The apartment fell into a dead silence after Martin stormed out. The weight of the "three million pounds" and the humiliating wager pressed down on Scarlett's chest like lead.
"Jeremy," Scarlett broke the silence, her voice trembling. "Let's call off the bet. It's madness."
Jeremy shook his head. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by the feverish intensity of a gambler. "No. I never take back a chip. Besides... Martin provoked me. I intend to make him lose. Ugly."
Scarlett took a deep breath. "Fine. If you're betting your dignity on me, I won't let you lose."
She opened the expensive art kit and forced herself to work. Her pen scratched rhythmically, translating her imagination onto the paper.
Jeremy watched. He picked up a draft—a large-scale, R-rated sketch. His expression shifted from appreciation to a deep, calculating critique.
"Scarlett, be honest," he said, his voice dropping. "Are you a virgin?"
Scarlett's face flushed crimson. "Does the state of my hymen affect my brushstrokes?"
"It affects everything." Jeremy pointed at the figures. "Your technique is flawless. But it lacks... filth. It lacks the sweat, the desperation. It's too clean."
Scarlett bit her lip. He was right.
Jeremy leaned in, his presence suffocating. "I have a proposal. Since you lack practical experience, let me teach you. A crash course in the fundamentals of sex."
"Excuse me?" Scarlett instinctively took a step back. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest in a defensive posture.
Mistake.
The action squeezed her soft breasts together, pushing them up to create a deep, dangerous cleavage. The forbidden fruit, usually hidden, suddenly looked ripe and inviting.
Jeremy's gaze darkened for a split second. He burst out laughing and flicked her forehead.
"Little pervert. What are you imagining? I won't touch you." He smirked. "Just videos, anatomy, and notes. Purely academic."
Scarlett exhaled, dropping her arms. "Oh... just theory. Fine. But don't cross the line."
~
Day 2. The Living Room.
Jeremy stood before a whiteboard, looking like a young, brilliant Oxford professor. He wore a tailored black suit and gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an air of dangerous, ascetic intelligence.
But on the board, he wasn't solving equations. He was drawing the female reproductive system. Shutterstock Explore
"Look here, Scarlett. This is the G-spot."
Jeremy tapped the whiteboard with a pointer. Tap. Tap. The sound was crisp in the quiet room.
"When a woman reaches orgasm, the uterus undergoes rhythmic contractions," he lectured, his voice cool and detached, as if explaining calculus. He turned to look at her, his lenses glinting. "That sensation isn't the 'shy smile' you draw. It is intense. It is overwhelming. It is a contortion of the face that looks almost like... pain."
Scarlett sat on the sofa, scribbling notes like a good student, her face burning. "Internal contractions... pain... got it."
~
Day 3. Mid-afternoon.
The vibe shifted.
Jeremy had ditched the suit for a relaxed polo shirt. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a glimpse of his refined, pale collarbone.
Scarlett walked up to him with her notepad. "Teacher, what's the lesson today?"
Jeremy opened his silver MacBook.
"You've mastered Anatomy. Today, we discuss Mechanics."
He turned the screen to her. The title was bold and shameless:
" The Practical Guide to 100 Sexual Positions: Efficiency & Angle "