Page 146 of Crushing Clover

Lucky rose from his lap and pulled him to his feet.

“Besides, I haven’t had that much to drink.”

Now they were all grinning at me like hungry jackals. My stomach fluttered with sick anticipation—half arousal, and half fear. They tended to have that effect on me.

Slowly, I shook my head. “This is a bad idea. What if Saint gets carried away and murders me?”

“I’m only feeling vaguely homicidal tonight,” he assured me. “The beer has dulled my loathing for you.”

Exactly what this moment needed—a fucking comedian.

I backed away, my mind racing and my heart beating so fast it felt like my blood wasn’t pumping right.

“We could play spin the bottle instead. Strip poker? Truth or dare?” My suggestions were met with amusement. “Hell, we can skip the preliminaries, and I could give you all blowjobs. I’ve been practicing.”

“Cutting clothes off the hot girl is the best game,” Lucky said, rubbing his palms on his jeans, as though he was as eager as Rush.

“Maybe knives are a hard limit for me.”

“The best part about you, is your reluctance to be turned on by our kinks, and your inevitable screaming orgasms. Such a twisted little thing.” Saint grabbed for my arm, but I stepped out of reach.

“Yeah? Well maybe I’ve been faking those,” I shot back.

They seemed to find that hysterical, unfortunately.

“You squeeze so tight when you come, I’m surprised it hasn’t changed my dick’s circumference.”

I tried not to laugh. “Shut up.”

“Don’t fuck me so hard. You’re too big. It hurts,” Lucky said in a taunting falsetto. “Then her orgasm hits, and she’s shaking and crying and frothing at the mouth.”

“I don’t sound like that, and I’ve never frothed at the mouth!”

Rush hummed with anticipation. “Let’s see how much she hates my knives.”

I trusted all of them not to damage me, but playing with knives felt like the kind of thing I should object to. “How about we imagine knives in the privacy of our own heads, and call it a night?”

“Somebody grab her before she—fuck!” Rush didn’t get to finish his warning before I bolted for the door.

Cackling, I streaked through the kitchen and into the restaurant, weaving through the tables with their upturned chairs. Behind me, I could hear them following.

As I banged through the front door and out into the night, I felt someone catch at the back of my hair, but I tore free.

“Get back here, woman,” Saint growled, but I kept running toward the road, across the grass which was cool and damp against my bare feet.

I could feel them behind me—bigger, faster, eager to catch me.

Streetlights bathed the road in golden light and cars zipped past, making my skirt ripple.

The sidewalk was warm and gritty, and I wished I was wearing shoes. I briefly considered flagging down a passing car and letting a stranger drive me off to a new life, but with my luck, it would be someone who planned to cook me and eat my eyeballs.

I dodged a set of hands—Lucky’s?—and ended up caught by someone else. They were breathless and laughing, and brought the smell of beer with them.

An old land-yacht of a car slid to a stop next to us.

“Hey, girl! You okay?” an elderly woman called through her open passenger window. She was barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel.

“She’s fine,” Saint told her.

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