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  Table of Contents

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  Chapter One - Aurora

  Chapter Two - Aurora

  Chapter Three - Aurora

  Chapter Four - Aurora

  Chapter Five - Caspian

  Chapter Six - Aurora

  Chapter Seven - Aurora

  Chapter Eight - Caspian

  Chapter Nine - Aurora

  Chapter Ten - Aurora

  Chapter Eleven - Caspian

  Chapter Twelve - Aurora

  Chapter Thirteen - Aurora

  Chapter Fourteen - Aurora

  Chapter Fifteen - Aurora

  Chapter Sixteen - Aurora

  Chapter Seventeen - Aurora

  Chapter Eighteen - Aurora

  Chapter Nineteen - Caspian

  Chapter Twenty - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-One - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Caspian

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Aurora

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty - Caspian

  Chapter Thirty-One - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Caspian

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Aurora

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Aurora

  Chapter Forty - Caspian

  Chapter Forty-One - Aurora

  Chapter Forty-Two - Aurora

  Chapter Forty-Three - Aurora

  Chapter Forty-Four - Caspian

  Chapter Forty-Five - Aurora

  Chapter Forty-Six - Caspian

  Chapter Forty-Seven - Eight Months Later

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  Shit You Should Know

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  THE BURNING OFFER is the first book in my “Trevor’s Harem” series — a hot and suspenseful billionaire’s game of tested limits and forbidden temptations that’s like nothing you’ve ever read before. It normally sells for $2.99, but I’d like to give you a FREE copy. Just click the link below to get it!

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  Aubrey Parker

  CHAPTER ONE

  AURORA

  I CAN TELL I’M DREAMING.

  My feet are bare, and I’m in a plain white nightdress, not terribly different from what I was wearing when I fell asleep in my real room in the real world. Not terribly different from the nightdresses I always wore back when I lived at home, when I was little and everything was easier.

  At first, I think my feet are on grass. The dream feels meadow light, and I can smell something crisp, like morning air. But things shift in my dreams, always changing. And chasing imagery is like trying to define a cloud’s shape before the wind weaves it into something new.

  But it’s not grass underfoot. It’s a floor covering, soft like carpet. But not like the carpet in the apartment I share with Jasmine. That’s synthetic and carries that benzene odor that passes for new-carpet fresh. Manufactured, and assailing the senses by its mere presence, though I’ve been trained to associate the scent with fresh starts.

  What’s underfoot now isn’t like that. It’s plusher. Richer. Its tendrils are long, and if I were to grip with my toes, I’d find myself rooted in nap. But the dream hasn’t fully resolved, and I’m still half-convinced this is real, so for now I focus on the carpet.

  But it’s not truly carpet. I look down and see it’s a lush rug. If I were to lie down, it would push against my cheek like the press of soft lips. It would smell genuine rather than fake. It’s white like fog, blended with imperfections in the way only something real can be.

  I’ve never had a rug like this in my house. I can tell by looking at it and by feeling it on my soles that it’s hand woven. I can tell it’s expensive. Probably fantastically expensive. The kind of thing you only buy if you have nothing else to spend your money on. The kind of thing that lets the world know dollars mean nothing to you.

  The kind of precious object that declares wealth in the most straightforward way: by showing the world that you can spend a fortune on something one of a kind … and then throw it onto the floor and tromp all over it.

  Around the time I start to wonder where I am, I realize there’s someone behind me. A man. I won’t see him until I turn, but something in me violently rebels at the thought of doing so. He frightens me, whoever he is. He’s the kind of person whose very presence casts a shadow, the way a cold object can siphon warmth from the room. Without looking back, I know he’s there. I feel him. I can sense his height. My mind measures the breadth of his chest and shoulders. I can tell where his hands are. I know that whereas I’m simply dressed, he’s in formal wear. As if he’s here to watch, then judge me.

  I turn. The dream still hasn’t shown me the room, but it does reveal what’s behind me.

  Nothing.

  I turn back, now unsettled, aware I’m dreaming and yet scared as if this were real.

  And yet my skin prickles below the thin fabric of my nightdress. It’s a summery thing, with spaghetti straps over my shoulders. I wish I had sleeves. I wish I’d worn something more adult, like a simple tee and shorts. Because the man, whom I can still sense in the air like a ghost, is plenty adult. In my little girl’s bedtime outfit, I feel defenseless. He will tell me what to do, and I will have no answer but yes. Because he is in charge. I can feel his judgmental breath on the back of my neck. I feel watched. Weighed. Measured to determine my worth.

  I walk past the rug and find myself on cold wood. A ballroom, perhaps, or maybe an office floor. As with the rug versus my apartment carpet, I can tell this wood is somehow different than floors I’ve walked before. I’m sure it has an exotic name and origin. Something that looks like other woods and yet is impressive in a way someone like me would never see.

  I’m at a window, staring out at the sprawling city beyond.

  My bare neck and exposed shoulders prickle at the unseen man behind me.

  This time, I don’t turn. He’ll vanish if I do. Instead, I remain still, bare feet on hardwood, two feet from the glass. The window runs floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It’s so clear, it gives me a sense of vertigo to look through it. I don’t mind heights while inside, but they terrify me if I feel open and exposed, like walking beside the railing of a rooftop observation deck. The glass seems rock solid, and I’m inside. Yet I find myself afraid, as if I’m teetering on the roof’s edge, looking down.

  The feeling of presence swells behind me. Because it’s a dream, I can almost see places other than where my dream eyes are pointing, but not quite. I should be able to, but something is diverting my inquisitive gaze. Avoiding my glance by force of will. It’s like being blindfolded, except I can still stare out at the city ahead.

  I’m not seeing so much as being allowed to see. I’m not here so much as being allowed to stay.

  The sense of the tall, broad man behind me intensifies enough to dimple my bare arms with gooseflesh. The bumps run under my nightdress. Everything tingles. I’m naked, save a pair of plain white panties under this simple garment. But I feel entirely bare.

  I want to run. And to stay where I am.

  I sense the man about to speak. I know this like I know he’s behind me, even though I’ve not seen or heard his approach. I can’t see a shadow or his reflection, or feel his weight subtly distorting the floor.

  Yet I know he’s there. His mere exi
stence is bold, like cologne.

  I know he’s a foot behind me.

  I know he’s wearing something fine — a suit or tuxedo.

  I know he’s looking down at my simple, thin, girlish garment and judging me.

  I know he’s staring at my body.

  And I know he can see through the dress. He can see my skin. He can see the back of my right shoulder. He can see the small scar, from when I was thirteen, from the belt. He can see the old scratches and wounds, left where they would be visible to a lover alone.

  I know he’s leaning forward, maybe wondering if I realize he’s there. Wondering if he’s startled me. Thinking himself invisible, like a ghost. His head, his mouth, near the back of my neck. His hands near the sides of my waist, millimeters from my hips.

  I can feel him almost wrapping around me without touching, like a human shroud.

  Then he speaks.

  “You want to run.”

  I can’t reply. Because yes, I’m dying to run. The voice is soft but not kind. Most of me still knows this is a dream, but the voice feels so real. My brain is replaying it, trying to convince me that I’ve imagined it all, when the man speaks again.

  “But you can’t run. There’s nowhere to go.”

  I sense him moving closer. I should turn to confront him. I should force myself to wake up. But I can’t do either.

  “If you’re never afraid, you’re never truly alive,” he tells me.

  My dream eyes have closed. My dream lips have parted. My breath has slowed, leaving in long, shaky exhales that fog the glass. My heart thrums in a deep bass rumble. I feel the dream man’s face inches from my neck. I see my blonde hair at the left side of my peripheral vision, half-forward over my shoulder, the way I wear it in life. What stays behind exposes too much skin. He’s close enough to disturb my hair with his breath.

  “The problem with fear,” he tells me, “is that you have to let it in.”

  His hands haven’t touched me, but I’m somehow sure they’ll pass right through my nightgown if they try. I want to run. And still I’ve not moved a muscle.

  My eyes are still closed. I’m now sure that he’s reached around me and that his hands are near my breasts, but I don’t want to look. I tell myself there’s no point in fleeing. What’s about to happen is certain. He’s too strong to stop me.

  My nipples harden. I feel myself getting wet, and embarrassed. Despite the two layers of cotton between me and the man, I’m suddenly sure he’ll notice. He might misinterpret me. My bare feet move, parting my thighs just enough to feel the room’s air between them.

  If he knows, he might touch me.

  I don’t want that. It would be a violation.

  I stay where I am, my feet sliding farther apart, a tightness growing within me.

  “But it’s okay,” the man tells me, his lips seemingly inches from my right ear. “Because once you let fear inside, it’s the last decision you have to make. Then someone else can decide for you, making choices you won’t allow yourself to make.”

  He still hasn’t touched me, and yet my every nerve expects it. I can no longer sense the movement of my nightdress and am suddenly positive it’s no longer there, my panties gone with it. I’m nude, from my toes to the top of my head. I don’t know how it happened, and without opening my eyes I can’t look around, even within the dream, to be sure. But I can feel the way my sex feels cold, cool air wicking moisture from between my legs. I feel gooseflesh everywhere.

  It’s terrible that this has happened. I don’t know this man, and if I had any choice at all, I’d grab my pile of clothing, wherever it is, and run. But it’s too late. He’s made me do this. He’s stripped me bare. He’s parted my legs and bent me somewhat forward; I can feel the window’s cool press against my palms, the way my small breasts hang away from my chest.

  I don’t know how this happened, but I can’t stop it. I don’t want to be here, but the decision’s been seized from my hands. There’s nothing I can do but wait for him to do as he pleases — and touch what he wants to. But it arouses me so much, and I know what is coming. I’ll feel his hand brush my erect nipples. I’ll feel his palm high on my inner thigh, his fingers sliding upward to brush my wetness.

  When that happens, I may feel a thrill. I’m tensed, waiting for it, forgiving myself in advance. The body is wired to respond. It’s programming, not enjoyment.

  I swear I can sense his fingers already between my legs, not touching anything, merely hovering in the high space between my parted thighs.

  And I tell myself:

  If I tilt my hips, that’s because I want to get this over with, if it’s inevitable.

  If my nipples are hard, that’s because it’s cold, not because I’m turned on enough to burst.

  My eyes are still closed, but I’m sure his hands are right there, scant milimeters from my bare skin. One near the swell of my hanging breast. One so close to my pussy I can almost feel him tickling it, triggering sensations I’m reluctant to feel.

  The anticipation’s so intense that he doesn’t even need to touch me. Sensation has built so high, I might have my orgasm without him. At any minute. I might just come, standing here with a stranger, without so much as a touch. The idea is humiliating. And yet I can feel the wave building as he refuses me.

  My knees buckle.

  I feel myself getting wetter.

  My breath comes faster. I lick my lips, and my exhales make them cool as the moisture evaporates.

  Oh my God. Oh my God, I’m going to come. Right here. Right in front of this man, and he hasn’t done anything to prompt me. I try clenching it back, knowing I didn’t ask for this, but it’s happening whether I want it or not.

  I hear a beeping.

  Maybe it’s his watch … but no, a man like this would wear an analog watch as jewelry, not some digital thing from a dozen years back, worn as a reminder of years, not just minutes, past.

  The beeping continues. It’s broken the spell. My orgasm retreats. It’s not yet gone but will no longer bloom without touch. The need is still there, and I’m seized with an intense impulse to thrust my hand between my legs and bring it around.

  But I can’t do that. If I’d already come, it might have been an understandable involuntary reaction. But this? The blonde girl rubbing herself to a peak in this man’s office while he watches, her one hand pressed against the window? Unthinkable.

  But maybe the strong, broad man behind me will intervene as I fade away. Maybe he’ll take pity on me and help me along. Maybe his will be the hand to bridge the widening gap so it doesn’t have to be mine. And no, of course, I don’t want his touch. But if it happened now, I’d accept it. Reluctantly. Blissfully.

  But he’s gone. The dream dissolves like cotton candy on the tongue.

  And now I’m alone.

  I wake to the beeping alarm, eyes opening to my plain bedroom, legs parted and sweating.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AURORA

  I TAKE A SHOWER, AND some part of me seems to hope that the water, as it trickles down my body, will caress me in the way the dream man never did. But the flow from my bare chest and back isn’t enough, and although the twin streams meet between my legs, it’s not quite arousing.

  I adjust the shower head in its little holder, hearing Jasmine’s voice in my mind. That shower head was fixed in place when we moved in, but Jasmine hired a guy to replace the head with a removable massager. Now it hooks into the wall just above the tub’s rim and sits in a cradle where the old shower head was located, trailing a long, flexible metal hose. Jasmine explained her reasoning for the replacement in her usual direct way: she masturbates in the shower and bath, so the sprayer must extend enough to the job.

  Jasmine, right now, would tell me to spend a few extra minutes on myself.

  She would, in fact, mock my refusal to do what my body wants me to do.

  But I’m not planning to tell Jasmine about my dream, or the few tense minutes rolling around afterward, wondering if I should finish
what the dream started even though I’ve been programmed to resist. I have sex dreams often and refuse their bounty, but of course I’d never admit it to Jasmine. She isn’t shy like me. She doesn’t have my past or its baggage. She’s told me things that make me blush — just like thinking about the dream, even now, is heating my cheeks.

  I take one final look at the shower head then straighten it with my hands.

  I turn the water a bit colder, finish up, dry off, and get dressed. I put on a blue top, a light white sweater, my knee-length wool skirt, and the tall boots that I think are chic but that Jasmine says mean I’m down for a party. It’s perhaps a bit overly composed for what’s on tap today, but I’d rather err on the side of professional career woman than college senior who’s out of her element. I check myself in the mirror, knowing Jasmine will say I look good but feeling more average than usual. Either way, it’ll do.

  I find Jasmine in the kitchen. She’s eating Frosted Flakes, but the actual flakes are going soggy in her bowl. She’s laid the box flat on the table and is using one of my Sharpies to trace her way through a maze on its back. But she’s doing it with the cap on, making no marks on the cardboard.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Fuck,” she tells me.

  I look down. Jasmine doesn’t look up. Her bright red hair is all I can see. She’s bent over the kid’s maze like a PhD student, radiating focus.

  “You know,” I tell her, “that will work better with the cap off.”

  “I don’t want to draw on the box.”

  “Why not?” I consider asking Jasmine if she’s saving this particular opened box of Frosted Flakes to give as a gift.

  “I’m trying to set a record.”

  I don’t want to respond, so I wait for her to look up. Jasmine has wide-spaced green eyes, arched eyebrows, and lips that draw up into a wide bow. People tell me I look a lot like her — swap the straight red hair for wavy blonde and change the eye color to blue and we’d be twins — but I’ve never seen it. Jasmine is beautiful. I’m plain. She’s outgoing and adventurous, brash and sexy. I’m quiet. No one’s ever called me sexy.