Page 14 of The Bet
I finish my drink, hand the glass to a passing server, and make my move.
She’s just ducked into the corridor, away from the main crush, maybe to catch her breath. I follow, slow and silent like a predator stalking his prey. My shoes barely make a sound on the antique floorboards. I keep my hands in my pockets to hide the erection, but I’m so hard now that it’s visible anyway, a blunt ridge at my thigh.
She stops at the end of the hallway, by a supply closet, and turns—like she knows I’m coming.
We face each other, ten feet apart, the entire world shrinking to just this. Her cheeks are scarlet, her eyes huge. There’s a minute twitch of her jaw, as if she’s trying to say something but doesn’t dare.
I say it for her: “You remember me.”
She nods, barely.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, and my voice is lower than I mean it to be, almost a growl.
She shakes her head, just once.
I step closer. “Do you know who I am?”
A pause. Then, “You’re on the Board of Visitors at Century College,” she whispers, voice trembling. “So you must be someone important.”
I shrug. “Everything’s relative. I help the school, and they help me in return. Are you ready to help me too?”
This is dangerous, and she knows it. I know it, too, because the danger is the point.
I stand in front of her, so close I can see the pulse in her throat, the tiny sheen of sweat at her hairline. “You shouldn’t be here,” I growl, half-warning, half-promise.
She looks up, right at me, and whispers, “Neither should you.”
I want to drag her into the closet and fuck her senseless. But there’s something better than that: waiting. Drawing it out. Watching her squirm and ache and want.
I lean in, just enough that she can smell my cologne, the scotch, the raw animal want. “Go back to the party,” I tell her. “We’ll finish this when it’s over.”
She bites her lip. “Yes, sir.”
The words hit me like a shot of adrenaline. I resist the urge to grab her by the chin and force her to repeat it.
Instead, I step back, nod, and watch her walk away. Her hips sway, just enough to let me know she’s doing it for me.
As I return to the ballroom, the women still clamor for my attention. Just to be polite, I make small talk, laugh at the rightmoments, sign a check for the silent auction. But all the while, I watch the girl. I track every step she takes, every time she ducks into the kitchen or wipes sweat from her brow.
When the crowd finally thins out, I signal her with a glance. She sees it, freezes, then follows. The game is over; the hunt is on.
And I know, as I lead her down the deserted corridor, that she’ll let me do anything I want.
The librarydown the hall from the ballroom is empty, as it should be at this hour. The lock clicks with a cheap, satisfying finality behind us; the fluorescent lights are dimmed to a dull glow, leaving the whole space sepia and shadowy, the tables like islands floating in a sea of half-light. Along the back wall, bookcases rise floor to ceiling, the old wood so polished it gleams even through the dust.
She stops five steps in, clutching her serving tray to her chest like a shield. I take it from her, set it on the nearest table, and tilt her chin up with a single finger. Her face is flushed, lips bitten red, eyes huge and uncertain.
“Last chance to walk away,” I murmur, voice just above a whisper.
She shakes her head, just once. “Please,” she says, barely a sound.
I push her back gently until her spine hits the bookshelf. The old oak shudders. She sways on her feet, head tipped back, mouth parted. The uniform is ridiculous, a costume, but on her it’s lethal. I run both hands down her sides, over the frilled apron,and up beneath the little black skirt. No resistance; her thighs part for me without a word.
I hook a finger in her panties and tug. They’re white and lace-edged, cheap but pretty. I can feel the heat radiating off her, and when I pull the fabric away, she’s already slick. Not shy, not embarrassed—just hungry.
“Goddamn, you’re fucking drenched,” I growl. “Fuck, you’re my horny little girl.”
She mewls as I kneel, because it feels right. My hands on her hips, I breathe her in: sharp, sweet, addictive. I bury my tongue between her legs, lapping at her until her knees buckle, until she’s clutching my hair and whimpering. She’s louder than last time, but it doesn’t matter—no one can hear us here.
