Burning Ultimatum (Trevor's Harem #4) (2 page)

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

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.
 

But then I remind myself: Despite the debauchery, I don’t think I’ve seen Trevor partake since those first few nights. Why? Isn’t the point to find him a wife — the lady in the parlor versus the whore in the bedroom? We’re Trevor’s harem, and yet he hasn’t sat atop the orgy chain at all. He’s always struck me as ill fitting. Under different circumstances, we could have hung out. Change the setting, and I’d almost take Trevor for shy.
 

“Did I wake you?” he asks.
 

“Maybe a little. But it’s okay.”
 

“You weren’t at breakfast.”
 

There’s still a breakfast? It’s hard to imagine. Yesterday I just grabbed a bagel, before Kylie chased me through hallways that, in retrospect, I’m almost certain she laid out in advance. Before she sneaked up behind me, I’ll bet she closed all those doors, so she’d know where I’d run and where she’d follow. Nothing with Kylie’s an accident — as if she has life’s master plan and tweaks the details in her favor. Wherever you go, there she is. Maybe Kylie deserves the win after all, as queen of distorted reality.

But
breakfast?
I don’t even know what that would be.
Why
that would be. Three are three girls, a trio of studs, Trevor, and Daniel. An intimate group that’s now anything but intimate. The idea of us sitting in the formal dining room is ridiculous. We haven’t done so for weeks.
 

I’m about to say this when my foot kicks a white envelope on the floor. I pick it up but don’t open it. Thanks to Trevor, I know what’s inside.
 

I shake the envelope before setting it aside.
 

“I didn’t get it.”
 

“Didn’t Sammy knock?”
 

“I guess I didn’t hear because I was sleeping.” Bitterness enters my voice, and I add, “Don’t you watch every little thing I do?”
 

Trevor sighs. I hear apology in the sound. Everyone’s sorry. Everyone wishes things were different. Except that things
aren’t
different, and those who pretend to be sorry never actually try to make the changes I’m sure they’re capable of making.
 

“Can I come in?”
 

I gesture for him to enter then close the door behind him. He doesn’t seem to know where to sit. Daniel would pick a spot and claim it, but Trevor is more considerate. He waits to see what I’ll do, where I’ll go.

I sit on the bed. Trevor pulls out a chair and collapses on the seat. We sit in silence for too long. Trevor’s hands are in his lap, blue eyes on me.
 

“Did you know?” I finally ask.
 

“Did I know what?”
 

“You know what.”
 

He looks to the side. Evading my eyes.
 

“No.”

“Trevor.”
 

He looks back at me.
 

“Tell me the truth. I think you owe me that.”
 

“Daniel told me he’d promised Jessica top three. But no, I didn’t know about what happened.”
 

The dream knife reenters my heart. Knowing something is one thing. Hearing is another.
 

“How can he promise her anything? I thought the selections were out of his hands.” My mind goes to what Daniel tried to get me to do in the garden. To the many little things he coached me through in the past. I didn’t get the impression he
could
choose, only that he knew better than most who might be chosen.

“They are. But … it’s kind of tricky to explain.”
 

This is the wrong thing for Trevor to say. I feel a snap inside and have to repress an urge to bolt upright and hit him. Everything is
tricky
. Everything is
complicated
. They’re responses you offer to avoid giving answers.
 

“Try,” I spit.
 

Trevor stands. He walks into the bathroom, and through the open door I get a peek at him pulling something from his jacket pocket. It looks like a cell phone. He does something on its surface, and a second later the lights dim a shade. Not as if someone turned them down but as if power to the room has decreased by 10 or 20 percent.
 

“I’ll pay for that,” Trevor says.
 

“What?”
 

“I turned this room off.”
 

“You can do that?” I’m thinking of Daniel. He was able to give us blind spots, but it was always so covert. Trevor seems to be carrying a master remote.

“It’s an emergency thing. But because it can be abused, I can’t use it quietly. There will be a red flag on this segment of the footage. I’ll be asked why I did it.”
 

“What will you tell them?”

His eyes go to the bed. I get the idea, but doubt that anyone will buy it. If he wants to have sex with me and I agree, why would he need a blackout? Isn’t that the point of this contest — for him to defile us all so someone can take careful notes on our performance?
 

“I’ll think of something,” he says.
 

He glances at his chair, but now that the room is off, Trevor seems uneasy. He paces for a while then sits beside me on the bed.
 

“What did Daniel tell you about the last challenge? The one on the day we talked, when Roxy was eliminated?”
 

I’m not sure how to respond. Do I still have loyalties to Daniel? Do I care?

“After you told me I needed to make sure I was eliminated, Daniel said I had to stay.” I swallow past the next bit because I realize how it will sound. “And he said that to do it, I needed to be … uninhibited.”
 

“With
him.”
Trevor is just saying words, but there’s something in his eyes that I’ve seen in Daniel’s many times before. I can tell he doesn’t like imagining what I did with his right-hand man. Or, as it sounds now, his rival.
 

“Yes. He said the challenge was about how sexual we could be. He … ” I stop, unsure how to continue. It sounds like coercion, but it wasn’t. Daniel magnified my natural drive; he didn’t manufacture it. I wanted him more, but I wasn’t forced. No matter how I say it, it’s going to sound weird. Make me feel like the deviant. Maybe that’s just victim’s guilt, the way abused kids sometimes assign blame to themselves.
 

“He habituated you, didn’t he?”
 

I nod.
 

A cloud crosses Trevor’s face.

“I’m not even sure what happened when — ”
 

“I don’t know what he’s up to,” Trevor cuts me off, looking around the room as if in search of an answer. “I know it’s something, but I can’t figure out what. Or why. If he wanted to have sex with you, he could have just … ”

He trails off and looks at me apologetically. He was about to say something like,
He could have just waited because it’s not like you haven’t been fucking him all along
. Maybe not in those words but surely with that intention.
 

“But I didn’t do anything with him,” I say, somehow eager to prove that I’m not just a slut for mnemonic triggers. “He had some sort of full assault lined up: things he wore, sounds, smells. But I said no.”
 

Trevor looks over at me. His eyes narrow. This seems to be news to him.
 

“It was more than those things, Bridget. Most of it is words and sensations. You wouldn’t even know he was doing it. Are you sure?”
 

Is he seriously asking if I’m sure I said no?
Really?
I’ve never fucked a guy without realizing it. I’m not Roxy.
 

“Hold out your arm, Bridget.” I do, and then he says, “He would have done this.”
 

Trevor runs his fingers up the inside of my arm, from my wrist to the pit on the underside of my elbow. I shiver, immediately wet. Instantly, unquestionably aroused — from zero to sixty in half a second. I look at Trevor and blink, wondering if this is how things are between them. Do they trade us off like favorite sports cars, loaning them back and forth?
Why don’t you take Bridget for a test drive, Trevor?
Daniel might say.
Here’s the code to get her motor running
.