The Ice Prince
Mouse over the cover to see the hero,
Prins Frands Henrik
The Ice Prince
by Nikita Black
Cajun Hot Press
One day her prince will come…
Paris is not the sexy, romantic adventure Maddie Parker hoped for…until the dreamily handsome royal Prince Frands Henrik of Denmark, whom she meets at her quirky hotel’s ice machine, sweeps her off her feet and into a sensual world of frozen delights straight out of her fantasies.
Frands is called the Ice Prince for more reason than designing Arctic ships. He likes his sex red-hot…but with a chilly twist. And he will use all his princely charm and privilege to tempt Maddie to his castle, and initiate her into the erotic secrets of his hidden icy lair.
Boutique Hotel Mon Plaisir
Madeleine Parker carefully lifted the lid of the ancient trunk tucked in the corner of her tiny hotel room. Inside was just one object. A book, with the word “Diary” on the cover in fancy print. Not an old book. In fact, it looked fairly new. Interesting…
Curious, she picked it up, opened to a random page, and began to read.
For one night, can I give myself permission to become whomever I want, and do whatever I wish? What will it be like to choose a man and let him pay to explore my body? To let him demand licentious acts of me? To submit to his every sexual whim? I am torn between the powerful temptation of the fantasy and the terror of the reality of what I am about to do. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. But tonight I have no choice. I take a deep breath and open the door…
Good lord. What kind of a diary was this? Maddie flipped back to the frontispiece. There, someone had penned the title in bold letters, followed by a short paragraph of explanation.
All women have fantasies. Most women hide them. But not here. Read the stories. Be aroused. Be inspired. Do not be afraid. In these pages you may safely confess your deepest, darkest, most forbidden fantasy. Sing it out into the universe. You may be surprised how the melody echoes back into your life…
Wow. Okay. That was…unexpected.
Maddie felt a stirring of interest in her body. It had been a long time since she’d taken a lover. Too long. She’d been so damned busy at work. And she hadn’t really met anyone who’d turned her on enough to pursue.
Something she hoped to remedy on this trip to Paris. She’d just finished up a big design assignment with flying colors, and her boss had given her this plum of a buying trip as a reward. A whole week in Paris to explore the auction houses, antique shops, and flea markets, with the rest of the time free to do as she wished.
What she wished was to get laid.
She grabbed the complimentary bottle of champagne the proprietress had left in her room, a crystal flute, and the diary, then went out on the balcony to read and be inspired.
And maybe to write down her own secret fantasy…
Three hours later, the bottle of champagne was empty and Maddie had finished reading the diary. She sat on the balcony staring down at the book in awe, hornier than she’d ever been in her life. It was clear all the writers had been women. And they’d had very vivid imaginations. The fantasies poured out in the diary had often skirted the edges of politically correctness, and many had gone right over the line. They had all been incredibly powerful. And extremely arousing.
Her own fantasy paled by comparison. She was almost embarrassed to write it down. But all that champagne, and being so insanely turned on, lowered her inhibitions to the point that, well, she didn’t give a damn how silly her fantasy was. It was hers, and she’d held it close most of her life.
So, she picked up the pen and began to write.
I am flushed with anticipation. I am about to meet him. The prince. He is tall and handsome, and he is looking right at me. I am instantly wet. I curtsey as my body burns. “Take off your clothes,” the prince orders me. My flush turns to embarrassment. “Now,” he commands. I obey, hesitantly, unzipping and dropping my gown to the floor. I am naked under it. I shiver. “Sit,” he orders. The only furniture in the room is a bed. I sit on the edge of the mattress and he approaches. He studies my body. Heat creeps over my breasts and my nipples harden. My clit is pulsing with need. From his jacket the prince withdraws a glass slipper. He glances at my feet, then looks up and smiles wickedly. He tosses the slipper aside and it shatters on the marble floor. “Fuck that,” he says. “Let’s see if this fits, instead.” And he pulls out his cock.
A week later
“Ice. I need ice.”
It was Maddie’s last night in Paris and she’d be damned if she’d drink warm champagne. Even if she was all alone in this cramped attic garret that was laughingly billed as a “quaint boutique hotel room.” And even if all her dreams of a Paris-in-the-springtime affair had failed dismally.
There wasn’t a man in sight. There hadn’t been all week. Well, none that she would have considered, anyway. And she hadn’t even been that picky. But the good ones had all been married or gay, and the single ones had all been…unappealing in so many ways.
“Don’t be such a whiner,” she muttered aloud.
The buying trip had gone well, she’d picked up some amazing things for the shop, and on top of it she’d had a wonderful week seeing Paris, touring the sights, and eating amazing food. Tonight, the champagne was delicious—or it would be once she got ice to chill the bottle again—and thanks to her tiny attic room, the view from the balcony was still truly spectacular. Seriously. How many people would kill to be her right now? Lots. That’s how many. Tons of people.
She’d just started to lift the champagne bottle out of the watery ice bucket when her attention was wrested by an image on the TV inside the room. It was a late-night rebroadcast of the evening news, and they were showing a regal, formal photo of a man. He looked about her own age and was…simply gorgeous. Not in a handsome, vapid, movie-star sort of way, but in her way—rugged, confident, intelligent, and, well, interesting.
The female news anchor was making fanning motions with her fingers as she spoke in rapid French about the man. Maddie’s French was not fabulous, but she caught the gist. He was from Denmark, visiting Paris for a gallery opening, a little shopping, and to see some old friends. Best of all? His name.
Prince Frands Henrik Petrović von Sønderborg. Also known as the Ice Prince.
Maddie’s body instantly quickened. Oh, man. A real, live Danish prince.
She’d been dreaming about sexy princes all week. About meeting them. Getting naked with them. Doing unspeakably wicked things with them. Ever since writing down her ridiculous fantasy in that stupid erotic diary. Maybe that was why none of the men she’d met this week had lived up to her standards. Not one of them had been a sexy prince.
Admit it. She was totally obsessed.
From the day she’d watched her first Disney princess movie at the tender age of four, she had fantasized about a handsome prince coming to sweep her off her feet. As she’d grown up, those fantasies had taken on a more…adult edge. The emphasis less on the sweeping and more on the coming.
Unfortunately, there was an inconvenient lack of princes living in Naples, Florida, to make those fantasies come true. Not real ones. Not even Disney princes.
But here in Europe, genuine princes were a dime a dozen. Or so she’d been told. Too bad she hadn’t run across any this week.
She glanced back at His Hunkiness, the mysterious Ice Prince who was smiling back at the TV cameras as he ducked into his limo. Oh, yeah. She would totally do delectable Prince von Sønderborg, given the opportunity.
Right. Dream on, Madeleine.
Ah, well. Back to reality.
Speaking of ice…
She grabbed the ice bucket and headed for the ice machine, located one floor down. No elevator, of course. This was France. The Hotel Mon Plaisir had been built before George Washington’s frikkin’ grandfather was born. She counted herself extremely lucky there was an ice machine, at all—thanks only to the hotel’s American proprietress, Meryl Jaden. Who was really nice and had been very helpful all through Maddie’s stay.
Maddie jogged down the narrow, winding staircase to the official top floor of the hotel. Had she mentioned her own room was in the attic? Yep. The quintessential artist’s garret…minus the paints and consumptive heroine. The furniture looked like it was straight out of Carmen, too. Though, okay, really comfortable. At least you didn’t worry about messing it up with breadcrumbs or the occasional drop of red wine. The bed was huge and feather-fluffy, and deep enough to get lost in. Shabby chic at its best. Too bad there was no one to share it with.
She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered she was essentially naked under her hotel robe. She halted on the staircase, debating whether she should run back up and get dressed.
Nah. Meryl had told her the four rooms on the top floor had all been taken by just one guy—some bigwig who didn’t want to be disturbed by partying tourists. Besides, it was well past midnight. No one would be up this late.
She jogged the rest of the way down, padded silently on bare feet around the corner, and slipped into the little closet where the ice machine was hidden away. She stuck the bucket under the chute and pressed the button. And cringed. The clatter and ping of falling ice hitting the metal sounded like a machine gun going off.
Almost instantly, a harsh male voice shouted right behind her, “Arrêtez! Mains en l’air!”
Startled, she whirled. And gasped in terror.
Oh, my fucking God.
She was staring right into the barrel of a gun.
She whipped her hands into the air, dropping the bucket and scattering ice everywhere. “What the hell?” she managed to choke out past her fear.
“What are you doing here?” the man demanded in accented English. He was tall and totally ripped, with dark blond hair and a grim, no-nonsense expression. And a huge gun.
But he hadn’t shot her yet.
That was a good sign.
“Getting ice?” she croaked, her heart pounding out of her chest.
His gaze faltered, then dropped down to the drifts of ice cubes strewn around the floral carpet. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Before she could answer, another male voice joined in. But this one sounded more amused than angry. “Jens. Is that any way to treat a fellow hotel guest?”
“But, sir,” her attacker—Jens—protested.
Maddie kept her hands in the air as she leaned sideways to peer around the big man. The sight that greeted her shocked her even more than the gun in her face.
Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. She sucked in a breath, stunned.
“Please put that weapon away before you give the poor girl a heart attack,” her rescuer said kindly.
He was even taller, his hair blonder, and his body… She swallowed heavily. His body was…
Holy hell. Practically naked.
Still wet from a shower, all he was wearing was a towel around his—
She cleared her throat and tore her gaze away from his dreamy physique. She looked up at his face. And saw—
The man standing before her in all his dripping wet glory was none other than her fantasy come true.
In the living flesh, the Ice Prince.
Prince Frands Henrik Petrović von Sønderborg.