The Prince’s Virgin Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Ella

  Chapter Two - Tristan

  Chapter Three - Ella

  Chapter Four - Tristan

  Chapter Five - Ella

  Chapter Six - Tristan

  Chapter Seven - Ella

  Chapter Eight - Tristan

  Chapter Nine - Ella

  Chapter Ten - Tristan

  Chapter Eleven - Ella

  Chapter Twelve - Tristan

  Chapter Thirteen - Ella

  Chapter Fourteen - Tristan

  Chapter Fifteen - Ella

  Chapter Sixteen - Tristan

  Chapter Seventeen - Ella

  Chapter Eighteen - Tristan

  Chapter Nineteen - Ella

  Chapter Twenty - Tristan

  Copyright © 2017 by Heartbeat Reads - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  The Prince's Virgin

  A Fairy Tale Romance

  By: Charlize Starr

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Ella

  Chapter Two - Tristan

  Chapter Three - Ella

  Chapter Four - Tristan

  Chapter Five - Ella

  Chapter Six - Tristan

  Chapter Seven - Ella

  Chapter Eight - Tristan

  Chapter Nine - Ella

  Chapter Ten - Tristan

  Chapter Eleven - Ella

  Chapter Twelve - Tristan

  Chapter Thirteen - Ella

  Chapter Fourteen - Tristan

  Chapter Fifteen - Ella

  Chapter Sixteen - Tristan

  Chapter Seventeen - Ella

  Chapter Eighteen - Tristan

  Chapter Nineteen - Ella

  Chapter Twenty - Tristan

  Specially Selected Bonus Content

  Contemporary Romance Collection

  Alien Romance Collection

  Cowboy Romance Collection

  Secret Baby Sports Romance Collection

  Paranormal Menage Romance: Taken by Two Football Dragons

  Paranormal Menage Romance: Mated to Two Beasts

  Paranormal Menage Romance: Her Two Alphas

  About Charlize Starr

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  Chapter One - Ella

  It was an ordinary morning. Like every Tuesday, I had gone to class in the morning and then had lunch with my friend Gretchen. We’d been friends since we were children, but now that we were both studying law, we hardly had time to see each other. That semester, neither of us had afternoon classes on Tuesdays, so we’d started weekly lunches to catch up and take a break from studying.

  That Tuesday was no different. We’d even had the same waitress we’d had the week before. The cafe and the streets were quiet, like usual. The only interesting news in town was that invitations to the Crown Prince’s Festival would be arriving at selected households, but I wasn’t at all interested in receiving one.

  Gretchen was, though. She talked all through lunch about the invitations, the prince, and how exciting it would be to be chosen.

  “You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know what he looks like, or what he’s like,” I said, chiding. Gretchen had always been a dreamer, impulsive and reckless. She was beautiful, too, beautiful and graceful and confident, even bold. She’d started kissing boys when she was twelve years old. Some of them were still in love with her, following her around Ladoria like lost puppies.

  “He’s a prince, Ella. Does it matter?” Gretchen asked. She laughed and sipped her lemonade, looking at me like I was missing something important.

  “Could you really marry someone if they were awful?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. Gretchen shook her head at me, eyes sparkling.

  “Only if it would make me a royalty,” Gretchen said. “I’ve always wanted to be royalty.”

  “You’re terrible,” I said, teasing.

  “You’re really not at all interested? Everyone knows Prince Tristan is gorgeous,” Gretchen said, laughing again.

  “No one actually knows that. Neither of us knows anyone who has actually seen him,” I pointed out.

  “He’s gorgeous, and I bet he knows how to treat a girl right,” Gretchen said, winking and making me blush. I shook my head, not wanting to talk about princes or festivals or sex with Gretchen. She liked to tease me sometimes about being uptight and inexperienced. She didn’t know the thoughts I had, the images that raced through my mind, the conversations I’d been having with a strange man online. I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t want anyone to know, even my best friend. I let her do most of the talking for the rest of lunch.

  At home later that afternoon, I began my studying. I had four chapters to read and an outline to make before I would let myself take a break. I was hoping that the man I’d been talking to would be online during my break. Lately, I’d been using conversations with him as rewards to myself, treats to look forward to after long days of classes, studies, and helping my family. I wasn’t thinking of anything but him and the readings in front of me. Even with all of Gretchen’s talk, I had completely forgotten about the prince and his festival.

  So when my mother ran into my bedroom with a large envelope and an excited look on her face, it took me a minute to figure out what was happening. Then I saw the corner of the envelope, with the glossy Ladoria royal seal in the corner, and my heart sank.

  “Ella, you’ve been chosen!” my mother exclaimed, handing me the letter.

  “Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say. My mother loved old customs and royalty. When I was young, she’d told me story after story about princes and princesses, about courtship and old fashioned romance. I did not want to disappoint her, but the festival hardly seemed romantic to me.

  “Just think, you could marry the crown prince!” my mother said, clasping her hands excitedly. She looked wistful, and I felt uneasy in the pit of my stomach. When she was a little girl, her oldest sister, my Aunt Sophia, had been selected for a festival, the one for Prince Tristan’s father. Aunt Sophia always said the whole thing had been silly, but my mother had been jealous, wishing she could get dressed up for a chance to be selected by a prince.

  “I will be one of many girls there,” I said, shaking my head. I did not want her to get her hopes up. Aunt Sophia had said that at her festival, she was one of fifty girls and that she’d never seen the prince at all. I was sure the room would be filled with girls like Gretchen, beautiful, confident, and worldly.

  “I need to go make a special dinner to celebrate,” my mother said. She looked to be daydreaming, lost in her own romantic tale. I watched her go, shaking my head.

  I pushed my studying aside, not sure I could focus on it after the news. I ran my fingers over the letter, wishing I could just stay home instead, not sure how to go through with the festival. It was not up to me, though. As I well knew from my law studies, and as the letter reminded me in tiny script at the bottom, all girls chosen must attend the festival or they and their families would be thrown in prison. It was an outdated law, but one no one had ever seen fit to change. I sighed and opened my laptop.

  I had barely been online for a minute when he messaged me, and I smiled, in spite of everything. Since meeting on Facebook, Frederick and I had only talked over the computer. He did not even know my real name, but I felt closer to him than to anyone else I
had ever known. I had told him things no one else knew, things I could not say out loud but that felt safe to type. I had never been with a man, but my mind was always filled with desires and fantasies. I’d told Frederick about them, every erotic detail, and he had listened. He did not judge me or make me feel silly or ashamed. Instead, he encouraged me. He was kind and clever and funny, and I was in love with him. It was another reason I was not interested in the prince’s festival. I was already in love with a man. How could I take the chance, no matter how small, of marrying another?

  I just got big news, I typed, looking back at the letter on my desk.

  What is it? he replied. I knew it was ridiculous, but seeing the familiar small navy blue font he used in the messenger made me feel a little better.

  I’ve been selected for the Crown Prince’s Festival, I said. From the kitchen, I could hear my mother humming to herself, one of those old love songs she liked so much.

  Really? he replied.

  Really. I wish I hadn’t been. I don’t want to go, but it’s the law, I said, glad I could tell someone how I really felt about it, sure that my mother, my family, and my friends would not really understand.

  I’m sure you’ll be the sexiest, the most beautiful, and the most fascinating girl there, he replied, making me blush. I shook my head. He didn’t even know what I looked like. My entire profile was fake. He knew so much but so little about me. It was probably part of why I felt so safe around him.

  I’ll just be happy when it’s over, I said. It was just a day, I thought. One day, and then I could go back to my normal life, my studies, my family, and Frederick.

  Maybe something good will come of it, he said. I smiled. Frederick always made me smile.

  Maybe. Tell me about your day? I said, changing the subject. I told myself if I pushed it out of my head, I wouldn't feel so sick and nervous. I couldn’t shake it, though, and no matter how much Frederick made me laugh and blush, I couldn’t get the festival out of my head.

  Chapter Two - Tristan

  Meetings were always the worst part of the day, and this one was worse than usual. I was so bored I felt itchy like even my skin wanted no part of this. I sighed loudly, crossing my arms and scrolling through my phone as my event manager droned on, filling me in on details I was supposed to care about but didn’t.

  “The girls will then perform a dance,” the event manager said. “They will still not be able to see you.”

  “Thrilling,” I said dryly. I never cared for events, for engagements I had to keep, parties I had to attend, rooms full of people my parents had hand-selected. It was all so outdated, not my style. This festival only increased that feeling.

  “Sir, this festival will help you choose a bride. It is important to the future of the country,” the event planner said, giving me a pleading look. He was older, his face red and round. He was the third planner I’d spoken to this week about the festival. I’d given up trying to learn their names or figure out why they cared so much about whom I married.

  “I don’t need all this. I don’t have any trouble getting girls to dance for me all on my own,” I said. The whole thing was ridiculous, the idea that I needed an elaborate festival to get a girl to fall for me, like I couldn’t just walk through town and pick one, couldn’t go to a bar like a normal guy and come home with the prettiest girl there. I wasn’t actually allowed to do that, of course, but I’d done it more than once anyway. A prince can’t stay locked in a castle all the time.

  “This is for life, not a night,” the event planner said. He sounded reprimanding and I scowled at his tone and his words. I had no interest in a wife. Not right now, anyway. I had heard people say, while I was at bars pretending to fit in, that the festival was unfair and terrible. Beautiful girls who took university classes and didn’t care for royalty talked about the festival with disgust in their tone. I honestly didn’t blame them. In fact, I agreed.

  It wasn’t fucking fair to me either, though, something no one ever brought up. I didn’t want to get married. I did not feel at all ready. I would have preferred several more nights sneaking away to bars, several more dark dances with girls, several more early mornings leaving hotel beds. I certainly did not want to marry some girl based on the events of the festival. But I didn’t have a choice. The laws bound me, too.

  “Your job is to plan events, not make comments about my life,” I said, frowning. “Do it again and you won’t have a job anymore.”

  “Of course, sir, my apologies,” he said, bowing his head as he started to talk about the details again. I shook my head and went back to my phone, trying to ignore him.

  The Facebook messenger notification blinking at me made that much easier. I swallowed down a grin, keeping my face neutral as I opened the message from Christa, the fascinating woman I’d met months ago on the site. I’d never thought of myself as the kind of person to have any sort of online relationship, but she had caught my attention right away and held it tight. We’d been talking every day, and I’d found myself looking forward to it. She was intelligent, witty, kind, clever, and sexy. I was intrigued by everything about her.

  She knew me as Frederick, a fake profile I’d created mostly out of boredom one day. I didn’t even have the password for the official Prince Tristan of Ladoria account, as there was a social media manager for that. I had no idea the fake profile would lead me to Christa. Part of me thought I should break it off, stop this communication, especially now that I was about to get married to a stranger, but I couldn’t make myself say goodbye to her. We talked about everything, from ideas, books and philosophy, to the best restaurants in Ladoria, to sex.

  We talked about sex almost every day, actually. Christa had a way with words and had taken to telling me her fantasies. She would paint these gorgeous erotic pictures of the things she wanted, and I was hooked on them. Even thinking about them, about Christa, made me stiffen in my pants, turned on at the things she said, the things she wanted. Often, as she typed about the things she’d never experienced but wanted to, I would jerk off, touching myself while we talked, wanting so badly to be the one to do those things, to give her those fantasies.

  I shifted in my seat a little, opening her message.

  She had been selected for the festival. She’d received an invitation. Suddenly the itching in my skin was more a low pulsing in my veins. Excitement. Maybe this festival wasn’t such a waste of time. Maybe I could help her live out those fantasies after all.

  “Where is the list?” I asked, straightening up and looking at my event planner again after typing back to Christa. He startled, jumping, and frowned.

  “The list?” he asked. He’d probably been talking about something else. I didn’t care.

  “Of selected women. I want to read the list of names,” I said. He frowned and looked like he was maybe about to remind me that an hour ago I’d yelled at him that I didn’t give a fuck about the names on the list. Luckily for him, he seemed to decide against that and shook his head.

  “Of course,” he said, reaching into a large red folder and pulling out a list. It was handwritten, in scrawling ink, old-fashioned and ridiculous like everything about this. I grabbed it out of his hand impatiently and scanned the list of names.

  There was no Christa listed. I frowned, thinking. This must mean she had been using a fake profile, too. I felt even more intrigued by her than before. That I would be seeing the girl I’d fallen for over social media at the festival had my mind spinning.

  Suddenly, I found myself looking forward to something I’d been dreading for most of my life.

  Chapter Three - Ella

  I had only been to the palace one other time. I was seven and I’d won an essay contest about life in Ladoria. I’d been invited to the palace and there had been photographers and cupcakes and the queen herself had given me a plaque with my name on it. The pictures had been in the paper the next day, and everyone at school had talked about it for weeks.

  I remembered being nervous that morning, amazed by t
he palace, with its large rooms and floors so shiny I’d been able to see myself in them. Those nerves were nothing like the ones I was feeling now, on festival day. The rooms were still big, and the floors were still shiny, but I wasn’t a little girl anymore, and I wasn’t here for a plaque or a cupcake. I was here for the festival, and I thought I might throw up or pass out as I was ushered into a room filled with girls and dresses. A woman with a kind face and glasses perched on top of her head approached me and looked me up and down, consulting a clipboard. Her nametag said Rachel, and she seemed to be in charge.

  “Ella?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Around me girls were being fitted in gowns by an array of servants, zipping them up and pulling them in.

  “Very pretty,” she said, taking me in, “slender, but not too skinny. Big eyes, a nice bone structure in your face. You need pale colors for your lovely skin tone and complexion. Greens and pinks will make you pop,” she finished, marking it down on her clipboard as I felt my cheeks flush.

  “Thank you,” I said. I wasn’t sure, but those things all sounded complimentary, so thanks seemed appropriate.

  “This is no time for modesty, dear,” Rachel said, waving a hand, “it is a time to show off. Sit here. Bethanne is going to bring you over dresses to try on. There is a pink one with gold trim, one of my favorites, and I do hope it fits you. The color has washed out some other girls, but on you? Perfect.”

  “Oh, I hope so too,” I said. I didn’t really hold much hopes for the dresses. None of the ones I could see being tried on looked like they were my style at all, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. I sat in the chair she had pointed to and found myself staring at my own face in the mirror. I frowned, trying to see the bone structure she had talked about, but only seeing the same things I always did. I was not unconfident in my looks, but I did not think of them as anything special, either. Around me, just as I’d suspected, were beautiful girls, running their hands over the curves being hugged and highlighted by the dresses and smiling at themselves in the mirror.