Page 1 of Kidnapped By the Mafia Boss
. . .
1 week ago
He’s a dark presence behind me in the forest, and I’m his prey. I run into the shadows, heart hammering, branches catching at my arms, my breath hot in my throat. I have to get away. But I know there’s no chance of escape.
Not from him, as I hear his footsteps getting closer.
Or from my own twisted desires.
—CATCHMEKISSME
1
JENNA
I don’t think my stalker is here tonight.
Is that a good thing for a first date? Maybe, but I confess I’m a little disappointed that he’s not chasing me around London when I’m doing something other than walking to work and back.
And it means this evening is even more dull than I was expecting. The hotel attached to this restaurant sells itself on providing a great night’s sleep. Presumably they don’t expect the snoozing to be over dinner, but I’m at considerable risk of flopping face-first into my food.
I have more chemistry with this bowl of spaghetti than with my date, Howard. And the marinara sauce has waaaayyy more spice.
I try hard to focus on Howard, and what he’s saying about martial arts boxing. Yuh-huh. I believe you, with those weedy arms that don’t fill out your shirt. Does he box against cardboard cutouts?
Picking at my food, I wish I’d put more cheese on it. But I don’t want to look greedy, so I just shoot longing glances at the little bowl of parmesan.
The problem is, past-Jenna’s decisions were led by fear rather than attraction. I swiped right on Howard because hewasn’t threatening. Blondish hair. About my age. Slight build and pale complexion, as though he sits at a desk too much.
Will this meal never, ever, end? My spaghetti bowl is a bottomless pit.
Perhaps I could get a dog from the vet practice where I work to polish it off for me. There was a gorgeous black-and-white collie puppy rescued by an even more handsome owner who would do the job admirably.
And honestly, I’d have better conversation with a dog too. My date hasn’t asked anything about me all evening. He’s told me repeatedly that he’s a police officer, and while that doesn’t mean much in London—everyone knows the mafia lords have all the power here—it underlines what a dull option he is. He seemed the type of man Ioughtto like. And since my experience with men is purely fictional and second-hand, I thought I should make Good, Sensible Decisions™.
Not—you know—thinking with my pussy choices. Embracing actual reality rather than diving into a book or writing yet another spicy micro-story for my social media account: CatchMeKissMe.
In my dating app profile, I wrote that I was looking for a man who enjoys being out in nature, physical activities, deep conversations, and has strong leadership skills.
That may have been a euphemism.
Actually, what I want is a rich and dangerous silver fox twice my age, with an interest in chasing me through forests and taking my V-card by force as he calls me his good girl and tugs my hair.
Practically the same thing, no? Joke’s on me.
Forcing a smile, I put my spoon and fork together neatly. “I’m stuffed.”
“Stuffed?” Howard’s eyes meet mine and for a split second something ugly crosses his face, too fast for me to analyse.
Stuffed. Ehhhyy… I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. Online, I am notorious for wanting a good stuffing. Not the too-much-food type, or the up-a-chicken type, either. Nope, the older man who pushes me to the ground and stuffs me deliciously with his length, type.
But no stuffing tonight. Never with this pasty, boring jerk.
“Really not hungry,” I say firmly.
Howard’s mouth twists and my stomach drops in a not-nice way. “Another drink maybe? While I finish my food?”
“Sure.” I’m not thirsty, but I guess it beats more conversation.
