I’m having a delicious dream and I never want it to end. I’m pressed up against a hard, hot man. He smells so good, like wood and soap and something else so male. I want to bury myself in him and lick every inch. He’s spooning me, his heavy arm along my side, his large hand spread against my hip.

I lean back, pressing against him, my rear right up against his rock-hard bulge. He feels so solid and right. I arch back, wanting more. I’ve never felt this way before, so wanton and hungry. I ache for him in ways I don’t understand, but I move against him in an instinctive rhythm. Yes, that feels good, so good.

His hand travels to my stomach, running along my skin and I almost awaken. Almost. I can feel consciousness threatening at the surface, trying to end this luxurious fantasy, but I won’t let it. It feels better than anything ever has in my life. His hand, calloused and rough, possessive and strong, travels under my shirt and up to cup my breast.

I feel a rumble in his chest and I sigh with pleasure, giving myself to him, wanting this so much, wanting his fingers roaming my breast, taking and massaging. I cling to him, my legs wrapped around his, my ass backed up into his groin. I want more, I don’t even know what, but more.

The heat building between my legs is burning me up. It feels like he’s teasing, tormenting me, only touching me over my bra, through the cloth. I want more, skin on skin. I whine with need, grinding on him, pushing on his hardness but I can’t get it right where I want. Where I need it most, I’m so sensitive, my wet heat soaking through my panties.

It’s when his fingers find my nipple that I wake up. Knox pushes my bra down and takes my tender tip between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it. I’m too shocked to say anything, my eyes flying open, my mouth open, too. Then he pinches, trapping my nipple between his fingers in a hard clamp.

I cry out, pain mixing with pleasure, shame blending with desire as I realize what I’ve been doing in my sleep. I’ve been rubbing up against my captor, desperately grinding my ass on his cock, angling to get his hard-on against my clit.

My body goes rigid. I pull away. As much as I can. My wrist yanks behind me and I remember we’re handcuffed together. “I didn’t mean...” I stammer. “I wasn’t awake.”

“Hmmm.” He gives a doubtful grumble, but removes his hand. I roll away as far as I can with my wrist cuffed to his belt loop. Lying on my back, my free hand covering my eyes, a deep blush creeps up over my face.

Sneaking a peek at him, I see he’s propped himself up on his elbow, resting his head on his palm. He’s not wearing a shirt. The sight of his chest makes my stomach flip. He’s chiseled and powerful, his bicep bulging, his shoulders enormous. A trail of hair leads down his abs into the waistband of his jeans.

I shouldn’t be looking there. I jerk my head up and realize he’s watching me ogle his body. Looking down in embarrassment, I see his lips and realize how full and soft they are, such a stark contrast to the rough stubble along his jaw. Knox may be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.

“You were asleep?” he drawls, clearly not buying it. He reaches out a hand again to my hip. I tense in a panic. My body responded to him, there’s no denying it. But I do not want this. He has to know. I’m not the woman he thinks I am, the woman he’s just been fooling around with in bed.

“I’m a virgin,” I blurt out.

“What?” He draws away his hand as if it’s been burned.

“I’m a virgin,” I repeat and I keep on going, the words tumbling out of me in a torrent. “I only turned 20 last week and I’ve never had sex and you won’t get anything from me. Nothing you’ll like, anyway, because I have no idea what I’m doing. And nothing I want to do because I want nothing to do with you. At all.”

With a deep groan, he turns and flips on his back, his hand up to his forehead. “You’re a virgin.”

“That’s right.” Well, that seems to do the trick. Now he’s turned off. He must think I’m frigid. That’s good, right? Why does part of me feel disappointed?

He gets a key out of his jeans pocket and unlocks the cuffs. I bring my hand to my wrist and rub it. The metal chafed while I slept, leaving a red mark against my sensitive skin. He sees it and swears, then rolls off the bed.

He doesn't tell me not to run when he goes to the bathroom. He must be so confident he could chase me down and get me back if I did. I'm starting to realize he's right. If what he was saying earlier this morning is true, I won't be safe even if I do manage to make it back home.

The Chicago mafia? It sounds like something out of a scary movie, the kind I don't like to watch. I like it light and fluffy, romantic comedies on the Hallmark Channel, or cooking competitions on the Food Network. I'm way out of my depth.

When he walks toward me and grasps my hand, I flinch. Until I realize he’s massaging some cream onto where I chafed from the cuffs. Then he nods his head toward the bathroom. “There's a shower in there with hot water. You can take one if you want.”

The idea sounds good. Everything aches. In the shower, I inspect my body, looking for signs of damage. I don't find anything wrong, and my head feels better. Tentative, I feel the Band-Aid on my neck.

I would never have guessed that such a big man capable of massive brute force could be so gentle. He’d washed me, cleaning my wound, making sure I was bandaged. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so taken care of. His hands are rough and large, but he’d touched the skin of my neck as if he were worshiping it.

I’ve felt alone my whole life, always bouncing around with my mom, never with a stable home, never an involved dad. I’ve changed schools so many times that close friends have never been an option. I’ve learned to keep everyone at arm’s length.

Until Knox handcuffed me to him. There'd been no distance between us this morning. I’ve never slept in the same bed with a man before. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I have to admit—it felt good. Guilt steams through me as I remember the hot press of his body against mine, the feverish way I ground against him, the way his possessive grip on my breast made me soaking wet.

I wash myself with soap. Lots of soap. Now if only I could wash out my mind. This man has kidnapped me. My life is apparently in danger, from two guys who drugged me on the streets of Chicago and, who knows, maybe from this sexy madman outside the bathroom door. I need to keep my wits about me, not get distracted by misplaced sexual attraction.

I rinse the shampoo out of my hair. He doesn't have conditioner, so my hair's going to get wild. I shouldn't care what I look like. The whole goal is to repel him. That's why I told him I'm a virgin. He shouldn't want anything to do with me, and I shouldn't want anything to do with him.

Reluctantly, I change back into the same clothes. My panties remind me of my secret shame, the way my body responds to this man, and my waitressing uniform reminds me of the scariest night of my life, but I have nothing else. I brush my hair as best I can with the small, black plastic comb I find in his medicine cabinet. I clean my teeth with the brush and toothpaste I know are his. It seems far too intimate, as if we’re lovers instead of captor and captive.

Hesitant, I step barefoot back into the main room of the cabin, the only room of the cabin. It's warm and cozy. He's built a roaring fire in the wood-burning stove and it’s heating the place up. My stomach grumbles as I smell him frying sausages and potato wedges.

He sets a heaping plate down at a small table with two chairs. I consider refusing, but my stomach grumbles again. Who am I kidding? I need food. The first bite may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

He eats, too, but pays more attention to me than to his food. He seems to enjoy the fact that I'm eating. But I'm not going to give him any compliments. The man has taken me against my will and kept me tied up so I wouldn't run. Although my hands are free now, I realize. He hasn't tried to tie me up again.

“How long are you planning on keeping me here?” I push my empty plate away.

He sits back in his seat, arms crossed against his massive chest. “Do you understand what I explained to you this morning?”

“Not really,” I admit, rubbing my head. Some of my bravado falters. “It's a lot to process.”

“There are people looking for you. They want to kidnap and torture you.”

“Torture?”

He keeps looking at me with a level gaze, like these are the kinds of things people talk about every day. “It sounds like your father owes someone in the Corretti family some money. My guess is they were collecting you as collateral, figuring he'd pay up to get you back.”

I shake my head. “I barely even see my father.” If they’d kidnapped and tortured me, what would my father have done? Would he have come up with the money for my release? He hadn't exactly come through for me much in my life.

Then I think of something else, maybe even more unsettling. Knox told me he'd stopped the attack, but why had he seen it? Had he just happened to be walking down a dark alleyway at 11 o'clock at night? “Why were you there last night?”

“I was in on the job. I work for the family.” He says it matter of fact, then stands, takes our plates and brings them over to the sink

I stay seated, cold, heavy dread anchoring me to the spot. Knox is no Good Samaritan. He works for the mob. He’s only taken me himself so he can do whatever he wants with me.

And I’d felt myself softening to him. The way his body felt against mine, so hot, hard, and right. He'd fit against me like a puzzle piece and my traitorous body had attached to a criminal.

“I’m going to go chop some wood. Don’t try to run away.” He heads outside and I’m left still sitting at the table in shock. I have to get away from this man, this cabin, but how?

His keys. If I can find the keys to his truck parked outside I can drive away. He’s faster than me, but if I pick the right moment I can make it there before him, start the ignition and slam on the gas pedal before he even knows what I’m up to.

Thirty minutes of searching the one-room cabin and basically all I’ve found are food, clothes, flashlights, a few books and a pack of playing cards. Of course he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the truck keys laying around for me to find them. He probably has them in the pocket of his jeans. Where I’d have to dig to find them, right next to…

I need to think, and not about that. What’s going on back home? Are people looking for me? My mom and I only talk about once a week, so she won’t be worried yet. She doesn’t even live in Chicago anymore. She moved us there when I was 17, but left the week I turned 18, moving back to Arizona. I’d still had a few months left of high school, so I’d stayed behind and finished on my own. I wanted that diploma, and I’d gotten it. Plus I was done being yanked around by my mom, her “grass is always greener” approach to life having moved us around too often to count.

There’s a good chance my roommates won’t notice my absence for a while. We all come and go at odd hours, no real routines, and they’re used to me keeping to myself. It might take a few days for them to realize no one’s seen me. Even then, what will they do?

They’ll probably call the restaurant where I work. None of them have my mom’s phone number. Neither does my employer. My boss will notice my absence for my shift tonight, starting in a couple hours, but what will he do about it? He’ll call my cell phone sitting in my jacket pocket with absolutely no service.

I still go look for it. At least I can turn it off, preserving what little juice it still has left. If—no when—I escape, at least it’ll have some battery life.

There is no cell phone in my jacket pocket.

“Fuck!” I call out to nothing and no one. No phone, nowhere to go, I’m here in a cabin with a mobster while other mobsters try to track me down. It sounds like the plot of a book. I’d so much rather be tucked into bed at home reading than living it.

Slipping into my shoes, little flats made for walking four blocks along a city street, I decide to venture outside. I put on my light jacket, then wrap a blanket around me, too.

It’s a sunny afternoon, the sky blue and clear above the tree tops. But it’s cold and stark, the leaves mostly off the trees, and there are nothing but trees everywhere I look. I’ve lived in several cities in Texas and Arizona, plus Chicago, of course. I’ve never been anywhere so remote.

The sound of wood getting chopped and split draws me around to the side of the house. Knox is standing there with an axe, a chopping block and a pile of wood, looking like a poster for All That Is Man. He’s in a T-shirt while I stand there shivering under a blanket. Sweat plasters it to his incredible muscles. He’s all hard everywhere I’m soft. I’ve never been much of an athlete, never on any teams. Cooking and baking are my sports, and they tend to bring out my curves. He’s the exact opposite.

He looks up, wiping the sweat from his brow across his powerful forearm.

“Do you have my phone?” I venture to ask.

He shakes his head no, resting a hand on the blunt end of the axe handle. “GPS tracking. Had to get rid of it.”

“You got rid of it?”

He nods. I sigh in frustration. All around me loom tall trees and the ground’s covered with thick underbrush. Nothing in the vast wilderness remotely resembles a path.

He confirms my suspicions. “We’re the only cabin for ten miles in any direction. No people, just wolves, pumas and black bears.”

“Nice.” Great mobster hangout he has here. Wait, aren’t Chicago mobsters big on city stuff, like living and playing in the city where they work? “Why do you have a cabin all the way out here if you work for the mob?”

He exhales heavy, like I’ve asked him a question with a complicated answer. But he doesn’t give one. He doesn’t say a thing.

Studying his features, I try to read him because, really, who the hell is this man? He saves me, but kidnaps me. He ties me up, but tells me it’s to keep me safe. He touches me, but only after I’ve practically humped him first.

I look away, frustrated. I can’t read him at all, and it’s not just because the sunlight gleaming on his massive biceps is more than a little distracting. The man has a poker face.

“If you work for the mob,” I try again, “why did you take me away from some other mob guys?”

He scratches his temple, then admits, “I didn’t like what they had planned.”

“So you weren’t part of the plan to drug and kidnap me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To keep you safe.” He stands there offering no further explanation, a giant mass of muscle at least ten inches taller than me. Then he gets back to work, raising the axe and swinging it back down in an impressive display of strength. The sweat glistens on his arms and neck. He picks up his T-shirt and wipes his brow again, giving me a glimpse of his abs and that damn happy trail.

I turn to go. There’s much more that he’s not telling me, but I’m not going to stand around gawking at him until I find out. Even if a small part of me would much rather be standing outside watching him swing that axe, muscles flexing, rather than pace alone again in the cabin.

He’d felt so good in bed this morning. His scent, that’s a big part of the problem. Sharing a bed with him, I’d responded on instinct, breathing him in all night. He smells so good, musky and clean, and now he’ll smell like work and the outdoors.

Damn it, I need to get my head screwed on straight. Running around like a chicken with its head cut off from one set of bad guys into another isn’t a good idea.

I’m not going to run. I believe him when he says I have nowhere to go. But I do need to figure out a plan to escape.

I’ll cook. Heading into the kitchen area, I already feel more peace of mind as I start to plan a meal. I always think best when I’m cooking. Maybe I can fix a stew, something nourishing for dinner. It’ll calm my nerves, clear my head and maybe, just maybe, distract me from lusting after my captor.