The Bet

by Lucinda Betts

  He devoured it, roughly caressing her back, her arms. He surrounded her with his touch as he ravaged her.

  Slowly, images from the intimidating park melted away, leaving her with a growing awareness of him—his teeth, his tongue, his fingers and palms. She shivered at the sensation running through her, the deep throbbing desire that made her ache for him. Almost against her will she moved against him, wanting more. She grew increasingly willing to accept whatever he would give.

  She arched her back in pleasure.

  “Relax, Zoe. Lean your head back and enjoy the ride.”

  She did as he said, basking in the strange sense of freedom. A long sound of pleasure escaped her. It was loud enough so that at the least the people on the nearest benches must have heard her. She didn’t care.

  He flicked his tongue across a taut nipple, and she shuddered in pleasure. Her delight grew. She squirmed in his arms, gasping. “Please,” she said, begging for release. His hand crept up her bare thigh, and she felt only anticipation, excitement.

  Finally, finally, he reached between her legs and oh so gently stroked her.

  His mouth traveled up to the tender spot behind her ear. He bit her earlobe as his fingers slipped over and around her throbbing clit.

  She fought back a moan and the urge to press against him. Enslaved by the delicious ravishment that overwhelmed her senses, Zoe yielded herself completely. If he stopped now . . .

  “Ohh,” she moaned, widening her legs. “Don’t stop.”

  He didn’t.

  She couldn’t control herself any longer. Zoe began moving rhythmically against his hand and shifting to show him exactly the right angle. She hadn’t known the angle would matter. Here? he seemed to ask. No, there. Like this? Yes, just like that.

  He added more fingers. Suddenly it felt like he had a fingertip slithering around every slippery centimeter.

  Her body stiffened and she knew she was so close. He didn’t miss a beat. Suddenly, she cried out. She knew everyone in the park heard her, and she didn’t care a bit. Her muscles pulsated against his fingers, and he expertly pressed against her, satisfying her.

  Finally, she fell against him in exhaustion.

  “Is it always that good?” she nearly whispered a few minutes later, still basking in the radiant feeling of it.

  “It should be.”

  His thick voice reminded her that he’d had no such release.

  “Can I—can I do something for you?” She moved her hand, slightly, to clarify her offer.

  “Yes,” he said, moving her hand away from him. “Tell me how long it’s been since someone did that for you.”

  “You mean, take my underclothes, make me dance nearly naked in front of a bunch of lesbians, and then maul me in a public place?” she asked, laughing.

  “I want an answer,” he said in a warning voice.

  “Do you mean, when was the last time someone touched me?” she asked in a more serious tone.

  “No. When was the last time someone made you come?”

  Her shoulder muscles tensed defensively. He must have felt it, because he said, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I guess Jeff and I weren’t all that compatible. Sexually.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Close to two years.”

  “You spent two years with someone who didn’t satisfy you?”

  “Well,” she said, trying not to sound self-protective. “He used to try.”

  “Do you mean that you never once came with him?”

  “Or with anyone else. It wasn’t just him.” She swallowed. “I thought orgasms—at least for women—were created for somebody’s ad campaign. To sell cars and perfume.”

  “Do you still think that?”

  “Having had one,” she said, snuggling against him, “I believe that they’re at least occasionally possible. But we didn’t have sex, did we?” The question was rhetorical.

  He admonished, “You should have them regularly.”

  “Once is one thing,” she laughed. “I don’t want to be greedy.”

  6

  “There’s a coffee house about two blocks from here,” Phillip said, helping Zoe to her feet.

  “At this hour?”

  “You weren’t planning on sleeping tonight, were you?”

  She had been, actually. “Uh—” She swallowed, reminding herself to obey him.

  Phillip took her hand. While they walked quietly for a few minutes, Zoe grew increasingly uncomfortable. God, what a scene she’d made. And who were the other people out there? Prostitutes? Junkies?

  “Here we are,” Phillip said. He found a table and ordered two mocha lattes with extra whipped cream.

  The waiter walked away and Zoe said, “What if I were a tea drinker? Or what if I hated whipped cream?” Even she was surprised at the anger in her voice.

  He said, calmly. “I see you drinking coffee at every meeting. I know you take both cream and sugar. A lot of sugar. A little cream.”

  She blinked. He was right.

  “I watch which funds you buy, which you sell. I notice the colors of your clothes. How come you never wear blue, by the way? It’d look good on you. I know you like working with Thompson but not with Haas, and I know Moore really likes you.”

  “I hate whipped cream,” she insisted, not mollified.

  “You hate the idea of whipped cream.” He dipped his finger into his drink and proffered it. “Try it.”

  Sex slave. She had to. She delicately licked the tiniest bit from his fingertip.

  “You need to taste more than that.” His whipped cream-dipped finger remained out.

  This time, she sucked the whole thing off. Ignoring the heat growing in his eyes, she savored it while it melted over her tongue into a creamy mass. Damn him. It was good. So was the texture of his rough fingertip on her tongue.

  “That’s not the point,” Zoe said, stubbornly. “You don’t ask me what I like. I feel like—like—I don’t know . . . a sexual object. Like I’m the leading porn star in some teenaged dream of yours.”

  “Porn stars generally get fucked. You have not been fucked.”

  “As Clinton said, ‘It depends on what the definition of “is” is,’ ” she said, bitingly.

  He wore a dark expression. “I won’t fuck you. In either the literal or figurative sense.” She saw him smooth his frown, and he took her hand in his, stroking it. In a softer tone, he said, “I never expected to win the bet.”

  “What?” She was confused by the apparent change of subject.

  “Oh, come on. Your funds outperform mine most of the time.”

  “Usually not by much. Why’d you do it? Two hundred grand’s a lot of money.”

  “I would’ve risked twice that for a night with you.”

  She dismissed that disdainfully. “Hmmf. Your Penthouse visions.”

  “Oh hell, you don’t make this easy. What I mean is that I’ve been dying to take you out.”

  “Well, a normal guy would just ask.”

  “You would have said ‘no’ to a normal guy.”

  “That’s—”

  “Completely true,” he interrupted. “I see how you cope. It can’t be easy being one of four women among a hundred men. You don’t date, so you don’t have to deal with it.”

  “I go out with you guys,” she said defensively. “To the happy hours and things.”

  “Why didn’t you get the promotion?”

  Because I’m the Ice Queen. She looked at her mug and didn’t answer.

  “If you had really surprised me and accepted a conventional dinner invitation, you would have kept your distance.”

  “How do you know?” she challenged. “I thought you were attractive. I might have fallen head over heels.” She saw his look and added, “It could happen.” She sounded defensive, even to herself.

  “You would have worn ugly underwear and wondered why you felt so empty.”

  Again Zoe said nothing. That’s exactly how she felt in the
bar the night she got sloshed. She’d been jealous of the woman dancing with Phillip.

  “I’m guessing that you feel humiliated for letting yourself go in the park.”

  She looked away from him, not denying it.

  “Don’t be.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re wearing all your clothes.” She saw him smile at her lame joke.

  “The fact that you came leaves me humbled.”

  She scanned his face and saw sincerity.

  “I mean it. Even if all I get out of this is a bunch of hot images of you and the knowledge that you trusted me enough to cut loose, I’m a pretty lucky guy.” Then he grinned and looked at his crotch, “A sore guy. But a lucky one.”

  “What if you’d lost all that money?”

  “At least you would’ve noticed me,” he shrugged. “I wouldn’t have been just another guy politely asking you out only to get politely refused.” He grinned at her, “I would have gone down in flames.”

  She conceded with a small laugh.

  “Zoe?”

  She looked at him.

  “I’m really glad you’re here with me tonight.”

  Maybe she was glad, too.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I was wondering what an orgasm would feel like with you inside me.”

  “You have no idea how sexy you are.”

  “Would it feel different?” she persisted. She watched desire darken his eyes, and she felt a tiny bit of sympathy for him.

  “Ah, but the clause you put into the bet . . .”

  “You just said ‘but.’ Do I get to spank you?”

  “Give a girl an orgasm and she thinks the world’s her oyster. You’re moving mighty fast, Ms. Lauterborn, and you’re changing the subject.”

  “You just don’t want to get spanked,” she taunted him.

  He kept his focus. “You said, ‘no penetration.’ ” A look of mock sorrow crossed his face as he said, “So I guess you won’t find out what your orgasm feels like.”

  “The way this night is going, you’ll suffer more for it than I will,” she replied flippantly.

  “You have an evil sense of humor.”

  “I could’ve taken lessons from you.”

  “And you’re a smartass.”

  “I thought you liked my ass.”

  “I love your ass.”

  That comment sent her heart to her throat.

  Phillip walked them down a handful of blocks, and he stopped in front of a small shop bearing a bright pink neon sign.

  “The ‘Pink PussyCat?’ ” she read doubtfully.

  “Don’t say ‘but.’ ” She heard his smile.

  He led her down the stairs into the shop.

  “It’s—it’s filled with sex toys,” she whispered to him.

  “Shh,” he whispered back. “Don’t let everyone know.”

  They walked past some frightening paraphernalia—executioner’s masks, whips, paddles. She suddenly thought he was going to make good on his threat right here. Her stomach flipped at the thought. “No pain,” she reminded him.

  “Don’t worry, Zoe. Breathe. The paddles are for the second date.”

  She gasped, and he looked at her. Whatever he saw made him merciful.

  “I’m kidding. We’re not here for the whips, or paddles, or chains. Come on.” He pulled her forward.

  She spied handcuffs and brightly colored things that she couldn’t imagine uses for. Despite his reassurances, breathing became more difficult. Under duress, she might admit that the night had been . . . interesting, not nearly as demeaning as she’d anticipated. Surely he wouldn’t take this too far now.

  He escorted them past videos. She tried not to look too closely, but signs reading GIRL/GIRL and GUY/GUY and ORGIES caught her attention. The covers depicted a lot of naked and nearly naked people. Zoe really wanted her underwear back.

  He finally stopped by a selection of oils. Oil seemed innocuous enough. Brown bottles with labels like “jasmine,” “almond,” and “patchouli,” lined the counter. They had graceful lines, and he handed her one with a “vanilla” label. “How’s it smell?”

  She sniffed. “Good. But . . . too much like cookies.” She put it down.

  He picked up another, sniffed and grimaced. “What do you think?”

  It was labeled “lavender.” She sniffed. “Ugh. It smells like granny’s living room. Who’d want that?”

  “Maybe whoever it is that buys the executioner’s masks,” he said.

  She laughed, relaxing a bit. “What about this?” She handed him a bottle.

  “Mmm. This is what we’re looking for. What is it? Essence of unicorn?” He looked at the bottle’s front. “Oh, cinnamon. It matches you perfectly.”

  “Did we come here just for oil?”

  Phillip laughed. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”

  “You’re not the one going commando.”

  He laughed again. “I’ll protect your sweet bare ass from anything that might bite it.”

  “Including you?” She was not reassured. “Can we leave now?”

  He took a fresh bottle of cinnamon oil from the shelf and said, “I think we need to look around some more.”

  He put his hand on her waist and pushed her toward a glass case. Vibrators and dildos of amazing colors and shapes filled it.

  “Oh,” she said doubtfully. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.” Then she found a lifeline. “And ‘no penetration.’ Remember? We can’t use anything here.”

  “Who says a vibrator has to penetrate?”

  “Don’t they?” she said uncertainly.

  “But these aren’t what I’m looking for.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No. Do you want underwear?”

  God knew what kind they sold here. “I want my underwear.”

  “Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter wore black and hot-pink motorcycle gear, and her hair looked like Elvira’s.

  Zoe looked away, making it clear that the only help she needed was with the nearest exit.

  “Do you carry ‘The Butterfly?’ ” Phillip asked her.

  “The one with the remote?”

  “That’s it.”

  “It’s over here.” She guided them toward the scary rack of unidentifiable stuff they’d passed on the way in. “We have it in pink and . . . let’s see . . . purple.”

  “Pink, definitely.”

  “You’re getting predictable, Kingdom,” said Zoe quietly.

  “Can I help you find anything else?” Elvira-hair asked.

  “This’ll do.”

  As they walked to the cash register, Phillip handed the item to Zoe. It didn’t look frightening. The flat pink wings spanned maybe two inches, and it looked like it was made of soft latex. The package also had a small black box, not attached to the butterfly. She put it on the counter next to the oil.

  “Do you want a battery?” asked Elvira-hair.

  “Definitely,” he answered.

  Battery? What did it need a battery for?

  “Here,” he said, handing her the oil while he fumbled with the butterfly and battery. “This is hard to do while walking.”

  “Then don’t.” She aimed for nonchalant, but it came out worried.

  “It’s worth the effort.” He smiled in amusement. “You’ll agree with me in a few minutes.”

  He handed it to her. She saw that black satin bands ran behind the butterfly. “What is it?”

  “Your new panties.”

  She could suddenly see how to wear it. Behind the butterfly was a smallish nub. It would rest right on her clit.

  “Oh.”

  “Put it on.”

  Curious, she stopped in the shadow of a quiet building and slipped it on.

  “Let me adjust that for you.”

  “Always the gentleman,” she said, glibly. But when his palm covered her pubis and adjusted the butterfly, she gasped at the electrical intensity from him.

  “Let’s walk a bit.”
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  The weight against her sex felt unfamiliar but not uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure what its point was, but she tried to keep an open mind. “It’s kind of interesting,” she ventured, as they passed a crowded bar.

  “We’re going in.”

  Again, she had no choice.

  She preceded him into the club and felt the eyes of the other customers fall on her. The heavy weight of her breasts registered in her mind, and just as she started to cross her arms over them, the butterfly vibrated. It felt like a thousand tiny fingers or tongues caressing her clit at once. The purely erotic shock of it nearly stopped her.

  Phillip gently propelled her forward, toward the bar. He whispered, “Now you know how I feel when I look at you. You send a shock right to my cock.”

  The vibrating stopped.

  “How—how did you do that?”

  He held up the small black box she’d seen in the package. “Remote control,” he grinned. “I can touch you—in a crowd, on the street—in the most private way, and only you and I know.”

  “You—”

  He looked at her face and kissed her. Hot. Possessive. Adrenaline coursed through even her tiniest vein as her tongue met his. The novelty of their intimacy made her aware of his scent, the location of each finger on her back, her ass. She pressed against him, and the butterfly fluttered again. She sharply inhaled.

  “Let’s dance.”

  Like she had a choice.

  Like she wanted one.

  He led her to the packed floor, and as they danced, only inches separated them. The throbbing music permeated her every cell. He pressed against her breast, and she pressed back in pleasure. She grew bolder and moved her hip against his groin. He responded, lightly pinching her nipple and releasing it before she could draw a breath. In the packed room no one could see.

  A space opened and she twirled. She found herself dancing with a stranger. He had a blunt, snubbed nose and a baby face. Phillip danced with a leggy redhead. She and the stranger danced well together, and Zoe tried to tell herself that Phillip’s redhead was clumsy—it wasn’t true.

  The butterfly buzzed again, and Phillip’s arms enveloped her. He surrounded her. The vibration stopped. “You’re devious,” she said in his ear.