The Bet You Just Lost

Living with Kaia used to be easy. She was funny, messy in a tolerable way, and hot in the way attractive housemates are hot — noted, filed away, never acted on. Then, about six weeks ago, something shifted. Her leggings got traded for shorts that stopped being shorts somewhere around the top of her thighs. Her sweaters became tank tops became something she called a "lounging set" that was essentially underwear with ambition. You noticed. Of course you noticed. You're a man with eyes and a pulse. But you said nothing, because saying something is how you end up sleeping in your car. Tonight she's on the couch in a crop top so thin you can see the exact color of her nipples through it, and pajama shorts that have given up all pretense of covering anything. She's watching some reality show, legs tucked under her, and when you walk in from the kitchen she stretches — slowly, deliberately — and the top rides up to show the soft dip of her stomach. You crack. "Okay. I have to ask. What is happening with the outfits?" She mutes the TV. Turns to look at you with an expression of pure, delighted triumph. "Oh, thank god," she says. "I thought you were made of stone."

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, and she pats the couch cushion next to her like she's been saving it. You sit. Bad idea, probably. She shifts toward you, tucking one leg under herself, and you can see the whole smooth length of her thigh.

"Six weeks," she says. "Six weeks of shrinking outfits and you never said a word. I had money on you." "On me? What money?" "Bet with myself. Fifty bucks. How long it took before you cracked and commented on what I was wearing." She holds up her phone, showing you a note dated almost two months ago. *Day he cracks: TBD. Over/under: 30 days.* "You took the over. Way over. I lost money on you, you stubborn asshole." "You were betting on me noticing your body?" "No," she says, grinning. "I was betting on when you'd admit you noticed. Big difference."

"So all of this —" you gesture at her, at the whole display, "— was a bet?" "Mm." She tilts her head, studying you. "That's what started it. It's not what kept it going." "What kept it going?"

"You," she says simply. "Watching you try so hard to be a gentleman. You'd walk in, see me, and do this thing where your eyes bounce off me like I'm a window. Every single time. Do you know how fun that is? Do you know how wet it is, honestly, watching a man fight himself every morning over breakfast?" The word *wet* lands in the room like a dropped glass. "That's —" you start, and she raises an eyebrow. "That's what? Say it. You've been holding in commentary for six weeks. I want all of it."

You laugh, because the alternative is something more dangerous, and she sees right through it. "Nope. No laughing it off. You cracked, which means I won, which means you owe me full disclosure." She counts on her fingers. "The white t-shirt with no bra. That was week two. You made coffee and left the kitchen in under a minute. Comment."

"You could see everything through it." "I know. What did you think about?" You exhale. "I thought about you not wearing it." "Better. Week four, the bend-and-reach for the remote when I knew you were behind me. What did you think about?" "Kaia." "Wrong answer. Try again. What did you think about when I bent over in front of you in those little grey shorts?"

"I thought about pulling them down," you say. "There. Happy?" Her grin fades into something slower, hungrier. She doesn't look away. "Continue."

"I thought about pulling them down and putting my mouth on you. I thought about it for four days. I stopped doing laundry at the same time as you because of it." She takes a slow breath through her nose. "Okay. Wow. Okay." She smooths her shorts down over her thighs, which does nothing, which is clearly the point. "You know what's funny? I stopped doing laundry at the same time as you for the same reason." "You did not." "Check the basket schedule. Tuesday nights. Both of us. Folding towels standing three feet apart, both of us being absolute lunatics about it."

She reaches over and takes your hand. Doesn't do anything dramatic with it. Just holds it, her thumb moving over your knuckles, and somehow that's the thing that makes your pulse slam.

"So here's where we are," she says, businesslike, which is insane given her nipples are still visible through her top. "You cracked. I won the bet. The bet had stakes." "What stakes?" "If I won — if you cracked before day forty-five — I got to collect." She scoots closer. Her knee touches your thigh. "And what I wanted to collect was you. That was the whole prize. That's the only reason the outfits kept getting smaller. I was fishing and you were the fish." "You could have just said something." "Where's the fun in that? I wanted to watch you lose your mind a little first. Consider it foreplay. Six weeks of foreplay."

"And if I'd never cracked?" you ask. "Day forty-five, I was going to walk out here naked and see what happened." She shrugs, and the thin fabric shifts across her breasts. "There was no losing scenario for me. There was only slow and fast." "Fast," you say. It comes out rougher than you intended. Her eyes flick up to yours. "Yeah?" "Fast. Six weeks is enough foreplay, Kaia."

She's in your lap before the sentence ends — knees on the couch on either side of you, her weight settling warm over your cock, her hands framing your face. "Finally," she breathes, and kisses you.

She kisses like she talks — impatient, playful, winning. Her mouth is hot and she makes a small satisfied sound into it, like she's been waiting exactly as long as you have and the relief is physical. You get your hands on her waist, slide them up under the crop top, and find her bare breasts. She gasps against your lips when your thumbs cross her nipples.

"God, okay —" She pulls the top off over her head and drops it on the floor. "There. That's been driving me crazy. Half these outfits, I was one deep breath from a wardrobe malfunction the whole time." "You did that on purpose." "Obviously I did that on purpose." She takes your hands and puts them back on her breasts. "Now stop being right and keep doing that."

Her nipples are hard under your palms, and she rocks against your lap while you play with them, a slow grind that tells you she can feel exactly how hard you are through your shorts. "Mm. There he is." She looks down at you, hair falling in her face, smug and flushed at the same time. "The window-bounce guy. Look at you now."

"Take these off," you say, hooking your fingers in her shorts, and she lifts up on her knees so you can drag them and her panties down her thighs. She kicks them off somewhere behind the couch. She settles back down, bare pussy against the straining fabric of your shorts, and rolls her hips. Her breath shudders. "Fuck. Okay. That's — yeah." She does it again. "I'm wetter than I planned on being, honestly. This was supposed to be slower."

You slide a hand between her legs and she's soaked, hot and slick, and when your fingers find her clit she grabs your shoulder hard enough to hurt. "Oh — okay, yeah, there —" She laughs, breathless. "Six weeks and thirty seconds, look at you go."

"You want me to slow down?" "If you slow down I will kill you." She spreads her knees wider, opening for you, riding your hand in little desperate circles. "Right there — keep — fuck —" You work her with two fingers, curling them, and she comes fast and loud, forehead dropping to your shoulder, hips jerking through it, cursing into your shirt in a warm rush of breath. "Oh my god," she says, still shaking. "Okay. New bet. How many of those can you give me in one night."

You stand up with her, and she yelps, wraps her legs around you, laughs into your neck. You carry her the ten feet to her bedroom because hers has the bigger bed and she bites your ear the whole way. You get your clothes off while she watches from the pillows, shameless, one hand lazily between her own thighs.

"Yeah," she says, looking at your cock as you kneel between her legs. "That's what I was hoping the whole time. Come here." She guides you in with her hand, and you sink into her slowly, both of you groaning at the same pitch, and she locks her ankles behind you. "Six weeks," she whispers against your mouth. "Make it count."

You fuck her slow at first, then not slow at all, and she meets every thrust, talking the whole time because of course she is — *"yes, like that, just like that, don't stop, you're so much better than my imagination, and my imagination was thorough."*

Her second orgasm builds fast, her nails raking your back, her voice going ragged and honest, all the teasing burned out of it.

"Come with me," she gasps. "I want to feel it — now —" You bury yourself deep and come hard, and she follows you over, clenching around you, saying your name like it's a word she just learned.

Afterward, she's sprawled across your chest, drawing lazy shapes on your skin with one finger, thoroughly pleased with herself. "So," she says. "For the record. The bet's over, but I'm keeping the outfits." "Keep them. I've got commentary now." "Mm. Full disclosure policy. I like it." She props her chin on your chest and grins up at you. "Fair warning — I already started a new note on my phone. Different bet. Longer odds. You're going to lose that one too." You're already looking forward to losing.