Cuckolded by the Bully

Bonnie Bimbo

Copyright

Copyright © 2026 by Bonnie Bimbo

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The Smell of Competition

The dorm room reeked of burnt coffee, stale textbooks, and the sour stink of two guys who hadn’t bothered to shower in a day and a half. Finals week had turned the place into a filthy, sweaty hellhole—every inch of desk and floor buried under highlighters, sticky notes, and half-crushed energy drink cans. Nikolaos hunched at his desk, stiff as a corpse, furiously scribbling on index cards. His hair clung to his forehead in greasy, wet clumps. The clock on the wall ticked, each second dragging out like a threat.

Dimitrios sprawled across his bed like he was king of the dump, shirtless, one arm behind his head, the other flipping through a single battered spiral notebook—the same one that held everything Nikolaos had spent three weeks trying to cram into his skull. Dimitrios’s chest rose and fell, big and lazy, sweat shining along his collarbone. Every so often he’d smirk at his own notes, like he found his own genius hilarious.

The door opened without a knock.

Phoebe walked in, balancing two paper cups from the campus coffee cart. Steam curled up from the lids. Her auburn hair was yanked into a messy knot, with loose strands sticking to the sweaty skin of her neck. She wore a thin gray tank top and black leggings that hugged her ass and thighs like a second skin. The second she stepped in, the air got heavier, hotter, like her body dragged the whole room’s attention with it.

“Hey, boys,” she said, voice low and amused. “Thought you might need reinforcements.”

Nikolaos looked up first. Relief flickered across his face, quickly replaced by something tighter. “You’re early.”

"Couldn’t wait." She crossed the room and set a cup on his desk, her fingers dragging over the back of his hand as she pulled away. The touch was quick, on purpose, and it shot straight down his spine to his crotch.

She turned toward Dimitrios.

He didn’t sit up. Just tilted his head and let his gaze drag slowly over her, unhurried, appreciative. “Phoebe. You’re looking dangerously focused today.”

She laughed—a soft, throaty sound that made Nikolaos’s stomach clench. “Someone has to keep you two from imploding.”

She walked over and sat on the edge of Dimitrios’s bed, her knee pressing right up against his thigh. Nikolaos stared at the spot where they touched, like it was a bruise he couldn’t stop poking.

Dimitrios sat up slowly, muscles shifting under his skin. He reached for the second coffee without asking. Their fingers overlapped on the cup for a second longer than necessary. Phoebe didn’t pull away.

“So,” she said, blowing across the lid, “how bad is it?”

Nikolaos answered before Dimitrios could. “Manageable. If I stick to my schedule.”

Dimitrios snorted. “Manageable. That’s cute.” He flipped his notebook closed and tossed it onto the mattress between them. “You still color-coding your flashcards, Nik? Pink for definitions, blue for dates, yellow for—”

“Shut up,” Nikolaos muttered.

Phoebe’s lips curved. She glanced between them, eyes bright with interest. “You two really never got over high school, did you?”

“Some things don’t need getting over,” Dimitrios said. His voice dropped half an octave. “Some things are worth winning.”

He reached past her and picked up the notebook again. Opened it to a page dense with clean, confident handwriting—diagrams, bullet points, annotations in three different colors. Nothing crossed out. Nothing messy.

“Look at this,” he said, angling the page toward Phoebe. “This is how you actually remember shit. Not by rewriting the textbook six times.”

She leaned in, her shoulder rubbing against his bare skin. Nikolaos saw her pupils go wide, her chest rising faster, like she was about to do something filthy right there.

“Jesus,” she murmured. “This is… beautiful.”

Dimitrios’s mouth curled. “I know.”

Nikolaos’s pen stopped moving.

Phoebe traced a finger along one of the margins, following the tight, slanted script. “You really leaked these to anyone?”

“Only to people who deserve them,” Dimitrios said. His eyes flicked to Nikolaos for half a heartbeat, then returned to her. “You want a copy?”

She hesitated—just long enough for the room to feel the weight of it.

Nikolaos spoke before he could stop himself. “She’s got my notes. She doesn’t need—”

“I want to see,” Phoebe cut in, voice quiet but firm. She looked at Nikolaos, and something in her expression made his throat close. Not guilt. Curiosity. Hunger.

Dimitrios was already reaching for his phone. “Here. I’ll airdrop you the PDF. Full color. No watermarks. Consider it a gift.”

The soft chime of Phoebe’s phone receiving the file felt obscene.

She opened it immediately. Scrolled. Her lips parted. “This is insane. You even color-coded the goddamn examples.”

“Told you,” Dimitrios said. He leaned back on his elbows, watching her face with open satisfaction. “Sometimes the easy way is the right way.”

Nikolaos stared at the gap between them—except there wasn’t one anymore. Phoebe’s thigh was pressed right up against Dimitrios’s, her breathing slow and deep, her fingers stroking the screen like she wanted to jerk off to his notes.

Phoebe finally looked up. Her cheeks were flushed. “I think… I might need you to walk me through a couple of these later. If you’re free.”

Dimitrios’s smile was slow, predatory. “I’m always free for you.”

Nikolaos felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut, sharp and humiliating.

Phoebe stood. She crossed back to Nikolaos’s desk, bent, and kissed him—soft, quick, perfunctory. Her lips tasted like cinnamon lip balm and something he couldn’t place.

“I’ll be back tonight,” she said. “We’ll go over everything together. All three of us.”

She left without waiting for an answer.

Silence swallowed the room.

Dimitrios stretched, arms over his head, muscles flexing. “She’s got good taste.”

Nikolaos didn’t respond.

After a moment, Dimitrios’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, chuckled low in his throat, then turned it so Nikolaos could see.

A new notification.

From Phoebe.

Anytime you need a private cram session.

The words burned themselves into Nikolaos’s retinas.

Dimitrios locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed. “Guess she liked the notes.”

Nikolaos stared at his own pile of index cards. They looked pathetic now. Childish. Like the sad, sweaty scribbles of a loser who still thought effort could beat raw talent and a big dick.

He felt something hot and ugly start to twist in his gut, slow and sick, like the beginning of a hard-on and a stomachache at the same time.

Jealousy.

And beneath it—something worse.

Want.