“No, you’re not. Leave me alone.”
“Not until you fuck me.”
“Go away.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. Rules of the game.”
“There is no rule that says you have to follow me.”
“One quick blowjob and I’ll leave you alone. But put up a little struggle to make it fun.”
A trellis of wisteria loomed overhead. She ducked beneath the purple blooms, swatting them away from her ruined hair, then turned and glared at him.
Something small with many legs scuttled across her shoulder, and she bit back a scream, flicking it to the ground. He laughed at her, hopping onto the stone wall with athletic ease, wandering alongside her from the elevated vantage.
They rounded a corner, and Daisy staggered to a halt. Cabanas, draped in silk curtains, loomed ahead.
“Ah, here we go.” Peter leapt off the stone wall and pranced closer to one of the beds, clutching a post and swinging around to face her. The sheer panels wafted in the breeze. “Shall we?”
Another cabana stood in the distance. From inside, wet rhythmic moans accompanied the steady creak of wood. A grunt. A gasp. The structures weren’t incredibly stable, and they rocked as a couple rolled from within.
The postmodern jazz continued to play. Daisy marched toward the empty cabana, and Peter grinned, but then frowned when she grabbed a fistful of silk curtain and yanked downward.
“You’re a destructive little thing.”
The thin fabric tore with ease. She ripped several thin strips and dropped to the ground, carefully wrapping her battered feet.
“Perfect. Stay just like that.” He unzipped his pants and stepped closer.
She looked up at him with such staunch disapproval that he stilled. She didn’t know what possessed her to stare at him so, but her instincts were spot on.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” She scowled, voice firm and maternal.
He slowly pulled up his zipper. “Why?”
“Can’t you see my feet are hurt and I just want to find the damn safe zone?”
“Sorry?”
“Oh, please,” she snapped, rising to stand. “You’re only sorry I won’t have sex with you.”
“Very true.”
She rolled her eyes and scoffed, rubbing her neck. “My throat is killing me.”
“I have something for that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Shut. Up.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “A flask!” Slowly, he reached into his pocket and produced a thin, silver canister. “Here.”
She stared at the offering suspiciously. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “Pixie dust.”
“What the hell is pixie dust?”
“A punch—of sorts.”
