Page 10 of Cinderella and the Daddy

I approach slowly, like she might spook if I move too fast. The restoration work was flawless. Every line, every curve, exactly as Ford had intended in 1969. The black paint is flawless. Not a single scratch.

My fingers trace along the hood, following the subtle bulge that houses all that beautiful fury underneath. The chrome is perfect.Not a single pit or scratch. Even the Magnum 500 wheels are pristine, like they just rolled off the factory floor.

"You gorgeous bitch," I murmur, running my palm along the driver's side fender.

The car is like its owner—dark, powerful, and completely out of my league. Both have the same dangerous elegance. A sense of barely controlled violence wrapped in stunning beauty.

At least I’ve been kidnapped by someone with taste. And a face that belongs in magazines. It could have been so much worse. Some sweaty middle-aged creeps in a windowless van. Instead, I got the Russian mob prince with his perfect car and his perfect house and his mysterious disappearing act.

My luck is finally looking up.

I pop the hood, unable to resist. I groan at the sight of the sparkly clean engine. But there was a barely perceptible hiss I heard when we drove here.

Before I know it, I’m inspecting every inch of the magnificent beast.

“You are absolutely stunning, aren’t you?” I coo.

I examine hoses and belts.

“I always dreamed of being bent over the hood of a car like this. I’m pretty sure driving this beast would be better than sex. Fucking in this bad boy would be the experience of a lifetime.”

I hear footsteps on the polished floor.Shit. Viktor found me. Time to get dragged back to my gilded cage.

"Don't stop," Luka's voice is low. "Tell me more."

My stomach drops. How long has he been there?

Deflect. I am not about to admit I was sweet-talking a car.

I spin around, all fire and anger.

“Where’s my dog?” I snap.

“Tell me more about my car and how you want to be fucked in it.”

I roll my eyes. “Dog.”

“The mangy beast has been delivered to your room.”

I grin. “Really?”

“What were you saying about getting bent over my car?”

My face burns.

He stalks closer, those hazel eyes never leaving mine. The air thickens between us, charged with something that makes my pulse skip against my throat. I should run. Every instinct screams it. But my feet stay rooted to the concrete floor.

"My dog better be okay," I manage to say, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.

"He's fine." Luka's gaze drops to my lips. "You're not answering me."

Before I can smart-mouth him again, his hands are on my waist, lifting me onto the hood of the Mustang.

"You’re going to dent—" I start to protest.

"I don't care." His voice is rough, almost feral. Then his mouth crashes against mine.

His mouth crashes into mine with zero finesse, all demand and possession. His tongue invades, claiming territory I didn't know I was surrendering. The taste of him—coffee and something darker—floods my senses. This is wrong. He took me, caged me. But my hands fist in his shirt anyway, pulling him closer.