Lily’s eyes flare with passion at my words, changing into sparkling emeralds. “I look forward to spreading you out and feasting on you later.”

Still clutching my shirt, she squirms in her chair, and I know she’s aching for me to finger her again, but I won’t. The next time I bring her to climax, I want her to be begging me.

Releasing my hold on her hair, I run my hand along her back, feeling her muscles relax under my touch. Unconsciously, she leans into my chest. Her breathing is still slightly labored and her nipples are hard points against my shirt.

With my free hand, I cup one breast, feeling the soft, warm weight in my palm.

Perfect.

Suddenly there is a knock on the door, signaling that our dinner has arrived.

Watching Lily jump at the sound has me burning with anger. Whoever instigated her kidnapping and knowingly put her through this hell will fucking pay.

I stand up, but before walking toward the door, I tuck a strand of her silky smooth hazelnut-colored hair behind her ear, stroking her cheek gently. Lily visibly relaxes against my touch. Progress.

Pulling open the door, I grab the cart from the waiter and, not wanting to let him inside, pull it into the room. There is no way I’m letting anyone from the house near my princess again, let alone see her dressed in only my shirt.

“I hope you’re hungry.” I wheel the cart of covered dishes toward the table.

“Starving.” Lily jumps up and eagerly comes over to inspect what I’ve ordered. I glimpse the first real smile on her face as I pull the metal dome covers off the dishes and reveal the hamburgers and mountains of golden French fries.

“I’m not a huge fan of the cuisine here.”

“Meat and potatoes girl are you?” I grin at her. “Seems like we have something in common.”

8

LILY

“Sit,” the man softly commands. “I’ll serve you.”

Hugging myself, I walk toward him. Grateful once again for

the shirt— the shield—he’s given me to wear. Not that the flimsy fabric has stopped him from touching me or making my traitorous body respond

to his surprisingly gentle caresses. The way he acted earlier, when he first entered the bedroom with his growly commands and scowl, I assumed— wrongly

—that this man would be grabby, rough, and forceful. He is none of these things.

Walking around the table, my back to the room, I am now facing the open bathroom door where I had, all too briefly, sought sanctuary earlier.

A wave of sorrow slowly begins to overtake me, but I force it aside. I can’t

let myself think about what will happen tonight, or even tomorrow when the man inevitably leaves me here. I need to live in the moment. Something I’ve been trying to do ever since my father’s sudden death, five years ago. Wanting to live life to the fullest is what persuaded me, along with James’ insistence that I go, to do a semester abroad in London, even if it took me longer to graduate, and it is what led me to the spontaneous— now disastrous—trip to Paris.

Acting the gentleman, the man tucks me against the table before placing a plate loaded with food and a set of silverware rolled up in a navy blue napkin in front of me. My stomach audibly grumbles as I inhale the delicious scents of fried food and red meat.

“Thank you,” I mumble, years of trained politeness taking over.

“You’re welcome, Princess,” he says, his voice light with amusement.

Ignoring his words, I quickly shake out the napkin and tuck it onto my lap before grabbing several fries. I dip them into the small container of ketchup, take a large bite, and close my eyes, moaning blissfully as the tastes of home hit my tongue.

I can almost imagine that I’m in my favorite diner. The one on Main Street,

with its red Naugahyde covered booths, stainless steel tabletops, and mini jukeboxes at every table. Where the waitresses wear poofy skirts and zip around on roller-skates.

For years, Dad and I would go there, just the two of us, for our bi-weekly father-daughter dinner. He traveled a lot for work, so every two weeks it would be just him and me, hamburgers, French-fries, and strawberry milkshakes. We would talk, laugh, and catch-up on what we missed in each other’s lives while we were apart. Dad would describe all the places he’d seen, and I’d regale him with the latest school gossip. I have not been able to bring myself to go back there since his death.

A low growl next to me forces me back into my grim reality. I shove the remaining handful of fries into my mouth, pushing back the overwhelming feelings of suffocation and loss, and focus on the satisfyingly familiar flavors.

“Good?” the man asks, pulling out the chair next to mine and sitting down.

So lost in the past, I had not noticed that he’d arranged the rest of the table with drinks and his own overloaded plate.

I nod and swallow thickly, adding wistfully, “All I need is a strawberry milkshake.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He tosses his napkin back onto the table and moves to stand up. “I would’ve ordered you one.”

“No. It’s fine. Don’t.” I reach out and grab his wrist, firmly ignoring the spark of comfortable warmth that passes through me. The last thing I want is to owe this man anything.

“Whatever my princess wants, she gets,” he states firmly, pulling out of my

grasp and moving toward the phone.

“I want to go home,” I mutter under my breath, staring down at my plate and

trying to control the sudden tidal wave of emotions—helplessness, fear, and loneliness. Not wanting to cry, I grab the burger and take a large bite, trying to push everything out of my mind, especially the man’s words.

My princess.

I don’t want to think about how many times he’s called me that, or the way

he utters the words. Behind me, I hear him grab the phone and speak in clipped, annoyed tones. So very different than the growly caress the man uses when he says those two words: my princess.

“It should be here shortly,” he states firmly. I feel the brush of his pants against my leg and his solid warmth as he settles himself back into the chair next to mine.

Focusing on the food in front of me, I ignore the conflicting emotions this man is creating within me. Fear. And desire.

“Did they make it medium-well, as I ordered?”

I look up to see him scowling down at his own plate, his dark eyebrows scrunched up and his mouth thin. I have the sudden urge to kiss away his annoyance. Shaking myself from the thought, I give him a small smile and nod.

“Good.” He picks up his burger and takes a large bite. I watch the thick cords of his neck strain and flex as he swallows. The insane desire to lean over, kiss his pulse, and breathe in his warmth overcomes me. Ignoring my own insanity, I grab more fries and attempt to focus on their wonderful salty, greasy, crunchiness. I can’t help but stare transfixed as the man’s tongue peaks out when he licks his lips, cleaning them. He grabs his beer.

“God, this is fucking awful,” the man says, putting his beer bottle back on the table with a thud and glaring at it in disgust. “I don’t know what that is, but it isn’t beer. Tastes like piss.”

“You’ve drunk urine?” I find myself asking in between bites.