The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag Book 5)

by Sara Ney

  “Not yet.” It’s killing me, but the pain feels better. I want us to both really want it. Hard and good.

  “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  I am.

  I’m driving us both mad.

  “Just stick it in.”

  “Stick it in? I’m insulted, kind of,” I manage to say. Barely. Skylar is wet, slick, and freshly shaven downtown, and my dick is gliding over her slit effortlessly, just as desperate to be inside as I am.

  Her head gives a frustrated thrash on the pillow as she tries to raise her lower half. “Slide it in, whatever you want to call it—I’m not a poet.”

  “Patience is a virtue,” I soothe, lips caressing her hair.

  “I’m trying to give you my virtue.” Another wiggle beneath me.

  “Wait.” I stop moving. “Are you a virgin?” Shit, why didn’t she tell me? This changes everything.

  “No, I’m not a virgin. It was a figure of speech.” Skylar exhales. “But it has been a long time and I’ve only done it a few times so it’s probably still going to hurt.”

  Up. Down.

  Up.

  I kiss her on the mouth, our tongues deliciously entwining—I’m getting off on knowing she can taste herself on my tongue since I was eating her out not five minutes ago. “I’ll go slow.”

  A little nod. More tongue. “Mmm, okay.”

  “My lazy little love muffin,” I croon into her hair, still dry-fucking her without putting my dick inside, loving the endearment.

  Love muffin is cute and so is she.

  Jesus, sex has addled my brain, turning me into a pussy.

  “Who are you calling lazy?” Once again, Skylar draws her arms over the top of her head, interlacing her fingers while I get her good and worked up. Doing nothing but still sexy as fuck.

  “You, just lying here while I do all the work.”

  “I’m sorry I’m being selfish. Also not sorry because this feels so good I could go right to sleep.”

  “Uh, that’s not a compliment.”

  This is one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, and certainly the strangest conversation I’ve ever had when I’m about to have sex.

  In fact, I don’t remember talking while I was banging someone. Ever.

  It’s the best kind of strange I can think of, and a good sign that Skylar and I are meant to be.

  Meant to be? Wow, I sound like a girl. Next I’ll be writing her love poems and throwing rocks at her bedroom window and holding her purse.

  All of which I would one hundred percent do.

  Skylar finds the pulse in my neck and kisses me there, lips lingering on my throat, tongue darting out to moisten my skin. “You smell so, so good.”

  My dick gets harder.

  “Fuck, Skylar, if you keep doing that…” I’ll probably come before we get to the good parts.

  “Do you like it when I do that?” She kisses me again then nips at my earlobe, voice husky with sex. “Do you like kisses, baby?”

  I die a little at baby.

  “Yes,” I hiss through my teeth, liking it a whole fucking lot, so much so that even my brain is spewing out curse words like a drunken sailor. “Yes I like kisses.”

  “How much?”

  “A lot.” I’m an idiot who is incapable of forming complete sentences. “I like them a lot.”

  Her warm mouth is on my shoulder, dragging along the toned muscles. Hands soon join her mouth, her palms exploring the hard tendons of my biceps.

  “God Abe, your body—I love it.”

  “Yeah? Tell me all about it.”

  “First put it inside me.”

  “Skylar,” I croak. I sound like a prepubescent teenager whose balls haven’t dropped.

  “Please, Abe,” she begs.

  “We don’t…I’m not wearing a condom.”

  “Well go get one then,” she snaps.

  I stop moving entirely, balls throbbing. “Okay, but I’m pretty sure it’s a hundred years old.” Shut the fuck up, idiot! What are you doing? Trying to talk her out of safe sex?

  Skylar sighs, loud and heavy enough to wake the dead. Rolls her eyes. “Get the one in my purse.”

  “You have condoms in your purse?”

  “I have uh condom—as in one. I wasn’t sure how all this would go and wanted to be sure.”

  Miserably, I heave myself off, buck-ass naked, and feel my way through the pitch-black recesses of my room. “Where’s your purse?”

  “I think I threw it by the desk chair. Hurry, I’m cold!”

  This is what we get for waiting to have the condom talk; I could have had it sitting next to the damn bed.

  “Where?” I can’t find her fucking purse, have no idea what it looks like; plus, it’s impossible to see with my desk shoved from its original spot.

  “Check by my shoes by the closet.”

  It’s by the closet, set on top of her shoes—bingo, we have a condom and now we’re back in business.

  Except…

  “Where inside your purse?”

  A sigh. “I don’t know, I just tossed it in. Root around—there’s not a ton of stuff in there.”

  Right. Root around. “Gotcha.”

  It takes me thirty more seconds to find the fucking thing and throw her purse back to the floor then I scramble, trying not to kill myself on the way back to my bed. Tear the wrapper open, throw it to the ground, and roll on the rubber before I hit the mattress.

  It’s a bit tight, but I’m not about to complain right now.

  Dick hanging between my legs, I begin the crawl back over her beautiful body.

  “Do you want me on top?”

  “I want whatever you want.”

  We’re both breathing heavier now; this wait is about to make me go insane. I want to bury myself—thrust, pump, and come.

  “I think I want to be on top,” she tells me.

  One last kiss on the mouth and I’m rolling to the empty side of the bed, lowering my knees and legs so she can climb on board.

  I skim my hands over her backside when she settles down, her smooth ass cheeks filling my hands. Leaning forward, she kisses me, tits hanging in the perfect position for me to cup them with my giant hands.

  “Mmm, you feel good,” she croons, leaning down to nip at the skin of my collarbone. “Taste good, too.”

  She hasn’t sunk down on me yet.

  I try to say, I aim to please, but the words won’t come out, because it’s the same moment Skylar lines herself up and lowers her body.

  “Holy fucking…” sh-shit.

  A tiny gasp of air fills both our lungs. She’s taking her time, each second measured, killing us both in the unbearably slow process.

  She is going to kill us. I’m going to fucking die if I can’t bury myself deep.

  My hips want to thrust up, cock filled with so much blood my brain gets lightheaded. No way could I walk out of this room and operate a motor vehicle, or take a sobriety test, or add two numbers together.

  Skylar sinks lower, taking the last of my brain cells with her.

  Two plus two is eleventy hundred.

  Her breath is shaky. Labored. Hands pressing against my makeshift headboard—a giant Iowa wrestling flag I have pinned to the wall.

  I hope she doesn’t accidentally tear it down while we’re screwing; it’s only hanging on by a thread—well, by four tiny brass push-pins, one in each corner and—

  “Fuck, Skylar.” I’m the one gasping when she swivels her hips, rocking back and forth on top of me, kind of like a rodeo queen fucking a bucking bronco.

  Bad analogy.

  “God you feel good,” she whispers into the darkness, and all I can hear are the short breaths she’s taking as she rides me.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Because she is really fucking tight, gloriously so. Snug. Warm. Wet. Tight.

  A motherfucking dream come true.

  “It kind of does but in a good way. I…it burns just a little, but I don’t care—you feel so…mmm, Abe, st
ay just like that, don’t move.” Her hips continue their steady, rhythmic rotation, languid and unhurried, hands still pressed against the back wall.

  When she angles her neck, I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the light; her eyes are closed, teeth bearing down on her bottom lip. She’s concentrating.

  “Mmm…oooo…” Her sex noises aren’t loud, but they’re sexy. A bit porno-worthy, but that’s just my opinion. “Put your hands on my ass please.”

  So polite.

  I comply readily. “Here?”

  “Can you move your fingers so they’re…” Her ass squirms, trying to direct me.

  I move my fingers, assuming she wants them closer to her crack, and I must have flipped a magic switch because Skylar moans. Fucking moans loud. The fucks get harder. Deeper.

  Tossing her head to the side, Skylar’s hair hangs in my face.

  I spit out a few strands that land in my mouth, mindful to keep my fingers near her asshole.

  Skylar is a bit dirty, a bit naïve—a powerful combination.

  “Just like that, yeah baby…”

  She’s sexy as hell. So goddamn sexy.

  She’s also talking to herself, lost in the moment, caught up in whatever shocks are overtaking that sweet pussy of hers, head lolling from side to side every few moments.

  Lost. She’s lost in herself, and I’m lost in her and it’s freaking gorgeous.

  I fucking love her.

  One swipe.

  One date.

  Sweet. Salty. Bratty. Kind—and all mine.

  I get lost in her, basking as she rides my hips, pressing down, pelvises rubbing together, the connection deep. She lowers a hand from the wall and lets it glide over the firm pecs of my chest, thumb flicking my nipple. Reaches behind and places it over mine, pushing—so I push harder.

  Pushing deeper still.

  Grind. Swivel.

  Gasp.

  Groan.

  As I watch her lips part in ecstasy, I can’t help wondering if they’ll ever be wrapped around my dick, sucking it. Which is the worst possible thing to wonder when you’re trying not to come in under three minutes.

  Too. Fucking. Late.

  “Shit, Skylar, I’m gonna come.”

  “No.” She’s barely paying me any attention, lost in the sensations of her own impending orgasm. “Not yet.”

  Goddamn she’s a greedy little asshole.

  “No?” I think my brows must go up, but I can’t tell for sure. My entire fucking body is one tingling nerve. “You want me to pull out? I’ll last longer.”

  “You pull out and you die,” she whines.

  Fuck, what does she want me to do! I’m three seconds from blowing my load.

  “Skylar,” I warn. “Cats. Mom.” Fuck, do not think about your mother right now. “Uh. Horror movies. Cats again. Dead deer on the side of the road…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying not to come.”

  “Oh my god, Abe, do not say that shit out loud.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Mmm, good boy…”

  Annnd she’s back to sounding like a porn star.

  That.

  Does.

  Not.

  Help.

  I buck harder, thrusting up. Pulling her down, going as deep as I possibly can. Dig my fingers into her ass cheeks without digging them into her asshole—I’m not into butt stuff. Bend my knees, raise my hips so we’re elevated off the bed, working my core muscles and fucking her hard, as best I can from the bottom while she fucks me from the top.

  “Yes…oh god, yes, keep doing that don’t stop.”

  I’m going to die anyway from exhaustion; I’m in great shape, but this might kill me in the end. Goddamn my abs are already aching, but if it makes her happy…

  “Abe, god…ooo shit…oh baby, yes. Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

  Skylar

  “Give me all the details.”

  “There aren’t many. I met him at the bookstore—it’s so cute, by the way—and we sat there for a few minutes chatting, no big deal. Then I made a joke about his height and he said, ‘Let’s compare,’ so we stood up, measured, and that’s when he kissed me.”

  “He kissed you right there in the middle of the bookstore?” Her voice is wistful.

  “Yeah—it was pretty romantic.”

  “Did you stand there all night making out? I would have.”

  “No, Hannah, we did not stand there all night making out, because we were in public. I have some class you know.” I rub my thighs together; they’re almost as sore as my crotch, the consequences of last night’s sexcapades pulsing between my legs. Ouch. “Actually, we were only at the bookstore a grand total of probably twenty minutes. Some lady interrupted us, so we left.”

  Hannah stares, unblinking.

  It’s so odd the way she tries to manipulate me into telling her stuff; she should be an interrogator.

  “Then we went to the overlook.”

  “And made out?”

  “Er. Yeah, for about a minute.”

  “Did he touch all your lady parts?”

  “Yes. No. I mean—he touched my boobs.”

  “Did he make you come?”

  “Hannah!”

  She leans back, satisfied. “I’ll take that enthusiastic response as a yes.”

  “Fine. Yes. He made me come, but it wasn’t at the overlook.”

  “Did you let him bang you?”

  “Hannah!”

  “You know what, Skylar?” She throws down her blanket in an indignant huff. “If you didn’t freak out every time I asked you a personal question, it wouldn’t be this much fun. Did you or did you NOT let the kid bang you last night? Just answer the damn question and stop acting like a prude!”

  “Yes, I let him bang me!” I pause, putting a cocky grin on my face. “Or did I bang him—that’s the real question.”

  “Skylar!” Now she’s the one yelling. “Stop it you did not! Were you on top? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes.” I laugh. “I read somewhere you increase your chances of having an orgasm being on top, and I finally wanted to have one…or five…so I made him be on the bottom.”

  “I bet he was fighting you off with a stick. Does he have a big…you know. Wiener?”

  I shoot her a peeved glance. “That’s private.”

  “Come on! I’d tell you.”

  Yeah, she would tell me, whether I asked to know or not, and she describes it in great detail. “Not my problem.”

  “It is your problem because you’re stuck with me, and you know I won’t shut up until you tell me.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  She ignores my sarcasm and dives into the specifics. “So he doesn’t have a big wiener. Is it tiny? Like this big?” She holds her fingers apart a few inches.

  I roll my eyes. We are not having this conversation.

  “So it’s small? Yikes.” She’s giving me shit—I know this. But her persistence is making me stabby. “You poor thing, banging a teeny weenie.”

  “Shut up. It’s not that small.”

  “So you admit that it’s smallish.”

  I am not walking into her trap, I am not walking into her trap.

  “I didn’t say it was small. Stop saying that.”

  Okay, I’m kind of walking into her trap. It’s a pretty trap, with bows and bells and glitter.

  “How big is it? Just point to an object in the room that it resembles.” Hannah holds up the TV remote. “This big?”

  Oh my god. “No.” I swat at her. “Get that thing out of my face.”

  She grabs a water bottle off the coffee table. “This big?”

  “Gross.”

  “Did he put it in your face?”

  Yeah, he did—and I loved it.

  “You dirty little hooker.” My best friend giggles like a moron. Like a twelve-year-old boy who just saw a boob for the first time in his life. “Was it in your mouth?”

  Because I don’t know
how to respond, I laugh.

  “Holy shit. You gave him a blowie.”

  “I didn’t blow him.” I can’t stop rolling my eyes at Hannah. “But you don’t have to make it sound like I’ve never given a blowjob before.” I sound cocky—like I know what I’m doing. Which I don’t, and she knows it.

  “That one time doesn’t count—you were both drunk, and he came in under two minutes. It was the easiest blowjob known to man. Those take no skill. You just put the dick in the mouth, blow, and boom—come all over you.”

  True.

  “Your jaw didn’t even hurt the next day,” she kindly reminds me, smirking. “That’s not a blowjob.”

  I reach for my chin, my thumb and forefinger bracing my jawline as I shift my mouth back and forth, grinding my teeth.

  “So you had sex last night. This is outstanding. I’m so proud of you, roomie.”

  Whatever.

  “Okay, back to his dick.” Hannah is persistent, I’ll give her that, and a master at bringing conversations full circle. She leans back on the couch, hugging her knees. “Would you say it fit inside your boner garage, or did it have plenty of room for another car? You know—room for two?”

  “There definitely wasn’t room for two.”

  “Nice. And you didn’t back the car onto the garage, did you?” Her brows go up and down salaciously.

  “Are you talking about anal? Or doing it doggy style?”

  “Either one. I’ll take what I can get.”

  My mouth drops open. “Why are you like this?”

  “Humor me—I haven’t been on a date in weeks. It’s dry as the Sahara in my desert down south.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. You masturbate daily.”

  I hear her—and her vibrator—almost every morning and every night. Sometimes during the day if we’re both home at the same time between classes.

  “It’s not the same thing and you damn well know it. A vibrator cannot replace actual cock and balls.” She stretches out on the couch, impinging on my space and laying her legs over my lap. “Actually, I can live without seeing a guy’s balls. They’re so ugly.” Hannah shudders melodramatically. “Worst part of the dick pic.”

  I wouldn’t know.

  “But,” she goes on with authority, “I can’t live without the D, and that’s what they’re attached to. Unfortunately.”

  “A guy can have sex without his testicles, Hannah—haven’t you taken biology?”