My Neighbor Lost Our Bet on Purpose

The drip under Chloe’s sink had been keeping time for a week, and Declan had started hearing it in his sleep.

He was twenty-eight, six months divorced, a contractor who spent his days in other people’s kitchens so he wouldn’t have to sit in his own. The unit next door had been empty until a wet Tuesday, when a twenty-four-year-old graphic designer with ink on her fingers and boxes labeled in thick black marker hauled her life up the shared walk. Chloe. Curvy in a way that made his work pants feel like a bad decision. Soft waist, heavy tits, an ass that filled her leggings every time she bent for a dropped cable or a stubborn box flap. He had stared. She had caught him. Neither of them had the manners to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Three weeks of that and the fence between their patios might as well have been a suggestion. She brought him coffee and told him his forearms were a workplace hazard. He told her the leak was going to rot her cabinet if somebody with the right tools didn’t get under there and mean it. She said maybe she liked a man on his knees. He said she should be careful what she wished for, because he didn’t do anything halfway, and he had been thinking about her ass since the day she moved in. She had gone pink at the throat and smiled like she was filing the sentence away for later.

Tonight the game was on her TV and the pretzels were a joke they were both ignoring. He sat on her couch in a gray t-shirt and jeans, still smelling faintly of sawdust. She wore an oversized shirt and black panties, bare legs tucked under her, pretending that counted as casual. The sink ticked. The crowd on the screen roared for nobody in the room.

“Terms,” he said.

Chloe didn’t look away from the tip-off. “You always open like you’re bidding a job.”

“If your team wins, I fix the sink tomorrow. Free. Parts included. I even mop.”

Her mouth curved. “And if yours wins?”

He let it sit between them, raw and plain. “Then I fuck your ass exactly the way I want. No rush I don’t choose. No position I don’t choose. You take it, and you thank me for it.”

Her thighs pressed together. He saw it. She didn’t hide it.

“You’re serious.”

“I don’t bid jobs I won’t finish.”

She held his eyes, then stuck out her hand. “Bet.”

Her palm was warm. She didn’t let go right away, and when she did, her fingers dragged across his like she was already spending the loss.

The first quarter was fouls and bad passes. She had taken the favorites. He had taken the mess on the other side, the team with the injured guard and the coach who yelled like volume was a strategy. Every time her side put the ball through the net she made a small satisfied sound that went straight to his cock. Every time his side scored she bit her lip, deciding something she wasn’t ready to say.

By halftime the drip had turned into a rhythm he could pick out from the couch. She got up to check it, bent at the waist, shirt riding high. The panties were thin and cut high on her hips, and the curve of her ass made his mouth go dry. He didn’t look away. She knew he wouldn’t.

“Still leaking,” she said, not turning around.

“I can see that.”

She laughed, low. “Eyes up, neighbor.”

“You bent over in your panties and told me to look at a pipe. Pick a struggle.”

She came back and sat closer. Their knees touched. The third quarter started and her team pulled ahead by nine, then eleven. She should have been gloating. Instead she went quiet, thumb rubbing the seam of the cushion, eyes on the screen and not on it. He watched her more than the game. Twenty-four, deadline-stained, the kind of woman who had moved in alone and smiled at a divorced contractor like she already knew the ending. She was breathing differently. He could feel the decision moving through her the way he felt a wall before it gave.

With four minutes left she was up twelve. A win meant a free sink and a story she could tell herself later about being good. She turned her head, looked at him, and smiled the way people smile when they are about to hand over something they can’t take back.

“I forfeit.”

“You’re up twelve.”

“I forfeit anyway. You win.”

He muted the TV. The sink kept dripping. “Say it again.”

“You win the bet, Declan.” The grin went wicked, all teeth and want. “I threw it. I’ve been throwing it since tip-off. I picked the side I knew I could abandon, and I abandoned it, because I have been fantasizing about your thick cock stretching my tight asshole since the second week you started talking filthy over the fence. I lost on purpose. So come collect. Fuck my ass exactly how you want. That was the whole point.”

The last thread of restraint in him snapped like cheap wire.

He kissed her hard enough to knock the pretzel bowl onto the rug. Salt scattered. She made a hungry sound into his mouth and climbed into his lap, shirt already coming off in his fists, her tits spilling warm and heavy against his chest, nipples tight. She yanked his shirt up and off and dragged her nails down his stomach like she had been picturing the path. He shoved her panties down her thighs. She kicked them toward the coffee table and laughed once when his zipper caught, then stopped laughing when his cock came free, thick and heavy, already wet at the tip.

“Jesus,” she said, wrapping her hand around him, testing the weight. “Yeah. That’s what I wanted. That’s the prize. Take it. Claim it. I gave it to you on purpose, so don’t you dare be gentle unless I beg, and I am not begging for gentle.”

They crashed through the living room like the walls owed them money. His jeans hit his ankles. Her shirt was gone, somewhere under the couch. She was naked and flushed from throat to chest, ass round, waist soft, thighs thick enough to grip. He got a hand in her hair and kissed her again, filthy and open, while she stroked him and talked against his mouth about how long she had wanted this, how she had touched herself in the shower thinking about him bending her over and not asking twice. He spun her. Walked her backward until the back of the couch hit her hips. Bent her over it.

“Stay.”

“Yes.”

“You threw a game so I could have your ass. Say it.”

“I threw it so you could have my ass,” she said, already arching. “Exactly how you want. So take it.”

He dropped to a knee behind her and spread her cheeks with both hands. Her asshole was small, puckered, pink-brown and tight, clenching when the air hit it. Her pussy was dripping, slick shining on her inner thighs, the kind of wet that made a liar out of anyone who claimed this was only a joke. He spat, a thick strand landing right on that tight hole, and rubbed it in with his thumb until she shivered and pushed back.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “Do it. Open me. I want to feel you working me open.”

He pressed one finger in, slow, feeling her resist and then give. She was hot inside, unbelievably tight, gripping him like her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she had planned this. A second finger joined the first. He sank them deep, twisting, scissoring, listening to the wet sound and the way she moaned like she had forgotten the building had other units, which was funny, because he was the other unit. She pushed back onto his hand, greedy, ass swallowing his fingers to the knuckle, thighs shaking.

“Look at you,” he said. “Bent over your own couch, taking two fingers in your ass because you threw a basketball game. You want to be used.”

“I want you to use me.” Her voice broke. “Get that cock wet. I don’t care if you fuck my pussy first. Use it. Slick yourself up and put every inch in my ass. Please. Please, Declan. I lost so you could.”

He stood, lined the head up, and drove into her pussy in one hard stroke. She was soaked. The heat of her clenched around him and she cried out, fingers digging into the cushions, back bowing. He fucked her hard from behind, deep and mean, hips slapping her ass, using her cunt to coat every inch of him. She was loud. Raw. No performance left, just need. Her pussy fluttered and dripped down his balls. She reached under herself and rubbed her clit, moaning his name, telling him she was close and not to let her finish yet, not until he was in the hole she had handed him. He stayed long enough to slick himself filthy, long enough to feel her start to shake, then pulled out with a wet, obscene sound.

“Breathe.”

“I don’t want to breathe. I want you in my ass. Slow if you have to, but all of it. One stroke. I want to feel every inch.”

He set the head of his cock against her spit-slick, finger-opened hole and pushed. Slow. Unrelenting. Her ass resisted, then opened, then took him, inch after thick inch, the tight ring stretching around him while she swore and laughed and sobbed into the cushion. He didn’t stop. He didn’t pause to be sweet. He sank in one long stroke until his hips met her cheeks and every bit of him was buried in her greedy asshole. She made a broken, pornographic sound and reached back with both hands to spread herself wider, holding herself open for him like the bet had a witness.

“Oh my God. You’re so deep. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop. Fuck my ass. Harder. Deeper. I threw the game for this. Use me.”

He pulled back until the rim caught on his head and sank in again, then again, faster, harder, punishing thrusts that jolted her whole body against the couch. The living room filled with skin and her filthy mouth. She demanded it. She told him to ruin her hole, to fuck her like the prize she had handed him, to pound her ass until she couldn’t sit at her desk tomorrow without thinking of his cock. He gave it to her. Deep, relentless, hands bruising her hips, cock stretching her tight ass on every stroke until she was drooling onto the cushion and shaking through an orgasm that made her asshole clamp down so hard he saw white. She came cursing, spreading herself wider, begging him not to pull out until she was done, and he fucked her through it, through the aftershocks, through the way her legs tried to give.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Deeper. I can take it. I want it. Dump it in me when you go. I want to feel it in my ass.”

The pressure at the base of his spine broke. He pulled out. Her hole gaped, wet and open, fluttering around nothing. He stroked himself twice and unloaded, thick ropes of cum shooting straight into that gaping asshole, striping the inside of her, pulsing out in heavy strings that immediately leaked back down to her swollen, shining pussy. He kept stroking until he was empty, watching it drip, watching her hold herself open so none of the aim was wasted.

For a second the only sound was both of them breathing and the sink still ticking in the kitchen like it had an opinion.

Chloe slid off the couch and dropped to her knees on the rug. Cum slicked the inside of her thigh. She looked up at him with filthy satisfaction, mouth soft, eyes bright, and took his spent cock between her lips. She sucked him clean, slow and thorough, tongue tracing the mess of her own ass and his cum off his skin, humming like she had won something better than a free repair. She didn’t rush. She looked up the whole time, letting him see how much she liked the taste of what they had just done. When he was clean she stood, still naked, still leaking, and kissed him deep, letting him taste all of it, her hands on his jaw like she was sealing a contract.

“I’m already thinking up the next bet,” she whispered against his mouth. “And I plan to lose that one on purpose too.”

He smiled into the kiss, because the shutoff valve under her sink had been loose since Tuesday, and he had forfeited his side of the wager before she ever sat down.