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Because I happen to think most people are fucking idiots.

“And we’re back, chatting with His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas. ”

Speaking of idiots…

The light-haired, thin-boned, bespeckled man sitting across from me conducting this captivating televised interview? His name is Teddy Littlecock. No, really, that’s his actual name—and from what I hear, it’s not an oxymoron. Can you appreciate what it must’ve been like for him in school with a name like that? It’s almost enough to make me feel bad for him. But not quite.

Because Littlecock is a journalist—and I have a special kind of disgust for them. The media’s mission has always been to bend the mighty over a barrel and ram their transgressions up their aristocratic arses. Which, in a way, is fine—most aristocrats are first-class pricks; everybody knows that. What bothers me is when it’s not deserved. When it’s not even true. If there’s no dirty laundry around, the media will drag a freshly starched shirt through the shit and create their own. Here’s an oxymoron for you: journalistic integrity.

Old Teddy isn’t just any reporter—he’s Palace Approved. Which means unlike his bribing, blackmailing, lying brethren, Littlecock gets direct access—like this interview—in exchange for asking the stupidest bloody questions ever. It’s mind-numbing.

Choosing between dull and dishonest is like being asked whether you want to be shot or stabbed.

“What do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies?”

See what I mean? It’s like those Playboy centerfold interviews—“I like bubble baths, pillow fights, and long, naked walks on the beach. ” No she doesn’t. But the point of the questions isn’t to inform, it’s to reinforce the fantasies of the blokes jerking off to her.

It’s the same way for me.

I grin, flashing a hint of dimple—women fall all over themselves for dimples.

“Well, most nights I like to read. ”

I like to fuck.

Which is probably the answer my fans would rather hear. The Palace, however, would lose their ever-loving minds if I said that.

Anyway, where was I? That’s right—the fucking. I like it long, hard, and frequent. With my hands on a firm, round arse—pulling some lovely little piece back against me, hearing her sweet moans bouncing off the walls as she comes around my cock. These century-old rooms have fantastic acoustics.

While some men choose women because of their talent at keeping their legs open, I prefer the ones who are good at keeping their mouths shut. Discretion and an ironclad NDA keep most of the real stories out of the papers.

“I enjoy horseback riding, polo, an afternoon of clay pigeon shooting with the Queen. ”

I enjoy rock climbing, driving as fast as I can without crashing, flying, good scotch, B-movies, and a scathingly passive-aggressive verbal exchange with the Queen.

It’s that last one that keeps the Old Bird on her toes—my wit is her fountain of youth. Plus it’s good practice for us both. Wessco is an active constitutional monarchy so unlike our ceremonial neighbors, the Queen is an equal ruling branch of government, along with Parliament. That essentially makes the royal family politicians. Top of the food chain, sure, but politicians all the same. And politics is a quick, dirty, brawling business. Every brawler knows that if you’re going to bring a knife to a fistfight, that knife had better be sharp.