Finding His Princess: A Cinderella Story (Filthy Fairy Tales Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-FIve

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue, Part One

  Epilogue, Part Two

  Finding His Princess

  Parker Grey

  Copyright © 2017 by Parker Grey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Untitled

  Newsletter

  Finding His Princess

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-FIve

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

  28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

  29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

  30. Epilogue, Part One

  31. Epilogue, Part Two

  Newsletter

  Double Dirty Mountain Men

  Double Dirty Royals

  Boss Me Dirty

  School Me Dirty

  Ride Me Dirty

  Rule Me Dirty

  About Parker

  I don’t even know her name, but I swear I’ll find her and claim her as mine.

  Ten seconds.

  That’s how long it took for me to decide that this early-morning diner waitress was going to be the next lucky girl to hop onto my princely d*ck. Yeah, I was hungover as f*ck and still wearing last night’s tuxedo, but that’s never exactly been a problem.

  Most of the time I don’t even have to ask. His Royal Hardness has a reputation that precedes the rest of me, though not by much -- and girls from all over the kingdom and just dying for a ride.

  Not her.

  This girl runs away, and I’m left standing there like an *sshole. Now all I’ve got is the memory of her perfect body, luscious lips, devious smile, and an *ss made for grabbing -- but not her name.

  To make matters worse, my father is insisting that I settle down and stop embarrassing him, so he issues an ultimatum: find a wife, or else.

  I know exactly who I want.

  But first I have to find her.

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  I’m a good girl - but they both want me!

  As the only daughter of the Nero crime family, I’m practically a princess - and I get treated like one.

  That is, until the Diamante family breaks into our mansion, crashes our Christmas party… and two very sexy men take me hostage.

  Colt and Dante are huge, ripped, possessive, dominant, totally in control…

  …and these two sinfully hot hitmen want to share me.

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  Finding His Princess

  Parker Grey

  Chapter One

  Ella

  I close the back door to the diner as softly as I can, glancing at the clock on the wall as I do.

  7:03. Crap.

  Holding my breath, I tiptoe along the back hall to the tiny break room. My white sneakers just barely squeak on the tile floor, but even that noise makes me nervous.

  Three minutes wouldn’t be a big deal at any other job, but my boss Kyle is a total jerk. And worse, he’s a total jerk who lives to brown-nose my stepmother — and catching me doing something wrong is a great way to score points with her.

  The lights are on in the break room, but there’s no one there, and I exhale, pushing my blonde hair out of my face as I hang my purse on a hook, grabbing my apron. It’s kind of gross right now, since yesterday morning I had a table with two kids who got into a mustard fight, and I really need to take it home to wash it but just forgot yesterday, I was so tired.

  I grab that, tie it around my waist, and pin my name tag on my Tremaine Diner t-shirt.

  Then I take a deep breath, wind my hair into a bun, and head out to see whether we’ve got customers yet.

  “You’re late, girl,” Flynn calls the moment he sees me.

  “Barely!” I protest.

  He puts one hand on his hip and tilts his head back so he can look down his nose at me.

  “Three minutes late is still late,” he says, making his voice high-pitched and nasal. “That’s another demerit.”

  “Kyle’s going to catch you doing your impression of him one of these days,” I say, typing my apron strings around my back.

  Flynn grins and turns his attention back to flipping pancakes.

  “Not today,” he says, and winks at me. “But you owe me. I covered for your pretty little butt a few minutes ago already.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m sorry, Peyton couldn’t find her mascara this morning, and then Slade had a zit and broke a coffee mug, so I had to clean all that up before I came.”

  Flynn purses his lips and looks at the grill disapprovingly without saying anything, and I sigh.

  “I know, I know, it’s ridiculous,” I say.

  “They’re ridiculous,” he says. “Grown-ass women who pitch hissy fits when they can’t find their shitty drugstore mascara and it’s somehow your fault? Girl, you have got to get yourself out of there.”

  “You can say that again,” I mutter.

  “I’d take you up on the easy joke but you’ve already got a table waiting,” he says. “The four-man hangover party at table seven.”

  I lean back, away from the window, and catch a glimpse of a few guys who look like they’re still wearing what they wore to last night’s black-tie event. I raise one eyebrow. People who attend black tie events aren’t exactly our usual clientele.

  “They must be hungover to eat here,” I tease Flynn.

  “Hey now,” Flynn says. “I am a damn expert in hangover cures, especially for hot men who know how to dress.”

  Flynn winks at me.

  “I thought you and Thomas were a thing now,” I say, prying.

  “Can’t I
have a little fun?” Flynn asks, monitoring some eggs. “Go get their order, I’ve got work to do.”

  “They have menus already?”

  “Sure do.”

  I walk over to table five — the darkest table in the place, which they probably requested — pulling my notepad out of my pocket as I do.

  “Hi there,” I begin. “I’ll be your server this morning. Can I start you off with—”

  “Coffee,” the first guy on the right side of the table growls. “Make it fast and just leave the damn pot.”

  I glance down at the rude bastard, making sure I don’t let annoyance register on my face. He’s slouching in his chair, one hand on the table and the other slung over the back, wearing a tuxedo that he’s clearly had on since last night.

  It’s untucked and wrinkled, his bowtie undone around his neck. The shirt is unbuttoned just far enough that I can see the curves and contours of his thick, muscled chest.

  I stare for just a moment too long, because even though he’s obviously kind of a hungover jerk, he’s also kind of hot in a jerk way.

  Then he finally looks up at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Well?” he asks.

  Oh my gosh, he’s good-looking. Even though he clearly had a pretty rough night, he’s got deep slate-gray eyes, mussed hair, and exactly the right amount of stubble on his square jaw.

  Not to mention, he looks kind of familiar. I could almost swear that I know him from somewhere, except I’d remember anyone this incredibly handsome. Right?

  My mouth comes slightly open, and it’s a moment before I remember that I’m supposed to answer.

  “Of course,” I say.

  He’s a total jerk, I think. A complete and total jerk. Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s hot.

  “Could I get a Bloody Mary?” his friend says, finally snapping me out of my hot-jerk induced reverie.

  “Sorry,” I say, finally remembering to smile. “We don’t serve alcohol.”

  “No alcohol? None at all?”

  I shake my head.

  “The cook doesn’t even have a bottle of vodka stashed somewhere for the really tough mornings?”

  I’m sure Flynn does, but I’m not offering it to these guys.

  “I don’t think so,” I say as sweetly as I can, tilting my head to one side. “Orange juice?”

  “Fine.”

  I turn to the third guy.

  “I’ll just take the coffee and hope for the sweet release of death,” he says.

  I nod.

  “Same,” the last guy says, not even looking up at me.

  “I’ll be right back with those,” I say, and turn.

  “Make sure it’s strong,” says the first guy — the hot jerk — and I glance back at him. “None of this usual diner coffee bullshit.”

  We lock eyes for a split second, and then his gaze travels down my body, from my head to my feet and back up as he smirks.

  A jolt of electricity slams through my core, my nerves crackling with sudden heat while this jerk looks me over, up and down, like I’m something he can have.

  I stand my ground, notepad in hand, even though I can feel my face getting red.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say, and walk back to the kitchen.

  Chapter Two

  Grayson

  I lean forward as our waitress disappears, tracking her ass with my eyes until she disappears around the corner.

  It’s a nice ass, the kind of ass I can just imagine bending over a table in front of me as I slide my cock along the cleft between her cheeks. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time I went for breakfast after a big night and had a side of pussy with my eggs and toast.

  And this girl? Blonde and blue-eyed, lush red lips, and she’s got this rosy-cheeked innocence thing going on that I’d fucking love to ruin.

  “Earth to Grayson,” Beckett mutters. “Could you stop staring at the waitress for one fucking second?”

  “I’m sure you were saying something really important,” I say, my eyes still lingering on the spot where she disappeared.

  “More important than you thinking about getting your dick wet,” he says, glaring at me from his chair. “Give it five minutes off, man.”

  My head pounds, and my mouth feels like it’s being scrubbed with cotton balls dipped in acid, but I grin at him anyway, even though I’m pretty sure I look like hell.

  “No rest for the wicked,” I say.

  The three of them all roll their eyes.

  “This weekend,” Beckett’s best friend, Kieran, says. “The World Cup. In Florence. You two coming or what?”

  Next to me, Declan groans and rubs two hands over his eyes.

  “After last night, I’m taking up a life of baking cupcakes and watching soap operas,” he says, and we all laugh.

  “Hell yes, we’re coming,” I say, sneaking one more glance at the corner where the waitress disappeared. Now I’m thinking about the way she just barely pursed her lips when I told her to make the coffee strong.

  And I’m thinking about how those lips might look wrapped around the head of my thick cock, sliding down my shaft. Fuck, it’s a good mental image, one that gets me hard as a rock sitting here at the breakfast table.

  “Jesus,” Kieran says, waving one hand in front of my face. “Hey, your royal goddamn highness.”

  I snap out of it.

  “What?”

  “If you want to head over Friday, we’re taking the private jet straight from here,” he says. “Otherwise, you can find your own goddamn private jet.”

  “I have got one,” I point out. “Two, if you count the little jet.”

  “Yeah, but ours will be way more fun,” Beckett says, grinning through his hangover. “Our staff has been interviewing stewardesses for days.”

  The application list for the position of stewardess on Prince Beckett’s Private Plane is a mile long — and when the rumors about Beckett and Kieran got out, the list only got longer.

  They’re both notorious playboys in their own right, but their absolute favorite thing to do? Share a woman. The thought’s never done it for me, so I’ve never tried it, but the two of them would fuck the same woman all day long if they could.

  “Are you taking requests?” Declan asks.

  “Let me guess,” Beckett says. “Blonde, long legs, make a good champagne cocktail, and doesn’t have a gag reflex.”

  We all laugh.

  “You forgot the most important part,” Declan says. “Must like big dicks.”

  Across the restaurant, the waitress comes out of the kitchen and walks across the room to another table, two old ladies who just sat down. Instantly, the guys’ chatter turns to noise as I watch her hand them menus and take their order.

  She’s not my type. My type is barely-there skirts and low-cut dresses, women who lick their lips when they look at me and who whisper things like is everything I’ve heard about His Royal Hardness true?

  My type is women gasping with delight when they find out that the rumors are true, then invite their friends over so they can all take turns riding my massive pole.

  Not sweet, beautiful breakfast waitresses.

  Or at least, not yet, because I’m changing my mind pretty damn fast. There’s something about the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the way she cocks her hips when she stands that’s making me achingly hard, even though she’s just wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

  “Just fuck her,” Kieran says, his voice cutting through thoughts of my cock pressed between her perky breasts, her eyes half-closed with desire.

  “Seriously,” Declan agrees. “Go bang her in the men’s room and then come back so we can have a goddamn conversation.”

  My eyes caress the curve of her ass one more time, and then they return to the table.

  “Because you’re a scintillating conversationalist when you’re hungover as fuck yourself,” I say.

  Declan just rolls his eyes.

  “Suit yourself,” he says.

  I
look over at her again as she takes the old ladies’ menus, smiles, and turns back toward the kitchen, still stiff as fuck in the tuxedo pants I’ve been wearing for twelve hours. Not that it’s going to matter. I’ve bent women over bathroom sinks and fucked them so hard they forgot their own names wearing way worse than this, and I can probably do it again now.

  No problem. Give me two minutes and I bet I can have this sweet, innocent girl screaming my name.

  Chapter Three

  Ella

  He’s looking at me again.

  Not looking. That’s not the right word. He’s practically groping me with his eyes, running them down my body, and he’s not shy about it.

  I almost drop the coffee pot as I walk toward their table.

  It’s not that I never get lecherous looks. Plenty of dirty old men come in here, and I catch them staring at me all the time. It stopped bothering me a long time ago.

  But he’s not a dirty old man. He’s hot as sin, muscled and cocky and clearly used to getting what he wants. He’s disheveled in exactly the right way, in a way that makes me want to let him dishevel me.

  Not that I know much about getting disheveled. I’m a virgin, after all — I’ve never gotten further than some experimental kisses with a boy back in high school.

  Right now, I wish I was thinking about anything but straddling his lap, sliding my hips against his. Putting my hands underneath his half-unbuttoned shirt as he groans, taking my breasts in both hands...