Chapter 3 The Bet?

Bia's POV

I must have drifted off. It wasn’t a deep sleep, more like a fragile state between consciousness and oblivion, where thoughts flitted through my mind like restless bats. One moment, I was lying there, wrapped in the heavy, luxurious comforter, staring up at the ceiling and convincing myself I’d leave in just a second, just as soon as the warmth of his bed seeped into my bones. The next moment, a sound sliced through the quiet—a subtle yet sharp creak of the bedroom door opening behind me.

My entire body locked up. Every muscle seized in an instinctive reaction to the sudden intrusion. My breath caught in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, a futile attempt to make myself invisible, to rewind time, to erase my presence in this bed.

Then I heard his voice. It cut through the thick air like a knife, low and impossibly close. There was a current of amusement running beneath his words, a knowing edge that sent a shiver down my spine. It felt dangerous.

"You look comfortable."

My eyes flew open, snapping into sharp focus, my heart hammering against my ribs. And there he was, a dark silhouette against the faint light spilling in from the hallway, leaning casually against the doorframe. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, still dressed in those infuriatingly soft-looking sweatpants and a simple white T-shirt. The faint smirk tugging at his lips was visible even in the dimness, a curve of satisfaction that made my stomach twist.

He didn’t seem surprised to find me there. Not a flicker of shock, not a hint of confusion. If anything, he looked like he’d been expecting this, like he knew my curiosity—or perhaps some darker impulse—would lead me to this exact spot.

“I…” My throat went dry, words crumbling before they could form. When I finally spoke, my voice came out as a pathetic croak. “I couldn’t sleep.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, even to myself. It was only half a lie, of course; the real reason for my presence here was far more complex and shameful.

“That’s funny,” he said, his voice a low hum that vibrated through the quiet room. He pushed off the doorframe with a lazy grace, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt final. The sound sealed us in, trapping us in the intimate darkness. “You’ve got a perfectly good bed down the hall.”

I bolted upright, my hands instinctively fisting in the rich fabric of the comforter. “I was just—”

“—snooping?” he finished for me, raising an eyebrow in a mock gesture of innocence that only made him more infuriating. The word hung in the air, heavy with accusation. “Or…” He paused, letting his eyes wander slowly, deliberately, tracing a path from my bare feet, visible beneath the hem of my pajama shorts, up my legs, over my trembling body, to my flushed face and tangled hair. The intensity of his gaze felt like a physical touch, burning wherever it lingered. “…just curious what my bed feels like?” His voice dropped on the last few words, thick and suggestive.

Heat flooded my face, a furious blush betraying my attempts at composure. But I lifted my chin defiantly. “You’re not that special.” The words came out as a pathetic shield, barely whispered and utterly unconvincing.

He chuckled, a quiet sound that sent a strange shiver through me. It was a ripple of dark amusement that wrapped around me like an invisible embrace.

“You think so?” His tone was a soft challenge, barely audible, yet it resonated deep within me.

Before I could formulate a retort, he crossed the room in two long strides. He moved with a quiet power, like a predator who knew its prey was already ensnared. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to me at first, causing the mattress to dip slightly beneath us. I could feel the warmth radiating off him, even without direct contact. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he turned his head just enough to meet my gaze over his shoulder. His expression, caught in the dim light, was sharp and mocking, his dark eyes glittering with an unnerving intelligence.

“You really think you can sit here,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress beneath me, “on my bed, and not feel anything?”

I swallowed hard, my throat constricted. “What are you talking about?” My voice was thin, betraying the tremor that had begun deep inside me. I hated how easily he unsettled me, how effortlessly he chipped away at my carefully constructed composure.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His eyes, impossibly dark in the low light, held mine, refusing to release them. It wasn't a question; it was a statement of absolute certainty.

He shifted again, turning fully to face me, his posture deceptively relaxed. One knee bent up on the mattress, his arm draped casually over the headboard, just inches from my head, as if he owned not just the bed but me too. The air around him seemed to hum with an unspoken intensity.

“You’re trying to prove something,” he continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Trying to act grown. Untouchable. But you’re not.” His words were a soft indictment, dismantling my carefully crafted façade.

I glared at him, desperately trying to project strength, but my pulse was hammering against my eardrums, a frantic drumbeat echoing the wild thrum in my chest. “I can handle myself.” The assertion felt hollow, even to me.

“Oh?” His smirk deepened, a slow, sensual curve of his lips that sent another wave of heat through me. His gaze dropped briefly to my fisted hands tangled in the comforter. “Wanna bet?”

The air between us went still, thick with unspoken tension. The silence stretched, charged with an almost palpable electricity. Every nerve ending in my body felt painfully alive.

“A bet?” I repeated, my voice a little too thin, a whisper of disbelief. This was a game he played, and I instinctively knew it was a game I shouldn't engage in.

“Mm.” He leaned in slightly, a subtle shift that felt monumental. His voice dropped lower, richer, a conspiratorial murmur meant only for my ears. “Five minutes. Right here. You sit on my bed, and I… don’t even have to touch you. Five minutes before you’re begging me to.”

I blinked at him, stunned, a raw gasp catching in my throat. My mind reeled, trying to process the audacious, terrifying implication of his words. “You’re insane.” The accusation tumbled out, laced with genuine horror.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his eyes glittering in the dimness. “But you’re here. On my bed. So who’s crazier—me or you?” His twisted logic was undeniable. My breath caught, and I hated that my hands felt clammy, my entire body tense with a nervous energy that vibrated through every limb. Every rational fiber of my being screamed at me to run, to bolt from this room, this situation, this man.

“You’re on,” I blurted, the words tearing from my lips before I could think better of it, before my fear could solidify into retreat. It was a defiant challenge, born of a stubborn refusal to back down, a desperate need to prove him wrong.

His eyes gleamed with something dark and satisfied. A slow, triumphant fire flickered in their depths. “Good girl.”

Those two words—“Good girl”—were meant to be dismissive, condescending, a subtle rein on my defiance. Yet they sent a shiver through me, a strange tremor I didn’t want to acknowledge. It resonated with something deep, almost primal, within me.

He sat back a little, shifting his weight, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. His posture was one of utter relaxation, a stark contrast to the coiled tension that held me captive. He watched me lazily, his gaze unwavering, like a predator who had already cornered its prey and was now merely waiting for the inevitable slip.

“Time starts now,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, its digital numbers glowing in the dark.

The first thirty seconds were easy. Or so I told myself. I sat rigid, my spine straight, my hands still fisted in the luxurious comforter. I focused intensely on a point on the wall opposite us, refusing to look at him, refusing to acknowledge his presence beyond the periphery of my awareness. Every fiber of my being was dedicated to remaining still, to presenting an unbreachable façade of indifference.

But then he moved. Not with a sudden jarring motion, but with a slow, deliberate grace. He leaned closer—not touching, not yet—just… there. His presence, an almost tangible heat, intensified, radiating toward me. His voice, a low, gravelly murmur, was right at my ear, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath.

“Already tense,” he murmured, a note of soft amusement lacing his words. “You sure you’re not nervous?”

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, the pain a welcome distraction from the rising tide of sensation. I stayed silent, my jaw clenched tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, of any sign of weakness.

He chuckled under his breath, a low, intimate sound that vibrated through the air around me. “You can pretend all you want. But I can feel it.