Peyton is a nightmare. She doesn’t want to eat the dinner I made because she says walnuts make her bloated, and then she blames me because she can’t get the zipper of the evening gown she wants to wear all the way up.

“Try harder,” she demands, looking at herself in a full-length mirror.

She’s fully done up, hair piled on her head, fake eyelashes, ruby-red lips. The gown she chose is a shimmery blue.

Peyton’s not an ugly girl. She’s actually kind of pretty — at least she is before she insists on spackling makeup onto her face with a trowel and wearing a dress that’s a size too small for her. Every time she goes on a date I’m tempted to remind her that no one’s going to be looking at the number on her tag, but I never have.

“Try holding your breath,” I suggest.

“I am,” she insists.

I tug. The zipper’s not going up, and I’m worried that I’m going to break it.

“Is there another dress you could wear?” I ask. I know she’s got a closet full of them, but I also know that’s not necessarily good enough for her.

“The Duke likes blue,” she insists. “And I like how this one makes my cleavage look good.”

I sigh silently, to myself, looking over Peyton’s shoulder at my own reflection. I look tired and bedraggled. I just want her to go on her stupid date so I can go do the dishes and then read in my tiny room while no one bothers me.

But instead I hear Livia coming up the stairs.

“Peyton!” she shouts, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Are you ready yet?”

“Ella can’t zip up my dress!”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at Peyton acting like this is my fault as Livia storms into the room and gives Peyton a once-over.

“Either put on a corset or change your dress,” she commands.

Peyton pouts, but she doesn’t disobey her mother. She tosses the blue dress into a heap on the floor and grabs an aquamarine one from the closet. This one zips up perfectly.

I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

After that, there’s drama about Peyton’s shoes and drama about Peyton’s purse, but then the Duke’s limousine finally pulls up and she leaves. Slade’s had a couple of margaritas and she’s watching TV in her own quarters, and Livia’s probably got souls to steal somewhere, so I’m finally left alone.

I do the dishes. I clean the kitchen, the dining room, and pick up after the three of them in the downstairs of the giant mansion. It’s work, but I do this every night — by now, the rhythm is kind of soothing, to be honest.

After all that, I head to my bedroom. It’s a smallish room in what was once the servants’ quarters, which isn’t lost on me, but since it’s so plain and simple, my stepfamily almost never comes this way. And it’s not like I live in squalor — my room is on the small side, but well-kept, with a bed, a dresser, a comfy chair, and a window that looks east that I can watch the sunrise from.

Right now, there’s a family of hummingbirds who’ve made their home in a bush right outside the window, with three tiny eggs waiting to hatch, though I can’t see them right now since it’s dark.

I pull the curtains, take off my shoes, grab my book, and finally flop into the comfortable chair. It was deemed too out-of-fashion for the living room several years ago, but I still like it. I curl up, turn on the light, and start reading.

I get about two paragraphs in before I’m distracted again, thinking about the prince. I keep thinking about him, whether I’m cooking or doing the dishes or helping Peyton get ready, and it’s... uncomfortable.

I’ve never felt this way before, not in the least. I mean, I’ve had crushes but I’ve never wanted anyone to do the things that I can’t help thinking about now.

Stop it and read your book, I order myself. I get through one more paragraph.

Then I realize I’m thinking about Prince Grayson’s hand slowly making its way up my thigh, under the skirt of my diner uniform, and I bite my lip. In my fantasy, he’s got me up against the table, my hips pressed into the formica, and he’s grabbing my hair with his other hand, pulling my head back just hard enough.

I swallow, the words on the page swimming in front of me.

There’s something thick and massive against my ass, and a jolt of heat shoots straight through my core at the thought, my entrance suddenly wet as fantasy-Grayson shoves his hand all the way up my skirt, still pushing me against the table, and strokes me through my panties.

I gasp, and realize my eyes are shut. I open them just as my book falls from my hands, forgotten, and I just look at it on the floor.

Then I unbutton the jeans I’m wearing and slide one hand underneath them, beneath my panties. I’m slick and wet, and when I find my sensitive nub I sigh with relief, rubbing it quickly beneath my fingers.

I think about Grayson, doing the same. About him shoving my skirt over my hips. Smacking my ass and laughing in my ear. Pinching my nipples and making me moan.

My finger moves faster as I bite my lip, forcing myself not to make any noise, but I need more. This isn’t enough.

I move my hand lower and slide two fingers inside myself, moving them gently in my tightness, feeling myself clench and flutter at the delicious thoughts I’m having.

I think about him shoving my panties down, the sound of his zipper, the feel of his cock as it rubs along my ass, one hand still in my hair. I move my fingers inside myself harder, faster, biting my lip as I imagine Prince Grayson’s cock at my entrance.

And then I fuck myself even harder, biting my lip, and my back arches and my toes curl as I finish hard to the thought of him sinking his huge cock inside me to the hilt and the way he’d groan as he did.

I’ve never fantasized like this before, never wanted a man to bend me over and fuck me like that. I slowly pull my fingers out and my pants back up, buttoning them with trembling hands.

What’s gotten into me? I wonder.

And then immediately, I think: I guess I know what I want to get into me.

Just the thought makes me blush stop-sign red, and I practically run to go wash my hands.