The Bet by Max Monroe
Sophie
Jude winks, takes one step back, and holds out his hand toward me.
Holy shit. Am I really doing this? Going out on a complete limb, ditching everything I’ve always known, and taking a chance on straight up not giving a shit about all the fine print?
Dr. Winters would be proud of me for stepping outside of my comfort zone, and both Julie and Belle would lose their shit. Katelynn would sort of freak out, but she’d at least make an effort to cover it up until she knew how close to the edge of my own cliff I was, but the real mess would be my mom. She’d be stealing holy water from the Catholic Church for me and smuggling it out in her purse, I’m pretty sure.
But this is the decision I made, this is what I want, and I’m going to see it through. No second thoughts. No doubts. No stressing about the future or making sure a guy checks off all the potential-husband boxes on my list. I’m just going to let Jude and the night lead me wherever they may.
On a deep inhale of fresh oxygen into my lungs, I dive headfirst into spontaneity by placing my hand in his. And Jude doesn’t waste any time taking us in an unknown direction.
As he guides us through the crowded dance floor, he places a gentle but steady hand at my lower back, and my body hums. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the insanely short dress I decided to wear, and my heart starts pounding at the mere sensation of having him touch me.
God, what is it about him?
Just the simplest of touches from this man and my nerves light up like a Christmas tree. My body feels greedy for more of whatever he has to give that it’s practically searching for the devil himself, ready to make a deal. It’s thrilling and disconcerting at the same time, but holy moly, I’m digging the adrenaline rush it provides.
Up to the VIP area of the club, Jude flashes a little grin in my direction as he pointedly directs us to a familiar spot—the private rooms. And it’s not just any room. It’s the private room, the one I first met him in during Belle’s bachelorette party.
The room is empty, save for the two of us, and when he closes the door with a resounding click, my hands shake, and a throbbing, anticipation-filled ache starts to build between my legs.
Set up a press conference and alert the media because my body is officially at war with itself. Nerves and excitement both creep forward with stealth and precision, hoping to overtake the crucial heart-shaped overlook in my chest. I’m already two halves instead of a whole, and for all intents and purposes, nothing has even happened yet. Sweet baby Jesus. I’ve only had a handful of encounters with Jude, and yet, I already feel like Pavlov’s dog, where Jude is the bell and hearing it ring means I’m moments away from mind-blowing pleasure.
I stand in the center of the room, my body facing the plush couches that line the wall.
I don’t know how long I’m just standing there, waiting, anticipating, but it feels like an eternity until Jude comes up behind me. His chest presses against my back, and he places two warm hands onto my bare shoulders.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” he whispers into my ear, and his warm breath brushes against my neck.
I shiver. Nod my head.
“I’m thinking about the first night I met you,” he answers, his voice the kind of deep and husky that turns my mind into a one-track loop of hot sex and dirty, wicked things. “The night I made you come without removing a single item of your clothing. Without sliding my cock inside you. Without even putting my mouth on your sweet-as-fuck pussy.”
I should probably be mortified that he knows about that, that my body’s reaction to him on the night of Belle’s bachelorette party was that freaking obvious, but I can’t seem to find the strength or concentration for mortification right now. All I can do is wait with bated breath over what he’s going to do and say next.
Jude Winslow is a wild card. I can’t anticipate his next move any more than I can anticipate the first drop of rain on a stormy day, and right now, I have to admit that it’s addictive.
It goes against everything I normally do or say or think about—it defies every previous reaction and response I’ve ever had toward the men who came before him. But I don’t have control over it. All I seem to be able to do with him is experience the present.
The past. The future. For some reason, they don’t exist when he’s around.
With him, it’s only the here and now. And man oh man is that a really wonderful thing for an overthinker like me.
He releases his hands from my shoulders, stepping away from me, and immediately, my body feels discomfort from the loss of contact. My lips quirk down at the corners, but my gaze never stops studying him as he steps in between me and the couch.
In rapt fascination, I watch as he removes his black suit jacket, tosses it onto a velvet sofa, and sits down. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and I find a sick amount of enjoyment from seeing his strong, sculpted forearms come into view. They’re tanned and muscular, and thick, corded veins can be seen beneath his skin.
Instantly, my nipples turn downright traitorous and harden beneath my dress.
Seriously? How can a man’s forearms turn you on like this?
Honestly? I don’t have a clue, but I’m certain of one thing—this man looks like a god just sitting there on the couch. The first two buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone. His arms are stretched out wide across the back of the sofa. And his crystal-blue eyes glisten with filthy secrets that I’m desperate for him to tell my body.
The ache between my thighs grows more demanding, but I’m helpless to do anything but keep standing there, in the center of the room, looking at him, while the vibrations from the house music from the inside of the club provide a rhythmic, heady soundtrack.
He crooks one finger in my direction. “Come here, sweet Sophie.”
I swallow hard against the pulsating eagerness that’s building inside my chest.
Good grief, he’s sexy.
My steps falter a little as I move toward him, but all thoughts of hesitation and unwarranted doubt are pushed right out of my head when Jude takes both of my hands into his and guides me onto his lap.
As I straddle his hips, my dress slides higher up my thighs. With a knowing smirk, he takes one long index finger and gently runs it up and down the newly exposed skin of my legs.
“Fuck, this dress should be illegal. It’s driving me crazy,” he whispers, his gaze lingering wantonly on my thighs before traveling up to meet my eyes.
You are driving me crazy,I think to myself.
We are face-to-face, my legs straddling his hips, and his ahem pressed right against me. The evidence is hard and proves that I’m not the only one who is turned on, and when I inhale through my nose, the delicious aroma of his cologne makes my eyes shut momentarily.
With hints of cedar, mint, and lavender filling my head, I feel like I’m in the strangest of fantasy purgatories, bound between the sweetness of heaven and the naughty nature of hell.
He slides his hands into my hair and gently pulls my head back, and a soft moan escapes my lungs when the warmth of his lips hovers right above my throat. “I want to make you come again,” he whispers. “Just like I did all those nights ago. Without removing a single inch of your clothes.”
I can feel his mouth move down my neck, but it never actually touches my skin. Only the fluttering wisp of his warm breath makes real contact. It’s the most intense form of teasing foreplay I’ve ever experienced, and when he places his hands at my lower back and leans my body farther away, those lips of his drift over my chest, then each of my breasts.
My body reacts of its own accord, my nipples hardening even more and my breaths becoming needy pants of air in and out of my lungs.
But Jude never falters. He just keeps on teasing me, playing with me, making me hopeful that soon, that mouth of his will make contact with my skin.
Not to mention that he’s so hard now, I can feel the tip of him against the one spot that aches and throbs the most.
“Touch me,” I beg, and his blue eyes flame with satisfaction and heated desire.
“Not yet, Sophie. Soon.” He thrusts up against me, and a sexy-as-hell groan escapes his lungs. “Fuck, the things I want to do to you.”
Yes, please. Do them. Do me!
My silent wish isn’t his command, though. Instead, he eases my body off his lap until I’m on my feet again.
“Take off your panties,” he orders quietly, rendering me functionless. I can’t move; I can’t speak. All I can do is stand there, my chest heaving with my frantic breaths. “Take off your panties, Sophie. Now,” he repeats. I toy with the hem of my dress with shaky fingers, and he shakes his head. “Don’t lift up your dress. Just slide them down your legs and hand them to me.”
A whimper-filled moan jolts from my throat.
God, he’s killing me.
Jude sits there, looking up at me through hooded, confident eyes until, eventually, I find myself doing as he asked. With two hands, I carefully slide my panties down my legs, and when they reach my ankles, I bend over, pick them up, and hold them out toward him.
Jude grins mischievously and takes the silky black material in one big hand. He gazes down at them for a few seconds, before lifting them toward his face and inhaling deeply.
Everything inside me seizes. A guy sniffing my panties? That shouldn’t be hot…right?
That should probably be weird. Maybe even concerning?
Should be. But it’s not.
In this moment, it is the exact right thing to lead my body into a frenzy. A shiver rolls up my spine, and I have to clench my thighs together just to ease the now intensely pounding ache that’s starting to build from within me. They feel slick against each other, the presence of my excitement unmistakable.
“Your panties are wet,” he says and looks up at me from beneath his lashes. “Downright soaked.”
I nod. Or at least, I think I nod. All conscious function of my body has taken a temporary hiatus.
“You want to come, don’t you?”
This time, I know I nod. And it’s not just once or twice; it’s at least five fucking times.
Jude smirks, slides my panties into his pocket, and crooks one finger toward me. “Come back over here, babe.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Back over to the couch, I let him guide me onto his lap again until my thighs straddle his hips.
Without the barrier of my panties, I can feel how big and thick and hard he is beneath his pants. Sensation and memories alike urge a thrill of pleasure to surge in my bloodstream, and I grip his shoulders tightly as the impulse to rub myself against him becomes too intense to deny.
Jude’s hands are in my hair again, and he tugs gently on my locks so that my body is stretched out far enough for his mouth to reach my breasts.
But he never removes my dress. Instead, he sucks at my nipple through the material, and for some insane reason, it feels like the hottest, most illicit thing I’ve ever done with someone.
I mean, we’re in a private VIP room, inside a busy, packed nightclub, doing things that we definitely shouldn’t be doing. I never thought I’d be the type of girl to get off on doing dirty, bad things in public places, but hell’s bells, I’m apparently that girl with Jude.
He moves his hand down to my lower back as he switches his mouth to my other nipple, and in perfect sync, he sucks at the pliant flesh in rhythm with the way he grinds his still-covered cock against my bare pussy.
Every thrust forward, the tip of his cock strokes against that one perfect, swollen, needy spot that causes little shock waves of pleasure to build in my belly.
It feels incredible, and I’d do just about anything to be able to unzip his pants and slide him inside me, but his hold is steady and solid, and the only chance of orgasmic relief stems from the way his warm mouth sucks at the material of my dress around my nipples and each grinding thrust of his hips.
The me of a year ago never would have thought it’d be possible to actually get off, all the way off the climax train, with this kind of foreplay, but when the throb between my thighs begins to spread down my legs and up my spine and multiplies tenfold, the me of now remembers that it’s different with this man—intense, unexplainable, mind-bending.
I’m so close that it only takes a few more strokes of his covered cock against me before the first waves of pleasure hit my nerves.
Holy shiiiiiit. I’m coming. I’m literally coming.
Shock and awe consume me at the same time that Jude pushes me over the edge, and just as the biggest wave takes over, he presses his lips to mine and swallows all the moans and whimpers that escape my throat.
I have zero control, and all I can do is just shut my eyes and let my orgasm devour me, all the while kissing Jude as if my life depends on it.
And I don’t know how long it lasts or how long I stay like that, moaning and panting in his arms, but when I finally come down from my orgasmic high and open my eyes, I find Jude staring at me, his blue eyes still blazing.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful when you come,” he whispers, and his mouth is just a few inches from my parted lips. “I need to see you do that again, but this time, I need my cock inside you.”
Oh boy.
“Ready to get out of here, Sophie?”
I only have one response to that.
“Yes.”