‘God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to?—’
‘It’s fine,’ I try to reassure her, forgetting for a moment that she’s literally holding me against my will. ‘It happens.’
‘This absolutely doesn’t happen to me.’ Maggie removes herself from my lap, sliding over to her seat and covering her face with her hands.
Cold air seeps around my still hard dick, a dark patch covering it. When Maggie eventually looks over, she sees the mess she’s left behind.
‘Please don’t tell anyone about this.’ Her words are small, like she’s folded in on herself.
‘Like who? The old lady in the apartment downstairs?’ My attempt at levity does nothing to cut through the thick atmosphere. ‘It’s fine. Better than stabbing an officer. Or me.’
I don’t want to admit that I enjoyed it more than I should have. Not the creepy policeman shuddering next to us, but having Maggie panting in my lap.
All of the heat that momentarily passed between us dissipates, and we sit awkwardly in silence until Maggie’s shoulders slump and she reaches out to open her door.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask.
‘To clean his cum off my door before it dries.’
And I stay there. Attached to the door and utterly devoid of any control over whatever the crazy woman has in store next.
Not to mention that I’m pretty sure she is blustering about a family of killers… but what if she means it?
13
MAGGIE
My eyes burn after hours of focusing on the road. Staring so hard just to avoid the looks Roman keeps levelling at me.
White lines zip past until we hit the roads closer to home, where they disappear completely. No matter how many times I tell myself heis not thinking about it, my brain keeps helpfully replaying the exact moment my body betrayed me in front of a corrupt policeman, a kidnapped neighbour, and probably several badgers.
I came.
On Roman.
While pretending to shag him.
Whether he’s thinking about it or not, I can think about little else. I’d moaned. In his ear. More than once. Fuck me.
Fire creeps into my face every time I sneak a look at Roman, getting so warm I feel like I need to scratch it off.
My fingers whiten on the steering wheel, as if squeezing it hard enough might replace my shame with pain. Needless to say, it doesn’t work.
Roman shifts beside me, wincing as the ties cut into his wrists.
The silence stretches as we navigate twisting B-roads, my stomach flipping from both my driving and the impending chaos that awaits.
Make conversation. People still talk after pretending to have sex in front of a policeman all the time. Probably.
‘You’re quiet,’ Roman says.
‘I’m driving.’
‘You weren’t so quiet when you were?—’
‘No,’ I cut in, far too loudly. ‘Don’t finish that sentence. I absolutely cannot go there.’
‘If it helps,’ he says, ‘I’m also going to need therapy.’
