Page 46 of The Bet
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He fucks my ass with his finger, slow and steady, while his other hand slides up to cup my breast through the shirt. The feeling is overwhelming—a bolt of electricity straight to my core.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear again. “You like that?”
“Yes,” I whisper, the word almost lost.
He laughs, then pulls his finger out, and brings it to his mouth, sucking my flavor.
“Oh my god!” I whisper, eyes wide. “That’s dirty!”
“No, it’s not,” Thomas answers in a sly tone. “I love the taste of your ass, baby girl, and if I want to lick your ass or put my tongue in your butt, then that’s what’s going to happen. But finish your breakfast, sweetheart. You’ve been burning a lot of calories, and need the nutrients.” Then, he pours more coffee into my mug. Just like that, the spell is broken, but the heat stays, coiled inside me.
He watches me drink, a sly smile playing on his mouth.
“You know,” I say, trying to regain some control, “if we’re going to keep doing this, you have to use condoms.”
He recoils, as if I suggested we move to a commune.
“I don’t do latex,” he says flatly. “I never have.”
I shake my head. “Well, I’m not on anything, and the pullout method doesn’t work, you know.”
The billionaire shrugs, but the look in his eye is pure confidence. “I promise you, it does. Or else we go back to just your ass, sweetheart. That could be real fun. Like I said, I intend on eating your ass before I fuck it.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He grins. “You love it.”
I pretend to sulk, but it’s all theater. The warmth between my legs is still there, a constant, throbbing ache.
We sit in silence, just sipping coffee and basking in the shared absurdity. I steal a sausage off his plate, and he lets me, watching my mouth as I chew.
For a while, it feels like there’s nothing else in the world: just us, the morning, and the bright, buzzing hum of a secret that feels too big to keep.
Finally, he reaches for my hand again, fingers lacing through mine. “You okay?”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m more than okay.”
He holds on, and neither of us lets go.
Not for a long, long time.
The conversation drifts,like lazy smoke from a blown-out candle. At first, it’s just nothing talk—who’s going to do the dishes (neither of us), what day it is (I have to check my phone, which earns a lecture about living in the moment), and whether we should go out for coffee or make another pot here. I’m curled on a sofa now, my knees drawn up under his shirt, watching Thomas as he paces the living room in big, unhurried arcs, his hand always tracing the line of the window as if he could reach out and touch the city.
When he sits back down next to me, there’s a shift: his body is angled toward mine, his knees almost touching my thigh. I think he wants to say something serious, and I brace myself for bad news. He swirls his coffee, stares at the faint rings it leaves on the marble, and finally asks, “What does your week look like?”
The question feels loaded, but I play it cool. “Nothing special. Some classes, a catering shift, maybe a party on Friday. Why?”
He shrugs, the gesture unreadable. “I’m traveling a little. New York for a few days. After that, possibly London. I’ll be out of pocket.”
My stomach does a weird dip because I wanted to spend more time with Thomas, but I pretend not to care. “Wow. Jetsetter.”
He smirks. “Not as glamorous as it sounds. Mostly meetings and red-eye flights. But the penthouse view in London is almost as good as here.”
I nod, trying to imagine him in London, walking those old stone streets with the same predator’s prowl, the blue of his eyes even colder against a sky that’s always wet and gray.
“Will you miss me?” I say, keeping my voice light.
