Tony pumps harder into Erin. I hear her come again, and as much as I’m holding myself back, their sounds almost break me. My eyes want to close. My legs want to surrender, but Daniel has me pinned, his finger on my clit, his hand strumming my wet folds as he works me from behind.
A hard thrust. Tony groans, and Erin calls out. For a moment, I watch their mismatched pair and think he’s broken her. I see something drip from beneath them as Tony pulls back. Then he’s guiding himself in again, their congress slowing.
“You’d better hurry,” Daniel says, “or they’ll catch us.”
I try to hold back, but a whimper escapes me.
“You’re here because I chose you, Bridget,” he whispers in my ear. “Because even though I’ve never been able to stand you, you were always my favorite.”
My head actually starts to turn at that, but before it can, a powerful orgasm claims me. I buckle forward like I’ve been punched, and cry out, more exhale than sigh or moan.
“Stay for dinner,” Daniel says when I stop shaking.
And then he’s gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Daniel
There’s a window at the far end of my third-floor office, at the back of a huge walk-in closet. You have to part clothes to even know the window is there, and should only part the clothing to look through the window after you’ve shut the closet door and killed the lights.
The window doesn’t look out on the grounds or the pool or the courtyard or the mountains.
It looks into a room.
With the clothing shoved aside, I sit on the cheap metal folding chair I keep tucked behind a shoe rack, now unfolded and set before the window. I cross my legs, lean back, and watch her.
Bridget is looking into the mirror on her side, brushing her long, light brown hair. I know much more about her than I can admit — it’s part of my job, particular to this competition — so I know she’s never had it colored. That means the highlights I see in her room lights are natural.
As is everything about her.
Her face, which I admired even back when things were very different, is natural. Primping for dinner, she applies little makeup, putting liner on her eyes, picking at her lashes with a mascara brush, and applying pale pink lipstick. It takes only a moment, and then she’s done. The smoothness of her skin is natural, like the barely visible spray of freckles on her cheeks.
I’ve only seen her body that once, in the alley, and it’s all natural, too. My mind keeps straying back, wanting to see more. Knowing it’s wrong, I’ve watched her through this one-way mirror on and off since I came back from retrieving Jessica, the final contestant, but she has yet to take anything off. Probably fears she’s being watched, which of course she is. They all are. But none like Bridget.
But most of all, her story is natural.
Her attitude is natural.
Her sense of humor, such as I’ve seen it from a distance, seems natural.
And above all, her honesty is refreshingly natural.
There’s no pretense.
No subterfuge and guile, as I’m already seeing in the others. As I’ve noted in my meticulous notes, some of which I’ve shared with Trevor already. Of course, he has his favorites — but then, that’s what anyone who knows Trevor would expect.
There’s a knock at my door. Not the closet door, but the door between the office and the hallway. It’s locked. Because the last thing I want is for someone to find me in here, in this closet. Watching her.
But even after the knock, I don’t move from where I’m sitting. I watch Bridget brush her long hair, curious how she’ll wear it. I’m curious about everything she does. Because as much as I thought I knew, she’s turned out different than I expected.
Tough.
Self-assured.
Cocky.
Brash.
Those things I was sure of.
But also soft, on the inside, where she never lets anyone see. There’s something beneath her skin that I didn’t know was there. And I of all people — we of all people — should have known. But Bridget came in through a loophole. She didn’t undergo screening like the rest of them. None of the girls really know what they’re in for, but with Bridget, that goes both ways. She doesn’t know us. But in all the ways Trevor keeps reminding me, we don’t know her, either.
She leans toward the mirror. Checking her mascara, maybe. I can’t help but lean forward.
How many times have I pictured this face in my mind?
And why is my reaction to it, now, so much different than I’d anticipated?
She’s practically touching the mirror.
I rise from the chair. And stand until we’re eye to eye.
The one-way glass isn’t a half-inch thick. If she knew I was here and there was nothing between us, it would merely take a flex of my neck to kiss her.
And as much as I’ve thought about her, kissing Bridget is one thing I’ve never really imagined.
Not rough.
But softly.
Because I can tell from the little I’ve seen — from the hurried tests and checks we set up when I put my foot down — that if she’d let herself, Bridget could kiss like a woman. She is one, beneath that armor she wears like a warrior. I saw it for the first time when she put on the dress. And I’ve seen nothing else since.
The knock repeats, now more insistent.
“Daniel!”
I sigh. Fold and stow the chair. Cover the glass, so nobody knows it’s there. I had it quietly installed two months ago, when the company greenlit a round of upgrades. And with so many cooks, the right hand can easily lose sight of what the left hand is up to.
I leave the closet and close it. I make my way to the door without hurry and open it to find Trevor’s impatient face. He’s wearing a tux — far more prepared for the evening’s festivities than I feel, especially with visions of Bridget still dancing in my head. Especially with the feel of her soft hair on my cheeks, and her scent still lingering on my fingers.
“Are you beating off in here?”
“I’m sorry. I was in the middle of something.”
Trevor pushes past me then turns to face me from my own desk.
“I assume they’re all here?”
“All twelve. Plus Logan, Tony, and Richard, of course.”
“Logan told me you ran out to fetch Jessica Welch yourself.”
“There was time.”
“But not for the full array of tests. I’m not sure you’re taking this seriously, Daniel.”
“They’re redundant. You know Alexa had reams of data on her. She’s an avid consumer.”
“As a reader?”
“She likes toys, too.”
Trevor cocks his head and rolls his eyes in a whatever, who gives a shit sort of way. If there’s an archetype for boy billionaire, he fits it to a T, down to the entitled way he does everything, as if it’s the world’s job to rain money upon him.
“Fine.”
“I could have let Chuck get her as planned, but I keep telling you, the girls don’t like him. He’d be an errand boy. Then all that prep work would be meaningless because no matter how great the offer, nobody wants to go for a car ride with someone they see as Chester the Molester.”
“Whereas you … ” Trevor lets the statement hang.
“Whereas I’m better steeped. I know how to push buttons.”
“You know how to manipulate, you mean.”
“Why does it matter if I flew out to get Jessica?”
Trevor looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to piss me off. Not when we need each other like we do. But he’s about to because I know where he’s going.
“Darcy said there was a strange vibe when you flew up with Erin and … ”
“And Bridget. Don’t be an asshole, Trevor. Just say what you fucking want to.” He does this. Pretends he’s forgotten something just to draw attention to its absence. But if Trevor things he can out-mind-game me, he doesn’t know who I am. When someone m
akes a feint, you don’t dodge. You strike if possible or fall on the sword to get it the fuck over with. The hit, if you choose to face it, is never as bad as an opponent intends it to be.
“Fine. And Bridget.”
“Well, far be it from me to question the flight attendant’s judgment. If she said something was off, then it must be so.”
“Dan … ”
“It’s not because she was prepped. It’s not because you spoke to Darcy — and Rog, too, because pilots see shit — that we’re hearing this right now. People get what they look for. It’s astonishing that you don’t know that by now.”
Trevor’s jaw firms, and for a second I’m sure he’ll challenge me. In a way, he’s my boss. But in another, I’m his. We can cross dicks all we want, but nobody’s going to win.
“Say it, Trevor.”
“All right. I don’t think you’re impartial. I think you took a flight you didn’t need to take, rather than settling in for the first night’s opening pleasantries, because you wanted to clear your head.”
“You’re insane.”
“You don’t even like flying, Dan.”
“I guess I just enjoy Darcy’s company. Especially when you set her against me, and she traipses around me like a spy trying to listen without being noticed.”
Trevor’s jaw works. He clearly isn’t amused. Watching him watch me, I bite my cheek and wait to see what he thinks of my smartass remarks. I’m sure he’s going to bring up the way I’ve “compromised” this whole thing again, and if he does, I’ve got a list of rebuttals ready. Truth is, I have little power in deciding how this all turns out. So the notion that I could cause damage even with the stupidest decisions is absurd, assuming Trevor does his job.
But he sighs instead, and I know he’s dropped it.
“Everyone is settled?”
“The guys gave them all the tour as they arrived.”
“Who gave your wildcard the tour?”
Okay, I guess he hasn’t dropped it after all.
“I assume you mean Jessica. Whom I made a special trip to retrieve.”
“I mean Miller.”
“You’re probably going to end up fucking her eventually, Trevor,” I say because that’s the way it’s supposed to work. Everyone but me gets a shot. Then Trevor rams it home, no pun intended. “Maybe you should start calling her by her first name.”
“She’s a dead fish. She’ll never go for any of this. She’s probably packing her bags right now. She’s nowhere near the profile. Not even on the grid.”
“She’s staying for dinner at least.”
“Tony told me that he and Erin — ”
“Fucked in front of her? Yes. They did.”
“And she hasn’t run off to tattle?”
I shake my head. That right there is the flaw in all of this. There’s nothing illegal or even immoral about any of this. Not by my definition, not by the company’s or the law’s. And yet the star of the whole thing is holding back, willing to soldier on yet certain she’s doing something wrong.
“She’ll be at dinner.”
Trevor meets my eyes. He’s twenty-four and looks like he belongs on the cover of magazines: moussed brown hair, pale blue eyes, and the jaw of a fucking model. Not my words, by the way. I’ve just heard it from a thousand women who’ve creamed their panties. He’s the kind of guy these girls would want to take home to their mothers after he finishes with them. The opposite of me in so many ways. I guess he’s got a great build, if I were girl enough to have an opinion, but it’s a Nautilus body. I prefer to throw weights around. I’ve got my tattoos, and my eyes are brown and boring compared to his lady-slayers. No wonder the press is all over him. He’s what people want to believe a man looks like.
“Look at me right now,” Trevor says, “and promise you’ve done your due diligence on Miller. Promise me that your arguments on her behalf are professionally valid, and not because — ”
“I promise.”
He stares at me for a few seconds longer. His tongue creeps into his cheek as if searching for something.
“If you’re wrong about her or if I find you’ve skipped any steps in pre-screening, I’ll have you removed.”
I almost laugh. As if he has any right to threaten me.
“I’m not wrong about her,” I say. And I repeat, “I promise.”
Trevor nods. He says he’ll see me at dinner, and I close the office door as he walks away.
I’m not wrong about her. That much is true, I’m sure.
But I skipped steps.
Every single one.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bridget
I wonder the whole time I’m getting ready just why I’m sticking around, but it’s like I’m on autopilot, following orders.
I came out of my room after Tony and Erin christened it for me, mostly to get away from the smell of sex and the knowledge that someone has been spying on me — enough to learn the contents of my bedside drawer and fridge. I asked around while out, and everyone told me that I was, of course, free to go whenever I wanted.
Then they smiled, and I smiled back. I walked away, but not toward the front door. I’d been invited to stay. I should have left, but didn’t.
Without anything better to do and needing solace, I retired to my room and closed the door. After a moment’s thought, I locked it. Wouldn’t want couples heading down the hallway to pop in and fuck in front of me again.
Alone, I thought.
Clearly, this is some sort of a twisted game. None of the girls seem to have known the others before arriving, and either nobody knows the big whys and whats or they’re all playing dumb. Even Logan, Tony, and Richard seem to be on a need-to-know basis — needing to know only that there are twelve women around who may require their services. I haven’t run across any more public displays, but I’ve heard a few. A few grunts and groans from rooms with ajar doors I choose not to enter; at least one loud request to “come all over my face.” I don’t think those words would ever voluntarily leave my mouth. I wonder at the kind of person who would yell them for all to hear and decide that more than ever, I need to get the hell out of here. Now. Before I get in too deep.
Before I do something stupid like let some guy finger me in front of some people fucking up against a wall.
Twice now, I’ve zipped up, slung my bag over my shoulder, and put my hand on the doorknob, with every intention of leaving. But something always stops me.
Maybe it’s the money.
If I stay the night, I’ll get ten thousand dollars that I desperately need. I even confirmed that figure with the new girl, who I caught walking past my room. At least I assumed she was new, based on the fact that I didn’t see her in the front room earlier and she looked almost as shell-shocked as I still feel. She had straight, dark-brown hair, was tall, with full lips and light freckles. Her name was Jessica. And when I introduced myself and made pointed conversation, she told me her numbers were the same.
I asked her, did Daniel just fly out to pick her up?
She told me she’d received an invitation, same as I had, with the same series of progressive offers.
Then I said, putting on false salaciousness, “Daniel is hot as hell, isn’t he?”
And Jessica nodded and smiled.
“I hear a lot of the girls had sex with him,” I half whispered in my gossip voice. Practically giggling, feeling sick with the pretense.
“Really?” she said.
Because of course, Daniel hadn’t fucked her, either.
When Jessica moved on, I retreated to my room. And killed time, knowing I should act but unsure what exactly I meant to do.
Why are you here, Bridget Miller?
Daniel’s voice, purring into my ear as his fingers made me come.
Even though I’ve never been able to stand you, you were always my favorite.
I don’t know Daniel Rice. The first time I heard from him was when he called my phone sex line — my lucrative hobby that helps pay the bills — th
e hobby that was never even sexual for me until the night it was. I first saw Daniel in the club, when he came at me with that mixture of lust and anger in his dark eyes. When I willingly crossed all of my personal lines, and he left me wanting more.
I look in the mirror. Wondering if I’m really here in this place after all. Maybe it’s all a dream.
Maybe it’s a nightmare.
I feel watched.
I want to shower, but given the over-my-shoulder sensation I feel at every turn, I’m convinced that someone will see me change if I do. I want to take a nap to pass the time but can’t fight the sense that unseen eyes would watch me sleep. Being awake is a curious kind of torture. I keep thinking of how I got here, and how nobody forced me to come. Every step along the way, I chose this. I wasn’t even coerced by the money. I’d never do anything for money that I didn’t otherwise want to do. My dignity is worth more than that. But the money …
The money, I’m afraid, has been a convenient excuse.
Stay through the night for another $10K. And the next day is $10K, and the day after that. Enough to pay all my debts and then some. Enough to buy — not rent — my dream studio. Still not enough to solve things with Linda, but closer than I’d ever have thought possible.
But that’s not why I’m still here. It’s part of it, sure. But money alone doesn’t push my buttons.
Your problem is that you’ve never let yourself want what you want. You won’t allow yourself to desire what you desire.
I wish I wasn’t so sure that there were hidden cameras. Because from all I’ve gathered, this strikes me as a filthy reality show. Like Survivor with fucking. If I stay through dinner, they’ll probably tell us the rules. Trevor Ross, our host, is supposed to finally show himself. Near as I can tell, this is Who Wants to Fuck a Billionaire? An absurd concept, but I swear half or more of the women I’ve seen — many of whom have been giving me ice-cunt stares as we pass in the hallway — would love the chance. So if I can just stay, I’ll find out what’s really happening. What we’re supposed to do to win, even though I absolutely don’t care to. I want to milk the system: stay and rake in some cash without stepping across any lines.
Burning Offer (Trevor's Harem #1) Page 9
