This is an excerpt of my book The Burning Offer, first in the Trevor’s Harem series. It’s a psychological mind-fuck and hot as hell. Get your copy here for only 99 cents for a limited time.
I feel like a bomb is about to go off. I don’t know what this man is doing to me, but I can’t stop looking him over, from square jaw and asshole’s smile to broad shoulders, from fine leather shoes to the obvious bulge of his cock. I’m furious. I’m ready to attack. To offer retribution for what he’s refusing to do next. But there’s nowhere for that anger to go.
When he finally makes a move to grab me, I’ll knee him in the crotch. I’ll scratch. I’ll scream, and then I’ll yell.
But instead, his lips form a cruel little smile and he says, “You’re not so fucking tough after all, are you, Bridget Miller?”
Then he backs up a step. Away from me. And before I know what’s happening I’ve closed the distance between us. Wrapped my hands behind his ass and pinged his crotch into mine, compatible parts meshing with frustrating fabric between them. I feel his length press sidelong against my slit, and as our mouths mash together, he finally responds and grinds into me hard. I’ll come right here.
But a second later, it’s all hot breath and hands as our mouths come apart. He turns me around and presses me against the alley wall, his big hands pawing my breasts through my dress. I’m barely aware of the fact that anyone could walk by the alley or through the door at any time as he pins my arms to my sides and slips the straps of my dress from my shoulders. I didn’t wear a bra; my girls aren’t big enough to need one. His bare hands easily cover each from behind, and then I’m against the wall again as he hikes up my dress, sliding my panties down past the swell of my ass. Just far enough, once he forces my legs apart, to let him run his fingers between my folds from behind, to my clit, making me gasp.
“Say you want my cock,” he growls.
My face is against the brick. I’ve lost track of his hands, but I hear zipping and a rush of fabric, so I assume he’s taking himself out behind me. My breath is coming fast and hard. His hands are back on my ass, between my cheeks, slipping inside my dripping wet pussy.
Then his voice is right by my ear. In my hair. Where he was that night, when he made me come across miles of phone line.
“Say you want my cock.” He demands it, sounding almost angry, his voice full of resentment and barbed lust.
“I want it,” I say. I’m barely coherent. I don’t know who I am, but I am definitely not myself. I’m bare from the belly up with my tits against an alley wall, a stranger’s rough hands between my legs, pussy soaking. The need is intense, like something burning. I can feel his body’s rhythm as he pumps his cock. I haven’t seen it, but I swear I can sense it, inches away, its heat pulsing at my wet entrance.
“Say it right.”
“I want your cock!” I don’t even know what I feel. Angry? Humiliated? Incredibly, unbelievably, impossibly aroused? How long since I’ve had a man inside me? How badly have I wanted it, needed it?
“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
Am I panting? Crying? I don’t even know. I only know that if he doesn’t fuck me soon, I’ll collapse.
I feel the hard pressure of his tip, and then he slides roughly inside, filling me completely. I fucking swear, I almost come right away, just from relief. But then he starts to thrust, and his hand is on my back, pressing me harder to the bricks. He fucks like a sledgehammer, like a grudge. I come up on my toes a bit each time his balls slam against me, my pussy gripping him like a fist. Our sounds are wet and rushed. Primal. For a second, it occurs to me that he’s not even using a condom and that’s a problem, but then my first orgasm claims me and I collapse, practically falling. He holds me up, still fucking me, using me like a doll. Then he pulls out, and I feel a splatter on my back like hot glue.
It’s on my ass. On the small of my back. On my dress, by the feel. And damn if I didn’t feel something land in my hair.
It’s a long minute before I return to my senses, and then reality lands like a guillotine’s blade. I’m mostly naked in an alley, some hot stranger’s seed spattered all up my back.
And despite the distraction, nothing is better.
I’m still out of money.
I still can’t tell anyone why I need it, or even that I need it.
I should feel ashamed. And I do … sort of. Mostly, it’s lost in another sensation. Of having only a taste of something I’ve been needing, and now about to be left without.
Alexander, or whoever, is zipping up. I didn’t even see the cock that just fucked me, and for some reason I want to see it more than anything else in the world despite all that’s still wrong.
“Wait,” I say.
But now he has his coat. His hand’s on the club door as I pull my dress both up and down in a hurry, trying to hide what I’ve done.
“You’re tighter than I always thought you’d be,” he says.
Then he’s gone, and I’m in the alley alone, my panties still at my knees, pussy still shamefully craving more.
Only then do I remember something he said.
You’re not so fucking tough after all, are you, Bridget Miller?
But I never gave him my last name, and there’s no way he could possibly know it.
WANT MORE? The Burning Offer is only 99 cents for launch — get your copy here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0184SY5IM