (Table of Contents located in the upper left area of your screen) to navigate your way through this book. If you’re zoomed out and you’re seeing a smaller version of the book and it is flipping through that way, please press the center of your screen to get you out of page flip mode.

  Thanks!

  Natalie Knight

  Daphne Dawn

  Anton

  Friday 6:46 PM

  The universe is my kingdom. The world is my fucking throne.

  But my queen?

  My queen just told me to go eat shit and die.

  Charming, right?

  1

  Anton

  It’s just like the Cinderella story, really—except, instead of saying I do, she tells the prince to go eat twelve dicks and take an Ambien instead.

  That’s Persephone Owens for you.

  Brash, rude, crude, stubborn…

  And currently pouring her drink on my head.

  “It’s over, Anton,” she says, smug. “We’re through. So why don’t you just get up on your high horse and ride it all the way back to your castle, then?”

  “Tasty,” I tell her as the absinthe trickles down my cheek and onto my lips. “Really, darling, you have a way with words.”

  I lick my lips clean and don’t miss the way her eyes track my tongue as I do it.

  She knows exactly what this tongue can do. She knows it all too well.

  “Oh, you think that’s tasty?” I can see her temper flaring just beneath her skin. “Then you’ll love this!”

  Then she tries to kick me in the nuts—a fate that I narrowly avoid.

  Thank fuck, too.

  If I know anything about Persephone Owens, it’s that she can do some gruesome things when she takes aim with her high heels.

  I know so much more about Percy than that, though. As I catch her ankle in my hands and pull her against me, I swear I can see that same look in her eyes that I saw all those years ago.

  The first time I saw her, she was only a picture on my computer screen.

  Still, she had that same look in her eyes.

  Half like she wants to fuck my brains out.

  Half like she wants to cave my skull in with her Louboutins and watch them smear across the floor.

  Not every man can tame a woman like Persephone Owens.

  But there aren’t many men like me.

  Anton Lanteri, Prince of Menage. As far as European royalty goes, I’m the crown jewel of the fucking continent.

  The French royals met their end at the guillotine, and the rest intermarried so frequently that they had to kick the lifeguards right out of their gene pool—but me?

  Oh, I’m fucking special—and Percy Owens knows it, too.

  Of course, she doesn’t call me Prince.
<
br />   She likes to call me Silver Fox and pretend like I’m anything short of the love of her erratic, insane fucking life.

  “Give me back my ankle,” she snarls as I stroke my fingers up and down her curvaceous calf.

  “Take my last name, and I might,” I tease.

  When I first proposed to Percy Owens, she told me no.

  She told me no the second time, too.

  In fact, when I really think about it, Percy has spent half of our time together swearing to hell and back that she’ll never be my wife—so I don’t know why I’m surprised that she’s having cold feet.

  “I’d rather die,” she snarls back.

  See? Even now, she wants to play pretend.

  Like I said—I know Percy.

  I know her insane little friends, too. Becky, Sammi, Mysti May—I know how they operate. I know their silly fucking games.

  Lovely girls, really.

  Terrible taste in men, though.

  And when you get them near alcohol…

  Well, let’s just say that when Percy Owens finally agreed to be my wife, I prepared myself for this shit.

  See, I know how this evening’s supposed to go. Percy does, too, I think.

  I’m supposed to fuck up horribly, probably in some way involving hookers and cocaine and a twenty-inch dildo up my ass.

  And Percy’s supposed to get drunk, meet the man of her dreams, marry him, and not remember a lick of it in the morning.

  Here’s the thing, though.

  Hookers? Cocaine? Dildos?

  I don’t have the time, the perversion, or the interest for any of that shit.

  And here’s the other thing.

  I’m a man who’s grown accustomed to getting what he wants.

  So as Percy Owens walks out of the bar—and, as far as she’s concerned, right out of my life to boot—well, I just order a napkin and another round.

  I’ll let her have her bachelorette party.

  She can enjoy her wildchild friends and her drunken adventures.

  If she wants a crazy night that she’ll never remember, it’s hers.

  But if there’s one thing that she shouldn’t forget…it’s that this isn’t over.

  The only man who’s waking up married to Percy Owens in the morning…

  Is me.

  2

  Percy

  Saturday 10:02 Am

  The first thing I realize when I wake up is that I’m blindfolded.

  All things considered, we’re off to a great start.

  The second thing I realize is that I’m naked. Bare-ass naked. Nude, crude and ready to get lewd, reclining upside down on the lumpiest bed I’ve ever laid on in my entire life. All around me smells like weed and sex and European money, and look, if it wasn’t for the banging fucking headache pounding behind my eyes right now, I’d call this the perfect way to start a Saturday morning.

  And the third thing?

  The third thing is that I’ve got no fucking memories of what happened last night.

  But look—I don’t have to remember what I did last night to know that I’ve got the fiercest fucking hangover of my life right now.

  And just because I’m blindfolded doesn’t mean I’m any less aware of the cock that’s currently dangling over my mouth.

  I sniff the air, lick my lips and size up the dick blind. You don’t have to be a genius to do these calculations—just like, kind of a ho or whatever.

  Which, frankly, is fine by me. Ho life forever and fuck anyone who says otherwise! My slut senses are tingling, and they tell me that there’s at least 10-inches of man meat dangling over my lips.

  “Well hello there, big boy,” I slur through my hangover-mouth. “Why don’t you come to Momma and let me show you a good—aw, fuck me! Who the fuck handcuffed me to the bed?!”

  I swear to fuck, I need to stop waking up like this. Every damn time—every damn time! My BFF Mysti May gets to wake up in the arms of some exotic tramp, Sammi wakes up passed out in a swimming pool, Becky wakes up looking flawless…and me?

  I try my wrists again just to be sure—but yeah, it’s fucking happened again.

  Handcuffed to the bed.

  Every. Damn. TIME!

  I lick my lips again and consider the cock. It’s so close, I can almost taste it—and holy fuck, do I want a taste. Long, thick, uncut and bulging with more veins than an oiled up body builder. Maybe seeing is believing for those other girls, but for me? The blindfold is a handicap, not a hindrance.

  I’ll gnaw my own arms off at the wrist and echo locate that dick if I have to.

  A ho’s gotta do what a ho’s gotta do.

  Look, I know what you’re thinking. I don’t sound worried enough, right? Entire night of my life, totally gone. No recollection, no memories, no nothin’. Any other woman waking up in my place right now—naked, handcuffed and blindfolded with a big, gorgeous dick dangling over her face—well, she’d be worried, right?

  But I’m not any other woman.

  I’m Percy fucking Owens.

  For me, this is pretty much a typical fucking Saturday.

  “Look,” I level with the mystery dick. “I know you’re there, okay? So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re gonna put your dick in my mouth, and I’m gonna suck it until your eyes go crossed and you forget your mother’s—”

  “Birthday?” A sexy, terrible European accent coos over me.

  I roll my eyes beneath the blindfold. “I was gonna say last name.”

  “Mmm…I think not, darling.”

  His voice is rugged and raw and everything man—which, honestly, just makes me want to choke myself on his foreskin all that much more.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I say—and mean it.

  “Persephone, that’s very naughty of you. After last night, I thought you would have learned your lesson.”

  And never mind how this guy knows my name—or how my entire body seems to tremble when he says the word naughty.

  Because by the time he’s finished saying his piece, I’m in fucking hysterics.

  “Aw, buddy,” I cackle at him. “You don’t know how this goes yet, do you? Learned my lesson…Look, whatever you think you taught me last night was in one ear, out the other. When Percy gets her drank on, Percy don’t remember nothin’. And that’s the way I like it. Capice?”

  And you know what he says to that?

  Fuck all.

  Nothin’.

  He just laughs right back at me and wags his dick a little closer to my lips.

  I can smell him. Hot, hard, and all man, all night long. Or, all morning long, as it is.

  Long, though. Long is the key word here.

  He moves his hips toward me and Christ, I just know it. He’s some kind of sexy-ass George Clooney look-alike—only, way hotter. When it comes to men I actually bring home, I have a type—and since this guy is in what I’m assuming is my bridal suite, you can bet your sweet ass he’s capable of getting all Oceans 11 up in my pussy.

  And before you start judging me—I mean, strange, sexy naked man in my bridal suite? I know how that sounds—let me just make one thing damn fucking clear:

  Calling off the wedding is the one thing I for sure did last night.

  It’s not marriage. I’ve got nothing against marriage, swear on my life.

  It’s…well, frankly, it’s me.

  As far as institutions go, I rank marriage somewhere between MIT and the local sanatorium. For some people, marriage just works. It makes sense. I do, I do, you may now kiss the bride. Cue wedding march, cut the cake, honeymoon. Happily ever after.

  For other people, marriage is a fucking death wish. Might as well pick up the divorce papers right along with the marriage certificate.

  People like my friends Becky and Sammi? They’re the former.

  People like my mom and dad? The latter.

  Guess which category I fall into.

  You can’t even blame me for calling things off. Anton Lanteri is the Prince of Menage, a very eligible bachelor in his o
wn right, and a straight up silver fox.

  And me? I’m a professional fuck-up with like, I dunno. Maybe a drinking problem. I’m a free spirit! A loose cannon badass who plays by nobody’s rules but her own! I march to the beat of my own vibrator, dammit! I’m not about to fuck both of our lives up by doing something so stupid as getting married, for fuck’s sake.

  So there. We cool? Are we totally squared away with me swallowing Mystery Dude’s splooge cannon until the cows come home?

  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  “Come on,” I urge him. “Fuck my mouth. You know you want it.”

  “Maybe I do,” he says. “But silly girls who don’t learn their lessons don’t get rewards.”

  “Ohhh. So that’s how it is…Professor.” Like I haven’t played this game before. “You’re so right. I’ve been a very naughty girl. Why don’t you come over here and teach me? I’m a very fast learner…with the right stimulus, anyway.”