Margot Wins the Bet

I stand at the door of Maroney Manor, steeling myself to raise the lion's-head knocker and face the consequences of my overconfidence.

Margot's constituency rallied around her. Her bill passed—a great victory. On her way out to celebrate with her party leaders, she looked back at me over her shoulder, grinning ear to ear, flushed with triumph, mouthing: See you this weekend.

And here I am with an overnight bag, heart hammering in my chest.

I man up and reach for the knocker. Each slam echoes like a nail driving into my coffin.

The heavy oak door swings open before my hand can fall a third time.

Margot answers it herself.

The sight of her steals the breath from my lungs.

She wears a black satin blouse with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, exposing beautiful wrists. Her burgundy pleated skirt dances seductively about her knees, revealing toned legs. Her dark hair is pinned up carelessly in a messy pony tail. She looks beautiful and formidable.

"You're prompt," she says, voice low and even, as if we are still on the House floor.

She leads me through the foyer, past marble columns and the scent of old wood polish and something sharper, like gin and roses. Up the stairs, her heels click a war drum on the treads. She doesn't speak until she opens a bedroom door and grabs me by the hand, gently leading me in. The room is all soft light and mirrors.

Lying on the bed, a pink satin mini dress and a pair of blood red satin panties, with black ruffled trim and black polka dots, wait like a promise—or a threat. I don't need an explanation.

The sight sends heat crawling across my skin.

Margot closes the bedroom door behind us with a quiet click.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then she turns toward me, calm and unhurried, and reaches for the buttons of my shirt.

Her fingers are cool against my chest.

One button slips free.

Then another.

Then another.

Each small movement feels agonizingly intimate. The room seems warmer with every inch of skin she exposes. My breathing grows shallow as she pushes the shirt from my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

Margot lowers herself gracefully to her knees before me.

The motion alone nearly undoes me.

Her gaze flicks upward as she unties my shoes with slow precision. She slides them from my feet, then peels away the rest of my clothes piece by piece, methodical and composed while my body betrays every ounce of nervous anticipation tightening inside me.

By the time she finishes, my naked skin burns beneath her attention.

She rises smoothly and reaches for the dress lying across the bed.

Holding it carefully by the hanger, she lets the pink satin sway between her hands. The fabric catches the lamplight like liquid silk.

“Arms up,” she says.

I obey instantly.

The dress slides over my head in one slow motion, cool satin whispering across my shoulders and chest before spilling down my body. The fabric clings to me immediately, smoothing itself over my torso and skimming my thighs with featherlight friction.

A shiver runs through me.

The sensation is alien.

And somehow devastatingly right.

Then her attention drops to the scarlet panties still resting on the bed.

She picks them up between two fingers.

The garment looks impossibly feminine, blood red liquid satin, with ruffled trim.

A deliberate humiliation.

Margot kneels before me once more.

My pulse stutters.

She guides the fabric slowly up my legs, her knuckles brushing against my calves and thighs as the elastic slides higher. The panties cling tightly once they settle against my hips, the pressure intimate enough to make my breath catch in my throat.The friction of the fabric, the way it presses me in, is dizzying. My pulse pounds everywhere at once.

Margot steps back, arms folded, surveying me the way she'd appraise a rival's amendment on the Senate floor. She nods, satisfied, then gestures at the bed with a crook of her finger.

“Okay Ero. Time to pay up. This is happening. I believe I owe you a punishment for that cheeky bet you made.”