Page 37 of The Bet
I exhale, slow and careful. All the fantasies I’ve ever had about her collapse into something new: not just want, but hunger lacedwith a kind of reverence I haven’t felt since I was seventeen. Oh fuck fuck fuck. I’m so fucked, and I can feel all my so-called rules flying out the window.
She glances up, blue eyes pools in the city glow. “Is that bad? Does that freak you out?”
“No,” I say, and it’s not a lie. I want to pick her up, put her on the kitchen island, and fuck her until she forgets her own name. But I also want to go slow, so slow she has to beg for more.
She waits, watching, maybe bracing for rejection. I let the silence grow teeth.
Finally, I put both hands flat on the glass behind her, lean in until our faces are inches apart. Her eyes are big pools of blue, innocent and pure.
“I want to be the one,” I say, and it comes out almost a whisper.
She looks at me, then away, then back again. “You’re not like other men.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
She uncrosses her arms, hands resting now on the cold marble. “Will it hurt?”
I almost laugh, but I see the nerves, the edge of real fear. I shake my head, gentle. “Yes, maybe a little at first. But then it’ll feel good, I promise. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”
She shivers, and I can tell it’s not from cold. I move a fraction closer, so she’s pinned between my arms, our hips almost touching.
“Is this what you want?” I ask. “Not what you think you’re supposed to do. What youwant, Andie.”
She nods, eyes wide and unblinking.
I lean in, mouth to her ear. “Say it, then.”
She closes her eyes, swallows hard, and says, “I want you to be my first. I want it to be you, Thomas.”
The way she says my name nearly undoes me. I step back just enough to see her face, and she’s not scared anymore. There’s something else there, raw and alive.
I take her hand and raise it to my lips, kissing each knuckle, slow and deliberate. Her fingers tremble, but she doesn’t pull away.
“It will be good,” I promise. “And you’ll never forget it.”
She lets out a breath she’s been holding since the elevator.
I release her hand, but don’t let go. Instead, I draw her toward the master bedroom, slow and unhurried, the city watching us like an audience. I catch our reflection in the glass: her small and gold, me looming over her, all angles and shadow. For a second, I want to stop and memorize the way we look together. But I don’t. There’s a bed, and a window, and a world of firsts ahead of us.
I take her there, knowing I’ll never get enough.
I leadher into the bedroom with a hand at the small of her back. It’s as spare as the rest of the place—just a king-sized platform bed dressed in gunmetal silk, a single wooden nightstand, and the same endless window as in the living room. From here, the city is all sodium arc and deep shadow, but the glass throws ourreflections back at us: me, a huge, ominous shadow; her, a gold specter at my side.
She hovers by the bed, fingers curled around the edge of her dress. It’s adorable. I want to eat her alive, and also—impossibly—I want to slow time down and watch every micro-expression ripple through her.
I cross to her, take her face in both hands, and kiss her. At first, it’s soft: a question she can walk away from. But she doesn’t walk—she leans into me, opens her mouth, and the taste of her lips is tart and electric. When I deepen it, her hands come up around my neck, uncertain at first, then stronger, as if she’s daring herself to need me.
I pull her tighter, hands sliding down the long line of her back. She’s trembling, but not with fear—more like the shudder of a wire strung too tight. I break the kiss, rest my forehead on hers. “You okay?” I say, voice low.
She nods, just once, but her breath comes in rapid, shallow bursts.
I slide my hands under her thighs, and she jumps a little as I hoist her up. She’s weightless. Her legs go around my waist, locking behind me, skirt riding high up her hips. She buries her face in my neck, and I feel her teeth graze my skin, a little gasp. I spin her, set her gently on the bed.
She sits there, knees together, hands folded in her lap, eyes huge and innocent. I want to devour her and also shield her from everything bad in the world. Instead, I stare for a moment at the golden girl before turning quickly. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and slip into the attached en suite to wash my hands. Thedamned salt from the Marcona almonds is everywhere, and I don’t want to soil her ivory flesh with harsh crystals.
It takes all of twenty seconds, but when I return, Andie’s moved. Her purse is on the nightstand, its flap hanging open, and her dress is still on, but she looks softer, as if she’s shed a layer of armor in the two minutes I’ve been gone.
I sit on the bed beside her. She doesn’t look at me, just at her hands.
