Page 58 of The Bet
“Fuck, I will!” Thomas roars in return, his balls pulsing as his cock ejaculates like a hose in my anus. “I’m dumping a gallon of come in your ripe asshole, fuck fuck fuck!”
We scream and shudder, the climax overtaking our forms as pure ecstasy flows through our veins. I milk him again and again with my asshole, and there’s so much sperm that it literally flows out between us, dripping down his balls.
But all things must come to an end, and after a few minutes, we cease moving, just holding there, trembling and sweaty and utterly spent.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our breathing, and the faint drip of water from a pipe overhead.
He strokes my back, his hands gentle now, and kisses my forehead. “You’re fucking incredible,” he whispers. “I swear, I come harder each and every time.”
I laugh, dizzy and high. “Yeah, but we’re going to get caught.”
He grins, then gently lifts me off his lap, watching with avid eyes as that huge monster reappears inch by inch from my ravaged anus. Then, he turns me around and kisses my quivering pucker, licking a bit at the sperm there.
“I love knowing you’re filled with my seed,” he says in a throaty voice. “Goddamn.”
“Yeah, but we have to get dressed!” I stage whisper. “We can’t do this forever, Daddy!”
Thomas chuckles, like he wants to argue, but then helps me pull up my panties and jeans. He tucks himself away, wipes his hands on his shirt, then smooths my hair and straightens my bra, kissing the tops of my breasts before covering them.
When we’re both mostly presentable, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me one more time, slow and deep. “See you tonight?” he asks.
I nod, dazed. “Definitely.”
We grab the box from the floor, and he opens the stairwell door. The light outside is harsh, the voices of girls in the hallway shockingly loud.
As we step out, I glance back into the stairwell, a weird chill running down my spine. For a second, I could swear I saw movement on the floor above—just a glimpse, a shadow.
I shake it off. There’s no one there.
It’s just my imagination.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, adjust the box, and follow Thomas down the hall, feeling the heat between my legs with every step.
I’ve never been so alive.
Or so thoroughly fucked.
And as I rejoin the chaos of move-out, no one even glances my way. Everything’s perfectly normal.
I smile to myself, my dirty secret burning under my skin, as Thomas’s come drips from my backdoor. I’m fucked-out, but also all-powerful and ready for whatever comes next. That’s what Thomas Moreland’s done for me … and I only want more.
15
THE GUILT IS KILLING ME
Andie
The city sparkles in the sunlight, like it’s trying to impress a beauty contest judge. I park two blocks away—on the far side of the river, the side where the streetlights are cracked and the sidewalk buckles up around the roots of old trees—and walk the rest of the way. Café Soleil is one of those places that feels private even when it’s full. The window is narrow, its yellow light fogged. You can’t see anything from the street except the vague geometry of bodies moving behind the glass.
I push open the door and step into warmth, in every sense. The smell hits first: scorched espresso, heavy cream, the earthy rot of overwatered ferns in the corner. The walls are exposed brick, dark with decades of brewing and spill. Mismatched velvet chairs sag in little clusters around battered tables, and a redhead with a sleeve tattoo is hunched over the counter, dropping a record onto a turntable. Billie Holiday. “Strange Fruit,” slow and bleak and perfect. The barista doesn’t look up. Maybe she knows not to.
Thomas is already here. I see him before he sees me, which is a pleasure, because my man is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s angled into a shadowed corner, not quite hidden, but not on display either. Black wool sweater, collar high enough to half-cover his jaw, and his hands—both of them—clamped around a glass of iced tea. There’s a plate with an untouched croissant, and a mug across from him. When he finally looks up, it’s as if he’s expecting me. His eyes find mine instantly, bright blue, and in that split second the whole world shrinks to the distance between us.
I feel the shiver all the way down, nerves fizzing. It’s the kind of butterflies that you get when you first meet someone attractive, but in my case, I’ve been dating Thomas for a while now. How lucky am I? To still feel what I feel after all this time. I walk to him, steps slow, and see how his gaze never leaves my face, tracking every inch of my approach.
He stands as I get to the table, which should look old-fashioned or awkward but doesn’t. He towers over the room, over me, but he doesn’t reach for my hand, doesn’t lean in for a kiss. He just looks at me, drinking me in, until I sit. When he lowers himself back into the chair, it’s with the same masculine grace that’s always captivated me.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is soft, but not shy.
