Saving Aurora

Chapter 8

S

8

LILY

it,” 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 f*****g 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.

“Urotherapy is supposed to have many health benefits, including curing

cancer,” he states, lifting his water glass and gulping down a third of it.

Eww!

If this man really has drunk urine, I’m seriously going to rethink finding him

attractive. He must see the look of revulsion on my face because he grins.

Leaning over, he takes his napkin and wipes ketchup off the corner of my

mouth before admitting the truth. “Don’t worry; I’ve never actually drunk piss.

Not even during a drunken game of dare at university.”

I smile and return to my perfectly cooked hamburger. We eat in comfortable

silence for several minutes until a knock on the door startles me again. The man

stands up and places a gentle, calming hand on my shoulder. But when I look up,

he’s staring down at me with a dark expression.

I watch as he yanks open the door, grabs the silver tray from the waiter, and

then slams the door shut in the waiter’s face. When he turns back around, his

face is clear of emotion—a placid mask.

The pendulum swing of his emotions leaves me feeling unmoored and

insecure. Even though none of his anger seems to be directed at me personally,

it’s unsettling to witness. After watching him this entire evening, one thing

seems to be clear: he has no desire to be here. Then why is he?

“They better have made it correctly.” He places the large strawberry

milkshake in front of me and moves his beer to the other side of the table.

“Thank you.” I reach out and take hold of the tall cold glass. A white straw

pokes out of a watery pale pink liquid. Taking a large sip, I look up to see him

watching me with a furrowed brow.

“It’s delicious,” I lie, not wanting this man to know it’s possibly the worst

milkshake I have ever had. He doesn’t need another reason to be more annoyed

than he already is, and I don’t want to risk that he’ll start taking it out on me

—physically.

“It f*****g better be,” he grumbles, taking his seat next to me once again and

going back to his meal.

The supposed milkshake tastes like they used frozen yogurt instead of ice

cream and fat-free milk. It is nothing like the extra thick ones with their

generous helpings of whipped cream on top that I used to get at the diner back

home. Again, I try to brush thoughts of the past aside and live in the moment.

“Here, you can have mine.” The man places his small container of ketchup

next to my plate. “I prefer oil and vinegar.”

“Thank you,” I reply, and find myself commenting, “That’s very British.”

“I went to Cambridge,” he tells me. “And then spent several years working

in London.”

“My cousin went there,” I tell him softly, my heart suddenly aching for my

family.

Do they even realize I’m missing?

Are they looking for me?

Grabbing the milkshake, I take another large sip, ignoring the watery flavor

as I swallow and try to push down the tightness that has spread into my throat.

Over the past weeks, I have deliberately avoided asking myself these questions,

knowing it would leave me slipping into despair. Something I have to avoid at

all costs if I have any hope of surviving, of escaping.

“What was your favorite thing about Paris?”

“Paris?” I ask, staring down at my half-finished meal.

The man’s question startles me; I almost forgot I had ever been to Paris. I

had barely begun exploring the city when my nightmare began.

“Yes, Paris. What did you enjoy most while you were there?”

I look over to see his face full of genuine interest.

“The croissants,” I tell him, grinning slightly—remembering the crisp, flaky,

buttery croissants we had our first morning and how they melted in your mouth.

“You sound like my little sister,” he tells me, and a grin flits across his face.

“You have a sister?” I find myself asking. How could this man possibly be

here in a brothel buying women and have a younger sister at home?

“Yes,” he answers with a finality that doesn’t allow for any further questions;

instead, he redirects the conversation with one of his own. “Did you get to the

Louvre?”

Having taken another bite, I simply nod my head in answer.

Janice and I had braved the insane line at the Louvre to catch a glimpse of

the famous paintings we had only ever seen in our art history textbooks.

“What did you think?”

“Seeing the Mona Lisa was a little anticlimactic,” I admit, nibbling on

another fry.

“It is, isn’t it!” he exclaims, putting his glass back down on the table with a

resounding thud.

I can’t help but smile at his overly enthusiastic response about something so

mundane.

“It’s only worth the visit if you do a private tour,” he adds, and then he

begins telling me all about his last visit. It sounds like he saw a lot more of what

the museum has to offer than I did. My heart skips a beat when he casually

remarks, “I’ll take you sometime.”

A swell of hope fills me, but then reality crushes it. People say things they

don’t really mean all the time. I need to focus on our conversation here in the

moment, not what could be in the future.

The man is clearly intelligent and cultured, knowing all about the artists, the

architecture, and the history of the Louvre itself. After going weeks without

having anyone to talk to, our conversation is oddly comforting. I find myself

asking him questions, wanting to know more about him and his interests. We

segue into other topics, such as our favorite films, foods, and his favorite

American microbreweries—one in Vermont in particular. Although he avoids

anything too personal, like his name, he answers me and seems just as interested

in keeping the conversation flowing.

I’m struck suddenly by how oddly date-like our dinner has become, and even

more confused by this man’s odd behavior. Ever since we sat down to eat, it

seems like he wants to get to know me. Almost like he wants to be friends. I

highly doubt that this man lacks friends. So why does he care whether or not I’m

a fan of Harry Potter? Incidentally, I am, having grown up reading the books and

seeing the films. He claims to have taken an online quiz that sorted him into

Gryffindor, but I’m not sure I believe him. He’s clearly a Slytherin.

“What are you studying in school?” he asks, pushing aside his plate and

draining his water glass.

“I’m majoring in advertising and minoring in graphic design.”

“A perfect combination,” he tells me with a grin, seeming impressed.

I find my heart warming at his support. There have been very few in my

family who believe a career in advertising is what I should be doing. Most want

me to follow in my father’s footsteps. I know my mother does. She wants me to

take over the running of Stone International when my stepfather retires.

Running a multi-million dollar company holds no interest for me. I would

happily work in the advertising department.

Not wanting the man to know how much I dislike it, I take another tentative

and very small sip of the disgusting milkshake. I’m unsure why I care. I keep

flipping back and forth between thinking how kind he is for specially ordering it

for me, and then telling myself how ridiculous I’m being. As much as I try to

live in the moment and enjoy his company, I cannot let myself forget where I am

and why we’re here in this room. Tomorrow he will leave. And I’ll still be

trapped here in my living nightmare.

The man takes me by surprise when he stands and tosses his napkin down

onto the table. “Shower.”

I look up nervously as he takes the nearly full milkshake from my hand and

places it back on the table before he pulls out my chair, giving me no option to

retreat.

“I haven’t finished,” I complain, reaching to grab another now cold and

soggy French-fry and popping it into my mouth. Gross!

“Yes, you have,” he replies, taking my arm and pulling me bodily out of the

chair to stand in front of him. “You’ve been staring at your plate and playing

with your food for the last five minutes.”

“I was digesting,” I counter back. I really should not be provoking this man.

But something inside of me enjoys goading him; getting the blank mask he

wears to break. Instead of anger, a fleeting grin of apparent amusement crosses

his face.

With his hand on my elbow, he leads me into the bathroom. Once inside, he

lets go of my arm and shuts the door behind us. Click.

The tile is cold on my bare feet, but the man’s warmth beside me floods my

senses. Why am I not more afraid? I should be terrified.

Moving behind me, he brushes my hair aside, draws his shirt away from my

skin, and leaves a trail of kisses along my neck. I bite my lip trying to suppress a

moan and find myself leaning back into his chest. The man’s hands run along my

sides, settle on my hips, and pull me back further into his arms. I gasp. His hard,

thick c**k presses into me.

The man nips my earlobe and whispers, “Can you feel how hard you make

me, Princess? Are you going to make me suffer all night?”

“Yes,” I reply with a moan as he unhurriedly rubs himself against me, the

friction sparking an unwanted desire within me.

“We’ll see,” the man chuckles into my neck, sucking on my pulse point as he

moves our bodies together in the same leisurely fashion.

“Turn around,” he commands, placing his hands lightly on my shoulders and

guiding my movements as I turn to face him.

“You won’t be needing this.” He reaches up and slowly pops open the top

button of his shirt, letting his calloused fingertips lightly caress the skin on my

throat. I shiver.

Leisurely the man moves down my body, continuing to tease me with the

pleasure of his gentle touch on my breasts as he slowly unbuttons the shirt. My

sex pulses with need as he moves lower, leaving barely there touches against my

stomach. The man slowly reveals my body until he’s pushing the stiff fabric off

my shoulders and lets it fall onto the floor.