I took a shaky breath, my green eyes meeting my own gaze in the mirror. My lip quivered, and I could see the nervousness playing out in a pink blush across my cheeks. I took another breath, clenching my fists by my sides and closing my eyes. I’d been dreading that night for weeks, and now it was here.

The ball. Specifically, the ball my father, King Lucian of Avlion was throwing for all “eligible bachelors and bachelorettes” across the kingdoms, now that he’d finally decided that his daughters were ready for marriage.

Heck, or dating even, since neither myself nor my sisters had really done any of that either. And I was twenty.

I knew my father meant the best for us — not letting his eighteen, twenty, and twenty-one year old daughters seek partners until now wasn’t some show of old-fashioned customs like my little sister Isla always said. He was really just protecting us, and giving us the time to have a proper view of the world before we started looking for someone to share our lives with. And besides that, most princes had horrid reputations as foul, filthy-mouthed womanizers.

But that night should have been something I’d looked forward to, not secretly cringed about. After all, my parents had invited all sorts of princes from the neighboring kingdoms, including the absolutely dreamy Prince Chester of Montagne. I’d be an idiot to think I was the only single princess that had eyes on him, but he’d written my father three times over the last few weeks, mentioning how excited he was for the dance and to meet me.

I know, I know. Believe me, I understand how out of touch it seemed in the modern world of cellphones and Facebook and snapchat to be throwing balls for princes and princesses to meet at, but hey, that's the word I was born into, and as much as Isla, and even my older sister, Ilana, poo-poo-ed the royal life we lived, I actually liked it.

Well, except for tonight.

Because, yes, Chester was coming, and yes, the whole palace had been done up beautifully for the ball, and yes, my bright chartreuse green gown, with the exposed shoulders and gold trim looked amazing and made my red hair and green eyes just pop.

But there was a storm cloud hanging over tonight. A dark, filthy-mouthed, crude-talking, perverted, scandalizing, morally repugnant storm cloud. And this storm cloud had a name:

Prince Magnus Jameson.

The absolutely disgusting, tabloid-scandal-ridden prince of the kingdom of Zale.

The absolutely gross, ridiculously cocky, impossibly arrogant, and unfairly gorgeous Prince Magnus.

And I say unfairly, because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that someone that obnoxious, and with that much of a terrible reputation could also be hands down the most attractive, heart-stoppingly gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. Thick dark brown hair, sharp, piercing blue eyes, and an absolutely melting smile perpetually across that perfect, chiseled, handsome face. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, and since I did unfortunately read the tabloids and see the pictures of him on various beaches and yachts, a body absolutely carved from marble.

Prince Magnus, but then, the tabloids had a new name for him as of late.

Prince Magnum.

Take a guess what that was in reference to.

I blushed in my bedroom mirror, shivering and quickly shutting my eyes again as the memory of that day came flooding back with the usual heat it always did. It’d been four weeks ago, and I never should have been there.

My parents had believed I’d been going to southern Spain to do some homeless outreach in some of the poorer areas. After all, helping wherever I could with people that hadn’t had the completely random luck of being born into a kingdom like I had was one of my passion projects. And I had gone to one of the slums outside Valencia to help, but then I’d gone off itinerary.

I’m not entirely sure why I’d lied to my pilot about my father being perfectly aware of me going to Ibiza. I’m not sure why I checked into a hotel under an assumed name, or why I’d bought the biggest pair of movie-star, incognito sunglasses and big brimmed hat I could find. Maybe it was because I’d just turned twenty, and I just wanted something exciting. I wanted to go a little crazy, I guess, for once.

That’d lasted all of one day. I’d sunned by the pool, I’d had exactly two glasses of wine at the hotel bar, I’d gone upstairs to change to go out—

And that’s when I’d been introduced to Prince Magnus.

No, that’s when I’d been introduced to Prince Magnum.

At first, I’d had a horrified thought that I’d somehow walked into the wrong penthouse suite. But there were only three suites like this at the hotel, and I knew I’d made a right off the elevator.

I’d wanted to scream, but it was like I was frozen to the spot just staring at the sight that greeted me when I walked in. Frozen, scandalized, staring, and incredibly and horribly turned on.

Because there, laying spread out and propped up in my bed, without a stitch of clothing on that absolutely gorgeous body, was Prince Magnus.

…With every single inch of his…well, Magnum standing at attention.

I’d felt the heat in my face, not to mention other places as my eyes had just dropped to his absolutely enormous… thing, pulsing rock hard between his legs. Every instinct to scream, or turn and flee, or even look away just vanished as I stared at him, as if I was hypnotized.

There’s no way that’s real.

There just wasn’t, except the proof was sitting there with a cocky grin on his face, his hands behind his head, his rippling abs flexing, a smirk on his face, and the biggest cock I could have ever imaged throbbing between his legs.

The tabloids usually blew stories out of proportion. Not this one. Not the “Prince Magnum” story.

…If anything, they’d under-sold it.

It was him that broke the silence.

“You order some room service, Claire?” He’d said with a smug grin, rocking his hips just enough to make his huge dick wave a little in the air.

I let out a little peeping sound, my hand flying to my mouth as my eyes had somehow gotten even bigger.

Claire.

He’d used my fake name — the one I used when trying to travel under the radar, or when I was in a less than perfectly safe area doing charity work. Or say, checking into party hotels in Ibiza, Spain, without my parent’s knowledge.

“How—”

The words weren’t forming, and my eyes still wouldn’t look away from his crotch.

“How’d I get in here, since you haven’t had the chance to beg me to come up yet?” He chuckled arrogantly, flexing a little and flashing another gorgeous grin at me.

I flushed a deeper red, the ridiculous cockiness of him hitting me like a wicked touch.

“Yes— yes,” I finally got out, finally tearing my eyes away from his erection to stare him in the eye with a flush on my face. “How did you get in here?”

He’d grinned. “You know who I am, beautiful?”

Of course I did, and he saw it on my face before I could even come up with a lie.

“What can I say?” He’d shrugged. “I saw you down by the pool earlier, and I knew I just had to have you. I own this hotel, so…” He’d shrugged again, his eyes dripping over my body and making me shiver with heat.

“You can thank me later, sweetheart, but for now, why don’t you get that hot little ass over here and get a closer look.”

My jaw had dropped.

He’d just grinned, and before I even knew what was happening, he’d reached down and wrapped his hand around his thick cock.

“You know you’re dying to ride the Magnum.”

And that’s when I’d fled. That’s when I’d turned, somehow managed to grab my purse and a sundress from the closet, and run full-tilt out the door, barefoot, down six flights of stairs to the lobby, out to my driver, and immediately gone to the airport, and back to Avlion.

That was four weeks ago, and I hadn’t stopped thinking about that arrogant man or what I’d seen between his legs ever since. And if life was fair, I’d have somehow pushed that memory out of my head and gone on with my life without ever seeing him again — the man who’d talked to me like no man ever had before, since he clearly didn’t know who I was.

But tonight, Prince Magnus and I were going to be face to face again. Only this time, I wasn’t going to be “Claire,” who hung out by the Ibiza hotel pools in giant sunglasses and beach hats.

This time, I was going to be me — Imogen Morningstar, Crown Princess of Avlion, twenty year old virgin, eligible bachelorette, and absolutely hypnotized by the most arrogant, most crude, most panty-meltingly gorgeous man I’d ever met.

Tonight was going to be awful.