Chapter 3: The Bet Escalates
The echo of Catriona’s ragged breath was the only sound for a three-count. Then Freya moved.
She didn’t look at anyone. She just knelt, the motion fluid from a thousand sun salutations, settling on the hardwood beside Catriona. Her willowy frame was a study in composure, a stark contrast to Catriona’s spent, trembling energy. She looked up at Aidan, her soft blue eyes clear and intent. There was no mischievous grin now, no playful tease. Just a quiet, undeniable certainty.
“My turn,” she said. Her voice was a husky whisper, barely audible, but it cut through the thick air.
Before Aidan could process the words—before the sheer logistical insanity of it could even register—Freya leaned forward. She didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth and took him in, not in stages like Catriona had, but in one smooth, confident swallow.
Aidan gasped. His head tipped back, hitting the doorframe with a dull thud he didn’t feel.
She’d done it. On the first try. Her throat opened, a profound, velvety heat that enveloped him completely, her nose pressing flush against his skin. There was no struggle, no gagging. Just a deep, shocking accommodation. She held him there for a long, impossible second, her eyes closed, a slight flutter in her eyelids the only sign of effort.
“Holy shit,” Catriona breathed, her voice awed and a little pissed off. She was watching from inches away, her own chin still wet.
Freya pulled back slowly, dragging her lips along his length until just the head remained in her mouth. Her tongue circled the sensitive ridge underneath. Then she sank down again, just as deep, establishing a rhythm that was devastating in its efficiency. In, out. Deep, deep, then shallow. Her hands rested lightly on his thighs, not guiding, just anchoring. It was clinical and sensual all at once, a practiced study in absorption.
Aidan’s hands, which had fallen to his sides, twitched. He looked down, watching the top of her blonde head move, the elegant line of her neck working. It was surreal. It was impossible. He tangled his fingers in her hair, not to push, but because he needed to touch something real, to prove this was happening.
From the kitchen doorway, there was a soft, rustling sound.
Jenny.
She hadn’t moved from her spot leaning against the counter, but her posture had changed. Her arms were no longer crossed in front of her. One hand was pressed flat against the laminate. The other was out of sight, below the counter’s edge. Her head was tilted back, her eyes dark and fixed on the junction of Freya’s mouth and Aidan’s body. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow pulls. The rhythmic shift of her shoulder betrayed her.
She was touching herself. Right there, fully clothed, watching.
The realization slammed into Aidan harder than Freya’s deep-throating. Jenny, the paralegal, the voice of reason, was getting off on this. Her analytical mind was nowhere to be found; it was just raw, voyeuristic hunger. She caught him looking and didn’t stop. She held his gaze, her brown eyes glazed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“Fuck, Freya,” Aidan groaned. The coil was winding tight again, absurdly fast, a building pressure fed by sheer sensory overload. The sight of Jenny secretly pleasuring herself, the feel of Freya’s exquisite control, the heat of Catriona’s competitive stare burning into his side.
Freya hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight to his core. She picked up the pace, her rhythm faltering into something needier. Her composure was cracking. One of her hands left his thigh and crept between her own legs, pressing against the thin fabric of her leggings. She was rubbing herself in tight, frantic circles, her hips rocking minutely against her own hand.
It was too much. The visual, the physical, the complete dissolution of every unspoken rule they’d ever had.
Aidan’s orgasm ripped through him, a white-hot current that made his legs shake. Freya took it, swallowing convulsively, her throat working around him until he was utterly spent. She stayed there for a moment, her forehead resting against his stomach, her own breath shuddering. Then she pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy with a satisfaction that went far deeper than mere victory.
Silence again, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing.
Jenny’s hand stilled below the counter. She straightened up slowly, as if waking from a trance. A deep blush spread across her warm brown skin.
Catriona pushed herself to her feet, wincing slightly. She looked from Freya, still kneeling, to Jenny, visibly unraveled, then to Aidan, who was trying to remember how to work his lungs.
A slow, wide smile spread across Catriona’s face. It wasn't her usual flirty grin. It was something sharper, more predatory.
“Well,” she said, her voice still rough. “Looks like the game’s still on.” She walked over to the coffee table, picked up the abandoned deck of cards, and shuffled them with a crisp, professional snap. “Dealer’s choice. And I think we need a new stake.”