Page 43 of The Bet
The video is graphic, in a way that makes me flinch and want to hide but also keeps me watching, unable to blink. It’s me, legs in the air, Thomas’s huge body blanketing mine. His face is shadow, but you can see the flex of his shoulders and the sharp, almost painful beauty of his muscular back. His cock moves in and out of me, slow at first, then faster, and my own voice is in the background—broken, desperate little gasps, my hands fisting in the sheets, my breasts bouncing with every thrust.
I watch for maybe ten seconds, enough to see myself clench around Thomas’s cock, to hear the breathless way I say “please” and the way he groans my name, low and animal and hungry. I’m gasping, while looking at him with adoration, and there’s something so intimate, so personal about the moment. I press pause. My jaw is locked. My other hand is pressed flat against my sternum, trying to keep my heart from going through my ribs.
This is the evidence. The proof. This is what will win me everything.
Instead, I tap out of the video, close the gallery, and set the phone down. I don’t delete it. But I also don’t send it. I need to think.
For a second, I just sit there, the shirt hanging off one shoulder, the chill of the room climbing up my spine. I stare at my knees, then out at the city, and wonder what I’m supposed to do now.
After a while, I stand. I smooth the shirt down over my hips, cinching the cuffs at my wrists, and walk barefoot out of the bedroom, my pulse fluttering with every step.
The kitchen is even bigger than I remembered. Thomas stands at the stove, spatula in one hand, a pan of sausage links spitting grease like tiny volcanoes. He’s wearing only grey sweatpants, low on his hips, the line of his abs sharp enough to cut glass. His hair is rumpled, and there’s a five-o’clock shadow that makes him look both older and softer than last night. He doesn’t see me at first, too absorbed in the act of not burning breakfast.
For a moment, I just watch him, soaking it in. The light. The hunger in my body, not just for food but for something I can’t even name.
And then, as if he senses me, Thomas turns. He sees me in his shirt and the look on his face is not lust or conquest, but something a little closer to awe. Like he’s surprised I’m real, that I didn’t vanish with the night.
“Good morning,” he says. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been yelling at someone in a boardroom all night.
“Hi,” I say. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I fold them over my stomach, clutching the edges of the shirt. “You’re making breakfast?”
He shrugs. “I can cook eggs and sausage, or I can call down to the lobby and get you a pastry. Either way.” He gestures at the pan, as if that explains everything.
“It smells amazing,” I say, and I mean it. I drift closer, the cold of the tile floor stinging my feet.
Thomas sets the spatula down and pours black coffee into two thick mugs, hands big around the ceramic. He pushes one toward me across the kitchen island.
“I wasn’t sure how you take it.”
“Black is fine,” I say, lifting the mug with both hands. The warmth goes all the way to my bones.
We stand there, him on one side of the island, me on the other, both pretending this is a normal morning. The silence is comfortable, and strangely peaceful. I sip my coffee, watch the swirl of oil on the surface.
After a minute, he plates the sausage, then cracks eggs into the pan. He moves with a kind of grace I wouldn’t have expected—a man used to precise actions, never wasting motion. He glances at me, once, then again, like he’s checking for glitches in the matrix.
“Are you okay?” he says, suddenly serious.
I look up. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Really?” His blue eyes rake over my face, searching.
“I’m great,” I say, and a real smile breaks through. “I mean, I’m a little sore, but in a good way.”
He smirks, relief lighting up his whole body. “Yeah, about that. Sorry if I was…” He trails off, uncertain.
“You were perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
He grins, and it’s the most honest expression I’ve seen on him yet. “Good. I’d hate to have to take you to the ER on our first real date.”
I laugh, the sound bright and a little wild. “God, can you imagine what the doctors would say?”
“Probably ask to see my size,” he says. “Or if you needed an exorcism.”
I set my coffee down, steadying myself on the counter. “What if I did need an exorcism? What would you do?”
Thomas grins and leans in, bracing his arms on the island. The muscles in his forearms stand out, pale against the dark marble. “I’d lay hands on you. I’d cast out the demon myself.”
The words hang in the air, and for a second I think he might actually do it, right here, right now. But instead, he turns back to the eggs, the moment dissolving into the pop and sizzle of the skillet.
