The Bacelor: Make A Sex Deal

That was when I really processed this whole setup. With the ceiling lights acting like a spotlight, my reflection could be seen on the windows to the right of me, giving him a whole other angle to watch.

“You want me to do this right here?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I glanced toward the tall panes of glass. “Can anyone see in?”

His stare intensified, something I could still see since he was under the lit-up tray. “Would that stop you?”

“Everything is threatening to stop me,” I said honestly.

I’d never done anything like this before. The thought of him seeing me come was completely overwhelming.

“I thought you could handle this, Oaklyn.”

There it was-his motive.

Every bit of this was a test.

And I had a feeling he didn’t just want to see if I’d complete his request; he also wanted to see how I’d react when it was over. If I would need that soft tenderness that we’d talked about, if I would be clingy and needy and wanting more of him emotionally, or if I could be the strong woman who needed absolutely nothing from him.

“I can,” I whispered.

“Prove that to me.”

I took a deep breath. “Let me make sure I get what you’re asking. You want me to masturbate on this couch, in front of you, and come.”

“Naked.”

Naked.

That meant I had to strip off my clothes, like I was putting on a show for him, giving a full view of my body and the spot no man had ever been inside of.

“But if you can’t do it,” he said, “we can stop now and forget you ever propositioned me-”

“I can do it.”

Except, deep down, I wanted to die.

I wanted to bury myself in more clothes to hide every part of me.

The idea of his eyes on me while I unveiled my body, while I slid a finger between my legs, while I came … it was too much.

“What are you waiting for, Oaklyn?” He kicked his legs onto the ottoman, even crossing them, one arm going behind his head as though it were a pillow.

Damn him.

He knew how hard this was going to be for me-that was why he wanted it.

He thought I was going to fail.

I wished more than anything that I had three more glasses of wine in me, but he’d taken away the first, and I knew he’d done that on purpose too.

Such a little shit.

He glanced at his watch before he took a drink. “I’m waiting.”

Regardless of how challenging this would be, I wasn’t going to fail.

If he wanted me naked and coming, then that was exactly what I’d give him.

I tried to fill my lungs as best I could and stood, figuring that would be the easiest way to take off my clothes.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

There was no reason to rush at this point, so I found the beat in the music. Trying to get lost in the rhythm, I slowly slipped off my blazer and heels, dropping the jacket beside me, and left on the tube top while I unbuttoned my jeans, lowered the zipper, and peeled them off my legs. Since the shirt was tight enough to act like a bra, I had nothing on underneath, and below was just a lacy light-pink thong.

As I took everything off, I didn’t look at him. I didn’t have the courage. He was too beautiful, too experienced, too honest in his assessment-things I didn’t want to see.

But I looked now.

And what stared back was a heat.

A fire in his eyes.

In his cheeks.

Lips.

I took a seat on the couch and pushed all the way back into the deepest part of the cushion. While I gazed at him, I dug for that bravery I used during work whenever I presented a new concept to one of my large clients.

I knew my body, my own touch.

I didn’t know what it was capable of when it came to a man, but I knew what I liked.

What I could do to myself.

So, I ran my fingers down my chest, pulling the material with me as I dipped, gradually revealing my cleavage and nipples, and as the hem lowered to my ribs, I finally freed my breasts.

Now that I was topless, his stare warmed even more.

Does he like what he sees?

Is he turned on?

I tried not to get too far into my head as I pulled the wrap down my torso, hooked my fingers into the sides of my thong, and brought it with me as I traveled past my thighs and knees and over my toes.

I spread my legs, showing him what was between them, except my palm was there, gently tapping that sensitive spot at the very top.

“Fuck me, Oaklyn.”

Those three words told me he wanted to take me in.

He wanted to see what this proposition really looked like.

And even though that thought made my entire body blush, made me want to jump behind the couch, I moved my hand, revealing the rest of me. I then separated my legs even more, pressing my heels into the edge of the cushions beside me.

Now that he had the sight he was after, I expected more words.

More of an expression.

What I didn’t expect was for him to get up and sit on the ottoman in front of me, lowering his face so it was eye-level with my pussy.

“You’re perfect. Every fucking bit of you.” He then growled, “Fuuuck.” He drained the rest of his vodka and set the glass on the floor, and that was when he circled my ankles, pulling me down the cushion so my ass was on the end, my feet on the ottoman on either side of him. “Show me how you play with that pretty pussy.”

He was so close.

His lips were a foot-maybe two-from my entrance.

This wasn’t a front-row seat.

This was standing on the stage, like he was in a chair and I was straddling his face.

The quick movement had taken away my breath.

I searched for it again.

That bravery-even if it was impossible to find under the passion of his gaze.

After several deep inhales, I trickled my fingertips down my chest and stomach and stopped at that place I normally touched when I was alone in my bed. The highest part of my clit. The place that throbbed the moment I circled it.

“Oh God,” I moaned.

The pads of my fingers were gentle, and I used just enough pressure until a wave passed through me, causing my head to grind into the fluff behind it.

I didn’t realize my eyes had closed.