Seduced By The Bad Boy Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

T
his book is dedicated
to the Prince in my life. I’d be nowhere without you, babe.

T
hank
you so much for reading my book! I am so excited that people actually read what I write.

So…yay!! I hope you liked it. But if you didn’t that’s fine too - not everyone will like everything. But I would love, love, LOVE, to know what you thought - love it or hate it. Reviews like yours are what help me write better stuff for readers!

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r just copy this link
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Thanks again!

I’m attaching a bonus copy on the next page of another Billionaire Prince Romance,
Rent With Benefits
. I hope you like it too.

K
isses
!!!

Victoria

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efore we get start
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* * *

I
gulped
the 200-year old aged scotch whiskey and pondered just how much of an asshole the airport officials at LAX 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. 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.

Didn’t sound like a Sheikh right now, did I? I wasn’t much of anything back then – except a giant booze hound and party animal. It was pretty evident from the brutally decadent way I had spent my last hours in my kingdom.

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 Sultan Sayid bin al Mussayef had decreed I was to take some time to cool off outside of the heady heights of Qumar, 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 sheikh. They gave fuck all about their dignity and chastity, these noble ladies, some of whom were from the oldest royal families of Qumar and the greater Middle East. And they were just hungry for my cock. Who was I to deny them their request?

I had left ‘Desert Rose’, 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 Asia and then the Pacific 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 God amongst men both figuratively and literally. I stood 6' 4", imposing on others with my presence whenever I came into a room. Royal genes, descending from European and Middle Eastern royalty, from the time of Christ 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. "Sheikh Scandal" 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. "Sheikh Sex" 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. "Sheikh Smooth" ET named me after they spotted me with five women in five nights.

Yes, it was good to be the fucking sheikh of Qumar, 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.

"Hamid?" 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 when the Soviets invaded Afghanistan in the 1980s, 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 an Indian girl in New Delhi and learned to speak the language. He had a son who was a Royal Marine commander stationed in Qumar and served as the liaison with American forces in the region. He had decided to get into Royal service after moving to Qumar 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, Hamid was right there. When I needed a father, there was Hamid. But above all, when I needed a friend, Hamid 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.

Hamid 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 who were too busy grieving.

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

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

He nodded. "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. Hamid looked at me in disapproval.

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

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

My father wanted me to go stay with commoners in a country far away? That was fine, with me. He wanted to make sure I had no special treatment? Even going so far as to arrange for me to live with the daughter of his Press Secretary, Samantha. That was okay too.

She had a daughter, Natalie. Natalie had been to Qumar a few times. I think I had seen her maybe but once. The King wanted me to live with her? That's exactly what he was going to get. There was a limo and retinue ready and waiting at LAX to take me to the house that she and Samantha lived in before Samantha moved to the Middle East. Apparently Natalie still lived there, as she prepared to continue her graduate studies after graduating from University this year. I had literally only seen her once – back when we were both younger. She came on some sort of Spring Break with her friends. I had just gotten back from Afghanistan. I was a few years older, but had no interest in the gangly little kid who was all arms and legs. I’m sure I wasn’t going to be interested in her now. 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 more conservative elements in our society. The ones that want to see us stop selling our oil and retreat backwards into religious dark ages."

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

“Los Angeles is hardly the middle of nowhere, Aziz,” my father had said. I had protested further, but my father had been firm. He was dignified and regal. Cut from the same cloth as Hamid. 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 her daughter. It will be good for you to get out of sight. Figure out what you want to do with your life. Make peace with your demons, and most importantly, not having her picture splashed across newspapers and television screens worldwide."

"Television screens make me famous," I said with a smirk.

My father held up the Qumar 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 daughter of an European baron 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 Qumar Daily had a caption, "The Next Sultan Is Already King of the World." Fucking Titanic.

"If this is what you mean by famous, son, then I want you to live in obscurity. And I want you to learn from her how," 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 Sultan without the entire nation going into shock."

"This is all about getting married isn't it?" I asked, realizing that perhaps the old Sultan 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 and the Middle East 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 Qumar, but I was sure bringing some of it with me if I had to stay with Natalie for an extended period of time.

The 747 was cruising over Los Angeles, in contact with the folks at LAX. 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 this commoner’s house. Hamid 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 Natalie had and if they had ever dreamed of fucking a sheikh 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.

I had put on my flight suit and I gestured towards Hamid. 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 Sheikh had gone off to.

"Are you sure, Sheikh?" Hamid 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 unsettled fathers 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 Natalie 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 Sheikh, having to be scraped up off the sidewalk. The tabloids would talk about how the Sheikh Seduction 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.