“I need to come!” I scream out, ecstasy pulsating inside me.

“Not yet, my love.”

“Please, My Lord, I beg you!” I can no longer hang on.

“No, Zoey. You will come when I say you can. I own you. Your orgasm is under my command.”

I’m so close to coming. I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming. And squeeze my eyes shut.

“Don’t hold back, Zoey. Open your eyes and let me hear you.”

I do as I’m told. But as my eyes open and meet his impassioned gaze, the sound of a gong coming from the clock chimes in my ears. Gah! I’ve lost track of time. It must be going on midnight!

“My Lord, I must go!” I panic as the gong sounds again and again.

“No, Zoey, you can’t leave.” He grips my hips tightly, holding me prisoner. “You’re mine.”

“I must!” I cry out, so close to combusting. I’m silently counting the gongs. Oh no, the clock’s on seven. I have only five seconds to escape. I can’t let him see me for who I really am.

On the next powerful thrust and a pinch of my clit, I come with a cry of his name and a release so thunderous my whole body convulses. Gong! His cock shudders inside me with his own explosive release.

“Fuck!” he roars before he slowly withdraws.

The gong goes on ten. I only have two seconds.

Frantically, I bolt up and shimmy into my gown. Still in my stilettos, I dash out of his chamber. I can hear rapid footsteps behind me. I look over my shoulder. Wrapped in a satin sheet, he’s coming after me. I run like there’s no tomorrow through the ballroom of shocked onlookers until I’m out the palace doors.

“Come back, Zoey!” Prince Brandon’s voice trails behind me.

Thank God, the valets have left my Rolls Royce parked in the driveway in front of the palace. Gooch is in the driver’s seat waiting diligently for me. But as I approach the car, I trip. A glass slipper falls off. In a panic, I pick myself up, leaving it behind.

Gong!

It’s too late! I’m too late! Before my eyes, the Rolls transforms back to my Mini, and Gooch is once again a little fluffy white dog who’s looking out the window and wagging his tail at the sight of me. Back in my baggy sweats, I clamber into the car. I turn on the ignition, but the sedan won’t start up.

Prince Brandon, with my glass slipper in one hand, runs up to me and tugs at the locked door. “Open up, Zoey. Let me in!”

I can’t face him. Touch him. Bear the pain of my desire. Finally, the ignition catches. But Brandon is still clutching the handle of the door and banging on the window.

“Brandon, please let go! Please! My Lord, I beg you!”

“Zoey, if you leave me now, I will fuck every woman in the kingdom until I find my princess. My cock belongs in only one pussy. I’ll find you again. I will know when I slip it inside you. The girl who’s the perfect fit.”

My core on fire and tears scorching my cheeks, I jam down on the gas and peel off the curb.

Another loud bang brings my dream to a screeching halt. Tossing and turning, I’m drenched in a cold sweat. But between my thighs, I feel a hot bed of moisture and relentless throbbing. The banging persists.

“Open the door, Zoey!”

Is he still clinging to the car door? I’m dazed and disoriented. Lost in a gray space between dreamland and the real world.

“Fucking open up!” The pounding grows louder.

My Prince…he’s come for me.

“Zoey, if you don’t open up, I’m going to knock down the door.”

I blink several times while my heartbeat slows down. I glance at my cell phone. It’s midnight. I made it home in time! I’m still treading the fine line between reality and fantasy.

The line fades and reality seeps into my veins. Fully awake, I realize I’m in my house—in the real Lalaland. I roll out of my bed, and after grabbing my robe, I stagger to the front door and unbolt it.

It’s him! Brandon! A disheveled version of the gorgeous man I dressed earlier. His hair is unkempt, his eyes bloodshot, and his bowtie undone. I can smell alcohol on his breath. He may be more than a little drunk.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice shaky from my dream. Embarrassment mixes with anticipation. There’s a part of me that thinks he’s come here to sweep me off my feet and devour me. My wet dream is as vivid in my head as when I dreamt it.

“You ate all my ice cream?” With each word, his voice rises with rage.

“Yes,” I squeak. “There was only a little bit to begin with.”

“But now, there’s none. And I’m starving. We’re going out to buy some.”

“Now?”

“Now. End of discussion.”

My ego deflates like a balloon that’s been stuck by a pin. Who am I kidding? I’m no princess. I’m his personal assistant. His workhorse and slave.

Ten minutes later, we’re at all-night “Rock ’n Roll” Ralph’s on Sunset, pushing a shopping cart through the packed supermarket’s freezer section. Though I’m dressed in my pajamas and he’s in his tux, no one so much as gives us a glance or a damn who he is. Everyone’s stoned or on some kind of high. Silence prevails. Still shaken from my dream, all I can think about is what would it be like to really fuck Brandon Fucking Taylor.

I’m more and more convinced this man’s gone bi-polar. I mean, how can someone who’s just had the biggest and best moment of his life be in such a bad mood? He hasn’t said a word to me since rudely knocking at my door and waking me up. Seriously, if he doesn’t stop frowning, he’s going to get a permanent frown mark that won’t add anything to his character.

“Are you happy now that you’ve got your ice cream?” I ask him, my voice thick with attitude.

Wordlessly, he sits at the island in the kitchen and rips off the lid.

“I’ll get you a bowl and spoon,” I say, heading toward the cabinets, “and then I’m going back to bed.”

“Forget the bowl,” he growls. “Just get two spoons. We’ll eat the ice cream straight from the carton.”

We’ll? I don’t think so.

I fetch him a spoon and say goodnight as I pad toward the back door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To sleep.”

“No, you’re not. Get your ass over here.”

It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning. It’s now Monday. So contractually, I’m on duty, back to officially being his majesty’s lowly personal assistant at his beck and call. With resignation, I join him at the island and hop onto a stool cattycorner to his. Glimpsing the shiny Golden Globe statuette on one of the kitchen counters, I falter trying to make conversation.

“Congratulations on winning. I guess your lucky cufflinks really worked.”

No response. Silently, he picks up the spoon and digs into the ice cream. One heaping teaspoon after another. My elbows are anchored on the counter, my head sunk between my palms. I glumly watch him devour the container of Häagen-Dazs, my eyes riveted on his sensuous hands and mouth. You’d think I’d be drooling over the caloric ice cream, but I’m too consumed by my erotic dream. And the way he licks the melting dessert off his spoon.

“Why aren’t you having some?”

“I’m not hungry.” I squirm on my stool to quell the throbbing between my legs.

“Eat.” He scoops up a heaping teaspoon of the ice cream and puts it to my mouth. “Open.”

I part my lips and clamp my mouth over the cold spoon. His eyes stay on me while I gulp down the creamy dessert and lick off the remains.

“Have some more.”

“Why aren’t you at one of those awards parties?” I ask, ignoring his order.

He looks up from the ice cream. “I had a big fight with Katrina.”

My ears perk up. And so does my mood. “Oh. What did you fight about?”

“I fucking forgot to thank her in my speech. The press is already all over it. Tomorrow’s going to be a living nightmare.”

“How could you forget to thank her?” Easy!

“I don’t know. I was nervous. Plus, I had to wing it. To be honest, I can’t remember what the hell I said.”