Burning Ultimatum (Trevor's Harem #4)

by Aubrey Parker

  CONTENTS

  The Burning Ultimatum

  Chapter One - Bridget

  Chapter Two - Bridget

  Chapter Three - Bridget

  Chapter Four - Daniel

  Chapter Five - Bridget

  Chapter Six - Bridget

  Chapter Seven - Daniel

  Chapter Eight - Bridget

  Chapter Nine - Bridget

  Chapter Ten - Bridget

  Chapter Eleven - Daniel

  Chapter Twelve - Bridget

  Chapter Thirteen - Bridget

  Chapter Fourteen - Bridget

  Chapter Fifteen - Bridget

  Chapter Sixteen - Daniel

  Chapter Seventeen - Bridget

  Chapter Eighteen - Daniel

  Chapter Nineteen - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty - Daniel

  Chapter Twenty-One - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Daniel

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Daniel

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Daniel

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Daniel

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Six Months Later

  FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!

  Chapter Thirty - Stuff You Should Know

  FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!

  THE BURNING ULTIMATUM

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bridget

  In the dream, I’m dressed in virginal white. A flowing nightdress churning around me in slow, undulating waves as a warm breeze caresses my skin like invisible hands. The thing must be far too large — there’s so much fabric. Sheer white material rolls in like fog on my right and left, pulling me into its storm.

  The latest challenge looms ahead — the one from Caspian White. I should be afraid of this — of Caspian — but I’m not. Because I’m free. What’s coming, it seems, is what I’ve always wanted.

  There are six men ahead in this dark room, all dressed in the best finery, with ornate black party masks ordained with feathers and silver sequins. Each man is illuminated from above by a tiny spot like in a museum display. I can’t see the walls. The men are unmoving. They all could be statues.

  I slowly move forward. Past the first man, whose skin is dark, nearly a foot taller than me and twice as broad. Past another slighter man, around whose mask I can see the ghost of stubble. My gown is swirling like the ocean, but it’s as if none of them see me. As if they’ve been frozen for me to browse, like exhibits in a gallery.

  As I move through the dim, I become aware of a large, round, polished wood table in the shadows. I near it and realize that it’s some sort of a centerpiece. I look back — the men have turned and are all now surrounding the table as I come up beside it.

  One of the men breaks formation and removes his mask. It’s Caspian White. My heart quickens.

  “Sit up on the table,” he says.

  This is part of the test. I watch him a moment, but his expression’s unyielding.

  I sit, let my legs swing, and wait.

  “Now lie back.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Lie back and open your legs.”

  “No.”

  “Things have changed, Bridget. This is no longer a game. Now the stakes are real.”

  It’s something I’ve already sensed. There are only three of us now: me, that bitch Kylie, and Jess. In the dream, I’m not sure how to feel about Jessica. She appears in the corner, peeking out from behind some unfathomable shadow. She’s wearing a garment like mine, but hers is red. She darts away when I see her. Then I’m looking at Caspian again. He’s not tapping his foot. A man like him doesn’t need to. His gaze is insistence enough.

  My legs sigh open. It’s possible I’m excited, but mostly I feel terrified. The five other masked figures are now watching, turned toward me, stock still.

  “You,” Caspian says, pointing at one of them. Then he turns his finger on me, at my open legs, my bare middle below the sheer gown. His meaning couldn’t be clearer.

  The man approaches me. Grabs my ankles then closes my legs instead of parting them farther. He uses the leverage of my pressed-together legs to turn me over. My chest concusses the table, inviting a dull and horrible ache. I’m left bent over the thing, my feet on the floor, ass aimed at the man who’s come to claim me.

  I feel him come very close, bending over me.

  “I can get you out of this,” he says. And I realize it’s Daniel. His hand rests on the table, one cuff unbuttoned, slightly rolled up. I see the familiar tattoo. I recognize his scent. Seeing him here should evoke hatred after what he did. After the way he’s been screwing around with Jessica. The way he’s avoided me since Kat was removed from the house. But in this dark and frightening place, I only feel comfort when Daniel is near. At least he’s familiar — a reluctant but flawed protector.

  He’s pressed up against me from waist to chest as he whispers in my ear, and it’s like I’m wearing armor. No one can touch me now. Except for him.

  “Fuck her,” Caspian tells Daniel.

  On cue, the other men all unzip, pull themselves out, and begin to stroke. I feel Daniel stiffen against my ass as well, but I know he’s still wearing pants. I can see his hands as he approaches me clothed.

  “I can stop this,” he whispers. “I can end things so you don’t have to do any of it.”

  But my hand creeps backward. Between my legs. There’s sudden electricity there. Wetness. My heart hammers blood through my ears, my head, my neck.

  “No,” I say.

  “Don’t say no when you don’t really mean it.”

  “No,” I say, my face pressed against the table’s cool wood. Then I clarify, “I mean No, don’t stop this.”

  I feel a twitch. Daniel’s cock responding to what I’ve said. His hand moves to the back of my leg then trails slowly upward, taking the gown with it. I feel myself bare. I feel his finger brush near me, not on me. The throb from my head and neck moves to my groin, feeling intense, unresolved pressure.

  I think Daniel will hesitate, but he doesn’t. His hands move away from me then bustle at his waist. Fabric sighs as if opening. I hear a zipper then feel hot pressure against my pussy. I want to push back into him, make his cock slide inside me.

  He’s paused, pressing my delicate folds, driving me crazy. He won’t push in. I need him inside me.

  “You want me to do this.” It’s not a question, but a statement in masquerade.

  I wish he’d stop splitting hairs. Everyone is watching us about to fuck as I’m bent over this table. Everyone is judging us, weighing my performance in this important competition. Daniel’s question is stupid and irrelevant. This must happen, whether I truly want him to fuck me or not. It’s not that I’m self-destructive. It’s not that I would decide that sex with someone who betrayed me is a reasonable idea. It’s not that I consistently, reliably make terrible decisions. It’s not that I’m opting to sate my short-term desires over what truly makes sense. It’s not like I have a history of giving in to temptation, knowing full well that I’ll regret it later.

  The truth is that we have to do this. He has to put his cock inside me whether I hate him or not. He has to fuck me and make me come while the others are watching. It’s not that I want it. It’s that we have no other choice.

  I tell him all of this. The dream changes my voice, makes it leave in a needful whisper.

  “No.” Daniel’s voice quavers, as if he’s reluctant.

  “Yes,” I insist. “The game has changed. You have to.” Then, to make it clear that I’m being coerced here too (and am not, no matter what the little voice inside my head says, tot
ally into this), I add, “We have to do this, to please them.”

  But in the corner of my eye, as my face still presses against the table, I see Daniel shaking his head. “No, Bridget. We both know it’s a bad idea.” He backs off and away, removing the pressure of his cockhead from my pussy. Making me break inside. Something cries out, then I’m backing up, grabbing for his arms, pulling him forward. Only once his cock is against me again do I cease, then beg.

  “Please.”

  “You want me,” he repeats, his voice the same hesitant monotone from earlier.

  “We have to,” I clarify.

  “Because you want me.”

  “Just do it, Daniel.” It’s getting hard to speak with my clit tingling as it is. “Do it because there’s no choice.”

  But now I realize there is a choice. The other men are gone. So is Caspian. Now it’s only Daniel and me — we could stop at any time.

  “It’s a bad idea,” he repeats.

  But with a heave I slam my ass backward, ramming his cock deep into me. Then we continue, my hips thrusting. I’m doing all the work, because we have to do this.

  I don’t want to, I tell myself. It’s that I have no choice. It’s not my fault if I’m already coming. It’s not my fault if the orgasm is endless, and I come again and again and again.

  I don’t have to steer our session for long because once he’s inside me something loosens in Daniel’s composure. His careful control cracks, and he’s grabbing my hips, filling me with his hard shaft over and over, faster and faster. I see a sneer form on his face, out of the corner of my eye. I hear him grunt. He was an addict in Bridget recovery until thirty seconds ago, but I’ve just shoved him off the wagon.

  “Fine,” he says, his reasonable voice going sour. “If this is how you want it, this is how you’ll get it.”

  He moves faster. And faster. Soon, he’s thrusting so hard that I’m sliding a bit on the table, my tits skating back and forth across the wood on a thin layer of sweat. With every rebound, a moan of pleasure escapes me.

  Daniel bends over me. His hand grabs the back of my neck, his fingers rough.

  “Have you ever heard the parable,” he says between heavy breaths, “of the frog and the scorpion?”

  But I so don’t care. About lessons or instructions or psychology or anything else he’s blabbed about in the past. Right now I only care about pleasure. I’m ramming backward into him, meeting his thrusts, filling myself with his dick.

  Daniel continues as he fucks me, reciting like a professor while his balls slap the backs of my thighs.

  “It goes like this,” he grunts between breaths. “A scorpion asks a frog to give him a ride across a stream on his back. The frog says no because if he does it, the scorpion will sting him. But the scorpion says, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If I sting you, we’ll both drown.’”

  I’m trying to ignore Daniel’s words to focus on the pleasure. This is my dream, my shameful fantasy. And yet he won’t shut the hell up, and I can’t make him even as I try to lose myself in the sensations.

  “So the frog agrees, and the scorpion climbs aboard. But halfway across, the scorpion stings him.”

  I’m coming again, my pussy throbbing. I shut Daniel’s words out. I don’t need any more riddles.

  Daniel grabs my hair. Pulls my head off the table as he lowers his mouth to whisper harshly in my ear. The pain in my scalp actually intensifies the sensations between my legs, and I come again and again, the dream effortlessly rising above what’s biologically possible. I’m nothing but orgasms. Nothing but pleasure. I’m dripping down my legs. I grip his cock with my pussy as he slams roughly into me.

  With my hair in his fist, Daniel keeps going. “As they’re both drowning, the frog says, ‘Why did you do that? Now you’re going to die, too!’”

  I’m losing it. I scream for him. “Oh my god, Daniel, I’m coming so hard! Fuck me! FUCK ME!”

  His grip on my hair tightens. He pulls me up higher, arching my neck backward. It hurts, but I don’t care. I want more of this. More. MORE.

  “But do you know how the scorpion answers the frog?” He practically spits, anger infiltrating his voice. “Do you fucking know what he says, Bridget?” Daniel’s cock erupts, but he doesn’t slow, orgasm only increasing his fury. “The scorpion says, ‘Fuck you, frog! You knew what I was when I climbed onto your back, and I can’t change my nature!’”

  Daniel straightens. As he lets go, my head drops to the table. There’s a violent movement from above as he seems, impossibly, to come again. I feel a huge jolt and a sudden, sharp pain in my chest. And I realize, with the strange distance that comes in dreams, that he’s plunged a knife through my back as he continues to fuck me.

  My breath shortens with the blade’s kiss. I can barely inhale. The pain is intolerable, but find I don’t hurt only where he’s made the wound. I feel my spirit leaking out of me. He’s pierced my heart; I’m certain. Everything aches. I’m spiraling down a pit, down and down.

  But in spite of it all, my pussy grips him, and I come again. And again. It doesn’t matter that he’s killing me. I only want him to keep going. To keep fucking me as I realize I’m fucked, two meanings rolling into a confusing monstrosity.

  The pain continues to spread. I’m dying. I’m lost in ecstasy. I’m in bliss. I’m vanishing forever.

  “Just tell yourself it’s not happening,” Daniel growls in my ear. “Resist it if you don’t like it, like you resisted in the garden.”

  He fucks me faster. Harder. I feel lightheaded. He’s laughing above me. The tip of the knife, poking through my chest, clatters against the table’s wood. And then there’s more laughing, and I twist my head, inviting more pain, to see Jessica standing beside him, watching, a wide smile on her face. And the ring of men in masks are back, too, their cocks out, taking all of this in. They begin to applaud. And Daniel cranes back, and Jessica leans over his face, and I watch them kiss, and I’m in so much pain, inside and out, but Daniel isn’t even moving to continue our thrusts. I’m the one making all the motion because this is what I need; this is what defines me even as it kills me. And I come. And I come. Again and again and again and again and —

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bridget

  I bolt awake as if stabbed for real.

  I feel the ghost of motion and realize my hand is between my legs, inside my panties, now falling still. My knees are wide. My finger’s final motions cause me to shiver.

  I blink, reality rushing back as the dream room vanishes. And as it does, I’m somehow sure that I’ve been not only masturbating in my sleep but doing so furiously — almost angrily. My covers are more than askew; they’re half-off the bed, mostly on the floor. I’m breathing hard, and my heart is hammering like I’ve run up a hill. My skin is slick with sweat, and the puddle under my ass tells me I’ve been at it for a while.

  There’s a knock at the door. It’s hesitant, and I’m sure at once that it’s not the first.

  My hand jerks out of my panties. It’s like my fingers have been soaking for a manicure.

  Embarrassment instantly replaces arousal — I want nothing less than to see who’s there and might have heard what I’ve been doing.

  And what have I been doing? Was I seriously sleep-fucking Daniel — the man who so recently betrayed me with the woman I thought was my friend?

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I draw one deep breath, and then another. My head slowly returns to normal as the dream dissolves. I remind myself that a girl can’t control her subconscious, and mine may have seen fit to give me that particular nighttime vision, but that doesn’t mean I wanted any of it — even setting the whole stabbing thing aside.

  More breaths.

  I’m blameless here. So why do I feel like I’ve done something horribly wrong?

  Another knock.

  “Just a second.” I don’t manage to say it very loud. I’m thinking too much about what the person in the hallway might have already heard, wondering if I sleep-
shouted anything telling — like Fuck me, Daniel … fuck me with your scorpion’s stinger.

  I sit up. Breathe more. Slower. I shake my head; I blink. I wipe my sopping hand on the sheets, wondering for the first time about the maids that must compose these rooms. My bed is gory like a murder scene, but with my juice instead of blood. The maids here must have seen worse, but … shit.

  Why did I have that dream? Fuck Daniel. And fuck everyone else, too. I’ve already resolved that I’m getting the hell out of here today, so I don’t have to think about any of it — any of them — ever again.

  But there’s a little laugh inside me at the thought. Because when they all turned on me yesterday, I didn’t flee the house. Instead, I went to my room. I stayed there all day, still not running. Eventually, I slept, and here I am, still in this den of liars and traitors.

  How many times before today have I sworn I’d leave, only to stick around? It’s like I want them to hurt me. Like I enjoy the pain, because I’m sure I don’t deserve better.

  That’s not how it is, I tell myself.

  And the inner voice laughs again.

  It takes me a few minutes to compose myself. I wasn’t actually wearing a flowing vintage nightdress; I was in my shorts and a thin tee. Normally, the combo would be fine for answering the door (with the possible addition of a bra, if I want to be the mansion’s only prude), but I’ve soaked my shorts enough to turn baby blue royal. It’s like I’ve peed myself. What would be the difference if I had? My lack of control is mortifying either way.

  I pull my sleep-mussed hair into a ponytail then swap my shorts for new ones. The wet pair goes into the sink, which I’ll hopefully remember to fill with water to soak. Then I’m walking double-time toward the door, mindful of just how long I’ve kept my visitor waiting.

  I open the door to the person I least expect to see. Curiously, I feel relief, though I can’t say why.

  “Trevor?”

  He smiles. His eyes flick up and down, then it’s like he notices my pokies and makes a point not to stare. Such strange behavior for a sex contest, from a man we were supposedly brought here to please.