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 during preorder.
There’s a bar along one wall. He’s using tongs to drop spheres of ice into an old-fashioned tumbler then pouring amber liquid atop them. The liquor doesn’t fully cover the ice. I wonder if this is how rich people get wasted — one sip at a time.
He sees me watching him. I avert my eyes, too late.
“Would you like a drink?”
I should say no. But I doubt he’s going to roofie me in a glass room in a public hotel, and whether it’s accepting gifts from an adversary or not, a stiff drink would make this easier.
He sets the bottle down and returns to his seat without pouring me a glass.
“Do you masturbate, Bridget?”
My jaw locks. I’m glaring into his face, but he’s kicked back now, sipping his drink.
“It’s a simple question.”
I shake my head, disbelieving. “Fuck you. Asshole.”
“Not participating, then?” He looks at my bag, where I’ve stashed my check. I suppose I could run, but he — or Trevor Fucking Ross, who has more money than the nations of the world and surely wipes his ass with $2,500 — could easily void the check. And would, I feel certain.
“I’m not answering that.”
“Come on, Bridget. We all do it. I do it. I did it last night. Thinking of you.”
My eyes flick to his crotch. Traitors. And I get a flash of an image: his big hands on the thick dick I felt sliding inside me from behind in that alleyway, pumping it, spewing all over his fist in a gusher.
“Just admit it,” he says.
“Ask another question.”
“I already know you do. I want to hear you say it.”
I look down at my bag. At the door. And I say, “Fine.”
His eyebrows jump up as if he’s surprised. An amused smile forms on his lips. “You do? Well, that’s disgusting.”
I shake my head and stalk toward the door.
“Relax, Bridget. I’m only kidding. It’s not disgusting at all. In fact, if you were to do it right now, I’d join you.”
“Jesus. Fucking pig.”
He laughs. “Oh, my God, just forget it. I thought you had a sense of humor.”
But I know he wasn’t kidding.
“Please. Sit. Just questions, that’s all.”
“Because I want to know. Trevor wants to know.”
“I told you, I’m not a whore.”
“Nobody’s asking you to do anything you don’t choose to do. Now please, have a seat. I apologize.” He puts his hand on his heart, a parody of penitence.
I face him. Heart beating hard. But dammit. Dammit fuck dammit, I realize I’m actually wet for this son of a bitch. I can’t help it and won’t be blamed. It’s biology, not sense or dignity.
“The question, however, remains,” he says, returning to serious.
“What would your boss think of last night?” I ask, going on the offensive.
“He was very happy.”
“You told him?”
“And showed him the video. It’s why you’re here now.”
My internal temperature shoots up to a thousand degrees. I desperately look around for something to throw. Something to hurt him with. But there’s nothing except the chairs, some bolted-down artwork, and the bar, behind him.
This time, I yank the door open.
“You can keep the money,” he calls to me.
For some reason, I pause. But I refuse to look back.
“We can stop the interview if this is bothering you,” the voice continues. “And if so, the money is yours. I don’t mean to upset you.”
“Bullshit,” I spit.
“I’m serious. Why would I want to upset you, Bridget? I’m on your side here. You’re my favorite. I’m rooting for you.”
Rooting for me? Favorite? But fuck him; I won’t answer.
“Does this make you uncomfortable?”
I’m so angry. So unbelievably fucking angry.
“Just answer that one last question, Bridget. The questions I’ve asked in our interview: Do they bother you? Would you rather not answer?”
“Yes, they bother me. And fuck you; I won’t answer shit.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am. I figured this was turning you on.”
“You are such a piece of shit,” I growl.
“So this isn’t turning you on?”
“Of course it’s not.”
“You just seemed so hot for me last night. Because fuck, I was hot for you.”
I feel a rush of warmth. This isn’t fair.
“I didn’t know the truth last night. And I’d never do it again.”
“Hmm. Then I apologize. It just seemed to me that your nipples were getting hard while you sat here. And I can’t see your pussy, obviously, but … ” And he makes a vague gesture at my seat, as if I might have left a puddle.
But he’s right.
Fucking hell, he’s right.
I’m a gusher down below. I hate it and I hate him for it, but the truth is I feel it with every step I take. Thank God I’m not wearing a skirt; my panties would have a big dark spot right now.
I hate all of this.
And yet the way he sits there, I keep thinking of his hands on my shoulders. My face and chest against the cool brick wall. And his thick cock slamming into me over and over, making me come harder than I have in years.
I pull out the 2 envelope. It hurts me to give it back, but FUCK. THIS.
I crumple it up and am about to throw it to him when he says, “Keep it. The interview is over.”
I want to throw it, but it’s also three months’ rent, and he’s just said I can keep it.
I shove the wadded-up envelope into my bag and stomp out of the room. The door is almost entirely closed when I hear him say, “I know about Linda.”
I turn. I watch him through the glass.
He reaches for his folded-over suit jacket, into the pocket.
And holds up another envelope, marked with a 3.
WANT MORE? The Burning Offer is only 99 cents for launch — get your copy here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0184SY5IM