Killian sat back, his glass of Bordeaux forgotten in his hand. He was captivated. Every time her eyes lit up or a small, blissful moan escaped her lips at the taste of the truffle or the sear of the scallop, a jolt of pure satisfaction raced through him. She was breathtaking in the moonlight, the blue of her dress mirroring the deep ink of the Seine.
"Killian," Raya said softly, swirled her third glass of wine. She wasn't drunk, but the tension of the last twenty-four hours had completely evaporated, replaced by a warm, golden glow. "Why aren't you eating? You’re barely touching this, and it’s easily the best thing I’ve ever tasted."
Killian didn't look at his plate. He didn't even look at the shimmering city passing them by. "I'm being fed by something else tonight, Raya," he murmured
