Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Instead, I move. I wriggle my legs free of the sheet, and the cold hits me everywhere at once, pebbling my skin and making my nipples tight as thumbtacks. I scan the floor for my clothes but see only his white dress shirt, crumpled where he must have tossed it. I snag it and pull it on, sleeves covering my hands. It smells like him: some expensive cologne, and underneath that, just Thomas, the scent of his neck and the salt of his sweat.
I button the shirt up and wrap my arms around myself, holding in the heat. My purse is still on the nightstand, and suddenly, I remember. My heart begins to race as my pulse jumps. Oh shit. I sit back down on the bed with the purse in my hand and dig out my phone. For a second, I just look at the black glass of the screen, seeing my own reflection—eyes puffy, hair insane, mouth swollen and a little raw from his kisses. I look like a woman who’s just had the night of her life.
I thumb the phone awake. There are no missed texts, no SOS from Mary Kate or Kayleigh, no flurry of “where r u” from Simone. I scroll to the camera roll, tap the gallery, and there it is: last night’s video, the file marked only by a time and date, nothing else.
I hesitate, my thumb trembling. I could send it right now. Just drop it in the group chat, three taps, and the prize is mine. The money, the bragging rights, the satisfaction of beating my friends at their own game. It’s what we promised, what we bet on. But the idea makes me weirdly queasy. Like a betrayal somehow, even if this is what we agreed to.
I press play to check out the recording.
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.