Page 24 of The Bachelor

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.

But when I opened them, his were on me.

His lips parted.

I couldn’t exactly read the expression on his face, but it reminded me of anger and frustration and hunger.

Does he want to touch me?

Is that driving him mad?

But he wouldn’t touch me because this wasn’t about what he liked, what he needed, what he wanted.

This lesson was for me.

I was the star.

The only thing was, I wasn’t acting.

The sounds that swished out of my lips, the strain I was using to keep my legs open—that was all real.

Especially as my pointer finger began to circle my entrance.

“Fuck yes,” he roared.

My breathing turned heavy as my palm moved to my clit, giving my finger more freedom to dive in.

I didn’t go in far—I never did—just the distance of a tampon, stopping when I reached my middle knuckle, and that was when I pulled out.

“Let me see your finger.”

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