The Bacelor: Make A Sex Deal

Oaklyn

I

opened the door to my apartment, where Camden stood on the other side, his arms stretched high on the doorframe, showing biceps that were bulging and a stare that wasn’t just hungry, but also feral.

“Oaklyn,” he grunted.

That stare didn’t just lock with my eyes; it moved up and down my body.

“Hi.” I inhaled deeply, his gaze becoming achingly overwhelming, and everything inside me was starting to tingle. “You’re right on time.”

My God, he looked incredible.

The backward baseball hat. The fitted white T-shirt. The gray sweatpants that hung low on his waist, showing the outline of his dick and a hint of his crown-a sight I hadn’t at all been prepared for.

“I ran home to shower and change, so technically, I am a few minutes late. You don’t mind, do you?”

Before I could respond, he was kissing me, gripping my butt, squeezing my cheeks. He was aligning our bodies so there wasn’t even air between us, giving me a taste of his mouth-something I’d missed since this morning-and a dose of his woodsy, citrus, and amber scent, which I’d been teased with when I went to his office before lunch.

Once he finally pulled away, he eyed me up and down before he passed to walk inside.

“Do I mind?” I laughed from behind him, checking out this angle of his outfit. “I definitely don’t mind you coming over in gray sweatpants. In fact, you could wear those every day, and I’d be the happiest girl alive.”

He smiled at me from over his shoulder.

That simple expression set my whole body on fire.

“You prefer sweats over the suit I wore today?”

“Hmm.” I shut the door and followed him into my kitchen. “You honestly look good in everything. But those”-I nodded toward his waist when he faced me-“I very much approve of.”

He winked. “I have them in every color, Oaklyn.”

“Other colors don’t matter. It has to be gray.” I bit my lip before I emphasized, “Always wear gray.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

When he reached for the bottle of red wine that I’d opened earlier and left on the counter, I said, “I picked up some vodka. Would you rather have that?”

I was just walking by him to grab the liquor, but I didn’t make it more than a pace before he cinched my waist and pulled me over to him.

“Look at you, being all thoughtful.”

“I know what you drink.”

He nuzzled his face into my neck. “But do you know how I prefer you?”

I ran my fingers across his hard, chiseled back and up his defined shoulders. “Naked?”

“Fuck yes, but if we’re talking about clothing, I want you in yoga pants. Now, I just have to see you in green ones.”

“Why yoga pants?”

“Because it shows this”-his hand was behind me again, gripping the same spot he’d touched in the doorway-“and I’m fucking obsessed with it.”

“But it’s yours.”

His face hovered above mine. “Hearing you say that will never get old.” He kissed me again, his tongue slowly sliding into my mouth, his hands moving up my body, stopping when his palms reached my cheeks and his fingers extended over the side of my head. He kept us locked until he whispered against my lips, “What did you make? It’s all I can smell.”

I laughed at the way he growled the last word. “I kept things simple.”

“Even your eggs aren’t simple, Oaklyn. I don’t believe dinner would be either.”

I felt the droplets that had fallen down his neck and soaked his shirt from his wet, showered hair. “I really did. I just threw together a lasagna.”

His grip tightened. “Lasagna? You fucking didn’t?”

“With meat and extra ricotta.”

His stare intensified, gazing between both of my eyes. “Just like my mom makes it.”

Growing up, I’d spent enough dinners at the Daltons’ house to know the meal that neither of their children ever missed. Mrs. Dalton was known for her lasagna-a dish that she had mastered so well that none of them ever bothered to order it in a restaurant because it wouldn’t compare to hers. If I was going to attempt to duplicate her signature dinner-one that I knew Camden loved more than anything-I needed to make sure it was perfect.

What I didn’t tell him was that I had made two batches, both completely different, to test which one came out better.

I was thoroughly impressed with the results.

“Not exactly like your mom’s, but similar-ish.”

This time, he just pecked me, leaving his lips lingering on mine while he said, “You know that’s my favorite.”

“And some homemade bread as well.”

There was no warning; he just scooped me up, moving so fast that I didn’t even have time to take a breath, and I was suddenly in his arms. My legs circled his waist, and my hands went around his shoulders. And while we stood in the middle of my kitchen, I expected him to set me on the counter.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t move at all.

He just held me, smiling.

“Looks like I picked the right thing to cook tonight,” I said, laughing.

He shook his head, but it wasn’t in agreement; it was more like he was in awe. “Oaklyn …” He didn’t say any more for several seconds. “There are moments, like when I watched you making breakfast in my kitchen this morning, and when you came into my office this afternoon, and now, when I just want to stare at you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he mirrored, but he wasn’t challenging my question. It sounded like he was trying to come up with the right words. “I’ve always found you so incredibly beautiful. Ever since we were kids. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice all the times you bent over in front of me, or when you were in a bikini in our pool, or when I came to your apartment to visit my sister and you were walking around in workout clothes. But never during any of those times did I ever think I’d get to touch you. That I’d get to put my lips on you. That I’d get to be the first guy to be inside you.”