Page 70 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
Roman grabs my hand and turns me to face him, swaying ever so slightly after his morning of drinking with my father.
‘Maggie. Look at me.’
I do. Reluctantly.
‘It’ll be fine, but right now you need to vent before you implode.’ Roman’s stare melts my insides, and I hope he’s going to suggest some more orgasms.
‘And how do you suggest I do that? I can’t exactly grind against you in the grounds.’
His mouth twitches. ‘I was thinking something a little more destructive.’
‘If you don’t know by now, that’s not my vibe.’
‘I don’t want you to kill anyone. Trust me.’
He pulls me towards one of the older sheds at the east end of the main lawn and shoulders the door until it groans open. He roots around for a few minutes before emerging covered in dusty cobwebs and brandishing a cricket bat. I’m pretty sure it’s a cricket bat, not that I’d know the sport if it hit me on the arse. Eyeing Roman gripping the bat, I feel like that might be a perfectly interesting diversion… Alas, no. He passes the bat to me and finds a blanket and rope.
Damn, maybe we’re getting kinky after all.
My mind wanders into the gutter until Roman leads me towards the woods. Bending, he gathers up some rocks and stacks them on the blanket.
‘I’m pretty sure the B in BDSM doesn’t stand for boulder.’
Roman chokes on a laugh. ‘I’m surprised you know that acronym at all.’
‘I’m a surprising kind of woman.’
‘I’ll say.’ Roman gathers the blanket’s corners and knots the rope around them to create a little sack of stones.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘It’s not exactly a piñata,’ he says, slinging the rope over a branch while I ogle his thick forearms, ‘but close enough.’
I stare at it. ‘You want me to hit a sack of rocks?’
‘I can draw Eddie’s face on it?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t want to stare at his mug any more than I need to.’
I weigh the bat in my palm.This is absurd.
‘C’mon then, Princess, show me what you’ve got.’
Swinging, I glance at the not-piñata with a pathetic swat.
‘Harder,’ Roman urges. ‘C’mon. Give it some welly.’
I swing again. And again. Each strike loosens a bundle of stress until I’m really going for it, breath coming in hot puffs, followed by some very unladylike cursing.
‘Eddie’s an absolute bellend!’
‘Priscilla is a murderous bitch!’
‘I. Fucking. Hate. It. Here!’
‘Why amIalways the odd one out when I live in a house of actualmurderers? As if I’m the bloody black sheep.’
The blanket finally gives as my arms start to ache, stones flying like very hard confetti.
